I only could look up and see white. No lights hung down, clouds of blue or spirals of decorations flew above me. It was as bare as it could get with sets of piping running along the sides. I could give it credit that it was tall. It stood up about 25 feet and made it feel roomy. It made it feel like a place I could survive and live my whole life in. I stared up at the ceiling for several hours, with cracks of light peeking in through the massive glass window that gave this room peace and didn’t feel like a prison cell. If I wanted, I could lower the darkening curtain and the room could turn into a place for deep thinking and concentration. I turned on my speakers and hit play on my phone. “To Build a Home” by The Cinematic Orchestra streamed out from all corners of the room causing my mind to wander and slowly get lost in the gentle drowning of the world around me.

Pillows of teal, grey, black and white bicycles and square patterns lined up along the wall, making one side of my bed supportive to sit on from the top to bottom. I could lean back, with my spine pushing directly onto the window and with a turn of my head, look out to the S curve downtown Grand Rapids. It was a calming view to look at the traffic and busyness of the world I was engulfed in. The cars raced by as if they were all trying to get to a place faster than the other. There was no braking, only occasionally when it would get backed up around 4:30pm during the “after work” rush. The cars would sit and I would stare at them. I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to become part of the rush hour. I felt as if I could only stare at it long enough to the point that tears would stream down. Black covered my face as my mascara bled and I sat in a ball, hunched over, clenching my legs together.

I slowly got myself together and climbed off my bed to grab a makeup wipe to wash my face. I stared at the full-length mirror that hung over the bathroom door with no look of expression on my face. I had no clue what to think of myself or what I had become. Sitting alone for hours was not me. It wasn’t who I wanted to be. I had to get out and I had to do it fast.

My daily walk to The Lantern Coffee Bar & Lounge was nothing new. The baristas would always greet me with a friendly “Hello Molly! Great to see you again,” and a casual conversation would occur for about 4 minutes as my favorite Silver Needle white tea was being prepared. I always sat in the same spot, directly at the front of the café in a suede layered, denim colored chair. I made sure my computer was charged fully because no outlet was located near the chair. I would do my daily journaling for The Odyssey, a company out of NYC, that I am commissioned to write for every week. Most of my inspiration would come from the people who wandered into the café or I could see walking by through the floor to ceiling windows in front of me. I then would get out my book that I was reading for the week. This weeks happened to be “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” by Mark Manson. I would indulge myself deep into the pages in search of finding something; some hint of help to get me out of the way I’ve been living. I was in search for anything.

I quietly packed up my belongings and headed out, walking the two blocks back to my apartment. I placed both headphones into my ears and turned on the same song I listened to on repeat in my room. Step by step I walked, alone and barely breathing. I caught my breath only in time to wake up as I ran directly into the metal wall of my building. Squinting my eyes, with a sigh of pain, I rubbed my head, moved over to the door and walked in.

My room was the same. Nothing changed besides the darkness that now overtook the space. The street lights from the highway were the only source of light and a big “Purple East” sign from the business below that blasted purple and yellow hues onto the metal framing of the window. I set my bag down on the floor, grabbed a glass of water from my large mason jar pitcher, turned on my favorite song that sang through the speakers and sat on my bed. I put my back up against the window, configuring my spine into the neutral position, emerging into the pillows and closed my eyes.

My eyes opened as I tilted my head to the left and saw sporadic cars placed on the highway; about twenty seconds apart, the cars would come and go. I felt I was a part of this traffic. I had people coming and going and never a steady stream of people like rush hour provided.

My head spun out of discontent and being uninformed about what my own mind wanted. I felt trapped inside myself just as I had locked myself in my room for what seemed like all of life. I pushed my hands down onto the foam mattress and launched myself to a standing position and slowly walked towards the bathroom.

I drew a bath, throwing a generous amount of lavender Epsom salts into lukewarm water. I always believed that taking a bath was the best stress reliever, and it was good to know I would never be bothered in this instance; I could leave my electronics and issues in my bedroom, only to shut the door and escape to a place of solitude. Or so I believed and hoped it was. I sank all the way down, deep into the water so only my eyes and nose were on the top layer of water. The salts stuck to my body as I slowly pushed down on them, crackling and dissolving below me. It was one of my favorite feelings. It was there for a minute or so and then disappeared. It seemed my ache for that feeling was only the destruction of my life outside of the bath tub. I could sit for hours and reminisce on the day I had, adding another handful of salts into the bath that would stay and leave. The process was an ongoing cycle that didn’t end until I felt satisfied with the life I had made for myself.

I pushed my foot down onto the seal that kept the water in the tub and let it drain. I stayed until all the water was gone and then got up. I dried my legs, mid-section and then my arms. I hung the towel up and walked towards my bed. The bed was made, and I flopped myself directly in the middle of it, exposed for all my ceiling to see. I had always wondered what my ceiling thought of half the things I did in my room or just flat out judged me on my body. I didn’t care at this point. It was the only thing I could look up at and know it couldn’t attack me or let me down. It would stay there, standing solid, covering me from anything Mother Nature had against me. The walls stood as guardians of my soul and my door stayed locked. I wasn’t going to let anyone in and I couldn’t change.