I love sleeping in someone else’s bed. Well, anyone’s but my own. I sleep wonderfully in hotel beds, I love sleeping in my parent’s guest bedroom in the basement, and I would totally sleep in my roommates’ beds if that wasn’t considered creepy. I’ve always had trouble falling asleep; it’s usually the time when my brain decides to be most productive, churning out brilliant inventions and plans for the future while scrambling through to-do lists and errands to run. It would be great if my mind saved precious pillow time for sleeping and thought that shit up during the day when normal people get work done. Instead, my mind uses the daytime hours worrying about how to frame my Instagram photos or studying how many hashtags it takes to make new friends. Alas, this is how my brain works, and I’m fortunate for the misfortune of poor sleep. I’ve always credited my “insomnia” (for lack of a better word) to the fact that I was born that way. Except for when I don’t sleep in my own room. When I fall asleep anywhere else, I fall quick and rise refreshed looking like Sleeping motherfucking Beauty. How can this be? There must be a reason! I shall discovereth why my brain is even more superior than we already suspected! Time to blog!
It’s not that I sleep better because of what the new setting is; I sleep better because of what it’s not: mine. The connotation of something being mine makes me responsible for it. For the sake of this discovery, the room I sleep in is responsible for my slumber. So if I sleep well in your room, well congratulations to your room, it must be amazing! If my sleep sucks in your room, its not my fault, the room and I must just not feng shui. So if I have a poor rest in my own creation, the room I built and decorated and arranged and inhabit, then there must be something wrong with me. It means I’m incapable of creating a livable space for myself and cannot vitalize a healthy environment in which I can happily fall asleep. What does it say about me, if I’m not comfortable in my own room?
A few times out of every year (this is a huge generalization I’m making because “every once and a while” seems too often and “there are times” implies too long of an episode, and “a few times out of every year” makes me seem less pathetic and more manly, because I’m tough) I find myself avoiding sleeping at home. I go to my parent’s house for the weekend, sleep at a girlfriend’s a few nights out of the week, crash on a couch somewhere after a party, wherever it is, as long as it’s not my house/dorm/car/alley downtown/brothel/etc I’m anxiety free. Lately, I’ve been experiencing a lot of anxiety. Luckily I’ve seen her before so it’s easy to spot the ugly bitch from a mile away. She generally likes to punch me in the brain and try to make me cry, to which I say, “kindly fuck off, there is nothing wrong with my life and you’re not wanted here.” She usually responds with fancy footwork and toys with my emotions, telling me everything will be okay then stabbing me in the back with her Worry Knife and whispering terrifying “what ifs” into my dreams like the lying ho-bag she is. I have pretty good weapons to fight her that I’ve collected over the years, and I’ve studied some top secret fight moves to ward her off, but this time she’s ruthlessly attacking a part of me I’ve never had to defend before and I’m finding that it’s bruising too easily.
I bet you can guess what comes next–they’re finally hospitalizing me for insanity. Just kidding. But if you let out a sigh of relief on that line, you can go fuck yourself. Lately I’ve also been searching for ways to sleep away from my room. And it’s only now, when my slutty nut-fucker friend is paying me a visit, that I correlate the two. My room is mine. I built it from scratch; it was an empty space that could go in any direction, and it was up to me and me alone to mold it into something of my own. So I put my bed in the room, and a bureau I’ve had for years, a tapestry I bought in New York when I was trying to be bohemian, a mirror for gazing into my own eyes, an American Flag inspired by my roommate’s bedroom, a small rug I thought was cool because it was from Urban Outfitters, some photos with white borders to appear hipster vintage, a Buddha statue I bought when I wanted to be a zen Yogi master, and a closet full of clothes that were bound to make me a fashion model. I built the room in hopes that it would appear put together, cozy, cute, fashionable, cool, inspired, whatever. I based my bedding and decorations and trinkets off of multiple different rooms, not ever deciding or knowing which one I really liked. I built the room for it’s appearance, and not for me to live in.
I did just this to myself. For the last couple of months I’ve been so focused on what outfit to wear, what haircut to get, what cell phone to have, what shoes to buy that I’ve built some facade or look or appearance for the world around me. I built somebody else’s exterior and now I want to sleep somewhere else, because it’s not my own. In my mind’s eye I tried to erase the decorations that weren’t mine and the fashion trends that I blindly elected to follow to see what I was left with. Not a whole lot. It was at this point that my whore bag poopfaced friend knocked me out on my floor and left me to cry myself to sleep. Cool, that’s not what friends do, but whatever.
I woke up the next morning to go see my doctor. She asked me in that sickly sweet “I’m-so-empathetic-I-really-understand-how-hard-this-must-be-for-you-do-you-need-a-hug” voice what was ‘going on,’ to which I told her “Gimme a therapist doc, I’m goin under.” Then we exchanged high fives, she gave me a list of miracle workers and sent me on my way. I used to be pretty anti-therapy, but from experience I’ve learned that even though I’m the only solution to my problem, sometimes I need help finding that solution. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with being sad sometimes, it’s a point on the spectrum of human emotions, and if I never felt it I think that would be more grounds for worry than some unwanted anxiety slutface good-for-nothing ass puncher. What I do think there’s something wrong with (erg, I don’t like “wrong with” because there’s nothing “wrong with” me, but I’m too tired and lazy to find a better Rachology for it) is feeling a loss of identity. I’m someone with a very strong sense of identity, so when it feels faded or stifled somehow, of course I’m going to be unhappy.
Last night I was laying in my manfriend’s bed while he packed for his trip to the lovely Coopersburg, PA, pondering the cause of my identity crisis . Was it that I didn’t like myself? No, I wasn’t experiencing any low self-esteem, which I think warrants a huge award from all my thousands of readers, as you all know I’ve dabbled in some hefty self-hatred and poor esteem, so a big round of applause and trophy and cash reward for this guy! Do I hate my internship? Heck no, I love those kids, I should be taking full advantage of having fun all day! Am I having relationship issues? As if, I love my friends and my manfriend’s the manliest. So what is the source of my identity funk? Laying there, I remembered a line from the movie “HUGO,” (which I only watched the first half of because it sucked, just like the shitty robot in it that could only write stuff and draw a moon with rocket shaped dildos in its mouth) where the main kid says, “Maybe that’s why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn’t able to do what it was meant to do…Maybe it’s the same with people, If you lose your purpose…it’s like you’re broken.” What’s my purpose? Well fuck right now I don’t have one. I guess to finish school, but that’s just a goal I’ve made. It’s not Rachel motherfucking Godbe’s Purpose. What am I meant to do? What am I passionate about? All I could think of was travelling. To see the world, as much of it as I possibly can before I die.
Ok. So make it happen, dummy. Make your life important again, give it purpose, and in doing so Rachel will fill in the spaces that feel lost. I haven’t lost Rachel, I’ve just lost focus on giving her what she needs. I told my BFF Kate that my new motto was to treat myself and feed myself the way I would my own baby (to which she responded “that’s a shitty motto, you should have aborted that thing before it was too late.”). Right now I’m treating myself like a plastic mannequin without a face. It’s time to feed my identity, it’s time to make my room my own, and gosh darnit it’s time I fell asleep in it.
Does this mean she’s gonna start wearing floral dresses from Value Village with Birkenstocks every day again? The readers asked. I guess you’ll just have to wait for the sun to come out.