Tonight I’m up at 4:04 am and waiting for the pizza delivery place to open in exactly 6 hours and 25 minutes. The lights, which are motion censored, keep turning off because they can’t hear my incessant typing to you, whoever may read this. My noisy rattling doesn’t make up for my stiff, hunched posture and the lights consider me a ghost. While I’m alone in my thoughts, I continue to think about that story, the one where the woman is locked in a room with yellow wallpaper, slowly going insane.
Many years ago in my junior year high school English class they said this was a great example of women literature. However, they didn’t even require us to read it and then proceeded to skip the only section I had any interest in. The fact of the matter was that I’d already read the story and was enthralled by the idea that the feeble minds around me might have some discussion to share. My disappointment was immeasurable when I realized no one had or would read it on their own. Now, I relate more than ever to the woman circling her room with no where to go. It feels increasingly as if I were talking to myself even when others are in the room. My contributions to society go unnoticed, and the information and thoughts I have to share as the only woman in my newly found friend group go silenced.
Don’t assume I’m a radical feminist, I’m not by all means. My head is practically shaved, I smoke as I feel distanced (even though I know it’s bad for me), I’ve given up all breast support, and I have body hair where no woman “should”. This doesn’t mean I’m stressing the all importance of letting your social stigmas go to anyone, believe me. If I’m completely honest to you, stranger, it mostly means I don’t have the energy to do anything besides survive. But the point is, I feel like I have so much more to share.
With my depression lingering and the looming feeling of being in the eye of an imaginary storm, I’m further isolated than ever before. I wish I could take a step closer to the people I love and call back on time and not be awake waiting for the pizza delivery guy at now 4:19 in the morning. Instead I’m crawling, creeping against the barren walls as my shoulder rubs against the plaster. Waiting perpetually for someone to let me out.