I miss having my own room, because I miss laying on the floor.
It may sound strange, but when life takes a toll on my emotions, laying on the floor soothes me faster than anything else. Feeling that solidness along the entire length of my body, knowing it isn't going anywhere. You can't fall any lower if you're laying on the floor.
Even better if it's a tiled floor, with its hard coolness saying, "I am here. I am real. You're safe." Back home, I've been known to take many stress-induced naps on the bathroom floor.
But here...well, with 6 busy college students sharing a bathroom, it doesn't get cleaned much. No way am I laying on that.
And as nice as my roommates are, I don't know what they would think were they to find me stretched out on the bedroom floor, staring at the ceiling, or pressing my face to the carpet, or hyperventilating.
Which means the best I can do is lay on my bed and pretend to read, longing for the trustworthy reality of that floor.
My depression whacked me out of nowhere in the middle of my dance class today. Fact: a dance class is probably one of the worst situations in which to have an anxiety/depressive attack, because you have to keep moving and doing things and being expressive when all you really want to do is curl up in fetal position and wait for it to end. I was counting down the minutes until cooldown stretches were over and I could leave, when my teacher instructed us to lay facedown on the floor and breathe. And I felt the cold wood under my cheek, its stability along my legs. I wanted to cling to it, an anchor of reality in my churning sea of emotions. And for a minute, I felt secure.