My house has always been what it is. Something of simple pleasures, too many familial moments to count, and safe spaces for me to be introverted and calm.
My first bedroom is now a library. After using it for twelve years, I grew out of the brightly colored walls and found the huge fairy mural on one wall quite creepy. I remember moving out of that room and upstairs, raiding my closet and finding a box of diaries from elementary school. I had to break the lock on one of them just to read what was inside. To procrastinate finishing putting my things in boxes and instead admire how bad my handwriting was and how all I used to do was play with stuffed toys and plastic alike. Now, this room houses dozens of bookshelves, hundreds of books and plenty of items of decoration, comfortable reading chairs, and a circle-shaped sofa stuffed in the corner. This bedroom was transformed for a room made for a family of bookworms.
Near the back of my house, there's a small bedroom tucked into a corner of a hallway next to a bathroom and a staircase. The tiny bedroom has no window and used to be my eldest brother's room before he moved away. It now houses my sister-in-law and her daughter. This room used to be my room for a short time when my brother moved out and I stayed there for the summer before my sixth grade year. This was the safest place for me, where I read three books a day, ate sunflower seeds, played Minecraft on the Xbox, and spilled hot soup on my lap while doing so. This dingey place was one of my favorites for a long time.
The biggest bedroom in my house is my mom's, next to the back door. It has a king bed and lots of shelves full of books and movies and nicknacks and a big closet. This has recently been my closest place to home in the past few weeks, due to my mom being one of the closest people to me. Because my stepdad lives hours away, my mom goes to his house most weekends and stays there. And while she does, I commonly stay in her room. I might even go so far to explain it as being a safe space where I don't feel as lonesome.
Since the summer before seventh grade, I've lived upstairs. I decided to do this long after my youngest older brother and his wife and his kid moved out and the room became a storage room. It's on the small side, but it has a decently sized rectangular closet and a big window. I've had a queen-sized mattress since I grew out of a twin-sized. It has lots of shelves that always get rearranged to fit my monthly standards that are full of gifts, nicknacks, books, stuffed animals, movies, rocks, crystals, and lotions. There are at least three cat-related objects, including her litterbox and two scratching posts. This has been my safest space for the longest amount of time, I think. It's where I developed a lot about myself and learned the truth behind who I am and what that means.
My house has always been what it is: a safe space for an everlasting introvert. I've taken my time finding the best places in the house for me. These spaces made it into my list of self-expression in a room, and I hope I can keep growing into each of them.
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