A Room of My Own, But Not for Sleeping

Six hours of solid writing last night and I decided I should try to get some sleep.   My hands and forearms ached from typing.  My eyes blurred from too much time at the computer screen. 

In the six hours, I had mapped out my whole book in greater detail than before, organized the scenes in to four parts, wrote new scenes, and re-read chapters in the two reference books I brought along.  All good work and I was feeling proud of myself for not freaking out over being alone. 

The worst part of the afternoon/night was leaving the room for trips to the European-style common bathroom they have here at Edgefield.  I felt vulnerable to the large, unattended rooms, even worried that I might encounter a ghost.  The building felt too wide open to whoever might want to enter.  And there were plenty of drunken people out in the hallways throughout the night.  I even heard a boozy screaming argument out on the porch next to my room. 

Coming back from the last trip to the bathroom at 10:30 pm, I was happy to see a tall sign blocking the outside door nearest my room.  Presumably it said to enter through the main doors after hours.  Whew.

I clicked off all but the soft bedside light and settled in to the tiny but comfortable twin bed.  I swiped the screen of my Kindle to wake it up and read four chapters of The Boys of My Youth by Jo Ann Beard.  Knowing it was getting late and that I wanted to write more in the morning before check out, I shut down the Kindle, clicked off the light, and attempted to fall asleep. 

It was too hot, then the bed felt too small, then I couldn’t get the pillows right, then it was 1:30 am and I couldn’t have been more wide awake.  I had forgotten that I can’t sleep anywhere but my bed at home. 

After a decade of unrelenting insomnia and six of those reliant on prescription sleeping pills, the sleeplessness went away as if by magic and I rest well most every night now.  Except when I’m not at home. 

Now it’s 6:26 am.  I finished The Boys of My Youth (loved it and highly recommend), worked on more scenes, and am waiting until I hear other guests wake up and start moving around in the hallway so I can go to the bathroom.

Here's a photo of the actual room.  A bargain at $50 a night, even if I never slept.

 

A Room of My Own

Though I’ve set out to climb Mt. Hood this spring, the imagined snapshot of me standing at the peak, surrounded by white silence, alone at the top of the earth, makes my heart race.  That image in my mind and the fear in my body describe the feeling I avoid at all costs: loneliness.

I know other mothers who cherish alone time.  They are somehow refreshed by the solitude.  While I like the idea of peace and quiet, I am anything but refreshed by being alone.  My response to coming upon a free chunk of time is to make plans with a friend.  Otherwise I am in front of the TV, sucked in to the artificial world of sitcom, or drama, or reality show, or infomercial.  What’s on the TV doesn’t matter.

I know that sounds sad.  I’ve spent hundreds of hours dredging through memory as I write my book, so I know where it all comes from.  As a kid, I was alone too much.  And it was sad. 

But now as a nearly 40-year-old woman, this particular fear has become a problem.  There are things I need to do alone.  Like carving out large chunks of time to write.  And more chunks of time to exercise.  Unfortunately, neither of those things can be done effectively with other people.

I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating my “ideal” writing scenario, imagining a room of my own.  Currently I write while my family buzzes around me or after they all go to bed.  It isn’t necessarily the quality, focused time I need, but it works to a point.

In the vein of growth I began with my last birthday, I booked myself an overnight stay this Sunday at Edgefield to write.  Even though the hotel is probably haunted like they say, it “feels” right so I figure it’s worth a try.

Instead of the scared little girl at home by herself, a new image flashes in my mind.  It’s Monday morning at check out.  A woman stands at the counter, she radiates peace. It’s a woman who’s written 30 fresh scenes for her book.  And she’s ready to plan the next overnight.  Alone.

The Quest Resumes

The adipose tissue in my body is out of whack.  Adipose tissue is just another term for fat, which I’ve been reading about for the last few days.  A new book (there’s always a new book) has led to a new path for getting my body healthy.  I have to admit I skimmed through much of it, but generally I have the following understanding of what’s going on in my body. 

My fat cells have gone haywire. 

Some people can eat sugar and carbohydrates.  Some people can eat them and not gain weight.  Some people can eat them and not need a nap.  A cream filled maple bar sends me to bed.  It produces flu-like symptoms.  One slice of whole-grain, whole-wheat, seed covered, organic dark brown bread and I crash.  So I didn’t need to read a book to understand that carbs and me don’t get along.  But before this new book, I didn’t really understand why they are all I want to eat. 

It’s because my fat cells have taken over. 

They shout the order, “Make more insulin!”  The insulin snakes to my brain, commands, “Bagels, cereal, toast, chocolate!” 

I can certainly override these commands.  I am not a robot after all.  But the trick is that no matter how much I eat of non-carbohydrate laden food, I feel starved.  Because that is what’s happening.  The fat cells are starving without a regular flush of sugar.  And I guess that’s what I’m after.  To take control back from the adipose tissue which is clearly trying to kill me. 

I’m on day two of no carbs right in the thick of Christmas cookies and eggnog.  I am literally surrounded by sugar, but I will always be surrounded by sugar. 

So here we go…