Spam makes you special. I have spam.
I’m sitting here, still in my coat, because I have been cold for more days than I can count. Bundled up in bed at night with socks—I hate wearing socks in bed, it seems so wrong—and multiple layers including a cashmere sweater, next to a warm man who loves me, I lie awake every night for hours wondering if I will ever be warm again.
The cold is inside me. I tell Matthew not to bother turning the heat up, because I know it will make no difference. The cold is inside.
I’m wearing headphones right now, some string and superglue holding them together, listening to some healing chanting tones. Maybe this music will warm me somehow. Maybe it will help break this unbelievable tension I have been feeling, the feeling that I am about to shatter into a million tiny ice-splinters, shards of what was once me scattering all over the floor.
I know this with every fiber of my being, but still I resist being IN the space I am in. I resist allowing the terrible tension to overwhelm me, to envelop me, to become me.
Something will change. Tomorrow will not be like today. Things move and shift. I tell myself partly because I know it, and partly because although I know it I still need to hear it.
Next to me is a list of houses I might live in. One of them might be a home for me. I have been feeling the absence of a home for months, and part of me longs to feel I belong somewhere. Another part longs for a sense of reckless freedom that owning very little brings. Somewhere in the middle might be balance, but I have yet to find it.
Tomorrow will be a different day. And I have spam.