Most of my wall space is now covered by around two hundred and fifty individual photographs that I had printed, showcasing memories I look back on fondly and friends I’m grateful to have, or have had in the past, in my life. As you walk into my room, my bed is on the right hand side against the wall, surrounded by said photographs and a window that looks out into the garden, with the windowsill decorated with plants and a small lamp. At the end of my bed there is a small sofa that faces the television that hangs on my back wall, below which there is a desk that houses my computer and a small writing space, looking out through another window on the right of the television that also faces onto the garden, with the windowsill again decorated with plants, although these are considerably larger than the others. To the left of my television there are some posters placed above the mirror that I have lent against the wall, and to the left of those is my bookshelf, which hosts a growing collection, mainly consisting of, unsurprisingly, political non-fiction, although the fiction section has grown considerably during 2020. The bookshelf is situated in the back left corner of my room against the left wall, so next to that there is my clothes rack, chest of drawers and coat hooks, which host a disturbingly mismatched collection of clothes, directly underneath some more posters, drawn from a selection of my favourite shows & movies; Call Me By Your Name, Fleabag, Bojack Horseman and Spongebob Squarepants. There’s a smaller set of drawers next to the big chest, on top of which sits a safe, filled with items I treasure dearly and several volumes of diaries which contain information that would likely destroy every single friendship I have were it ever made public. I used to despise spending time in my room – it started when we lived in Eaton Close in Hatton, where we were lucky enough to have a spare room, so, for whatever reason, I spent the vast majority of my nights sleeping in there, such was the extent to which I grew to hate my own space. I could manage it if I was with other people, or if I was distracted by television or video games, but as soon as the lights went off and I tried to sleep I just could not stand it. This continued even after we left Eaton Close, but I was no longer afforded the luxury of a spare room to escape to, which led to endless nights of fighting a battle with my own mind just in order to get some sleep. I spent as much time as possible in other homes, often sleeping over at friends’ who were both polite and demented enough to host me. My Mum sometimes asked me if something she’d done had upset me as it seemed I was doing whatever was possible in order to avoid her, but in reality I was just avoiding my own space, and I think deep down she knew that, yet still thought that the former explanation was more palatable, even if it was clearly false. Moving to University merely compounded the problem rather than solving it; in first year, when we lived in halls, I spent all of my time in George’s room, in second year I was constantly at Arron’s flat, and in third year I barely spent anytime in Hull at all, reluctantly opting for my own space at home rather than my own space in the foreign land of the North. It is only during the last nine months that I’ve begun to actively enjoy my own space, albeit largely because I’ve been forced to. As the pandemic began and we were forced into lockdown, I decided I would use the time productively to try and prevent myself spiralling into a depressive state, and as such I vowed to lose weight (which has been well documented on this blog) but also to learn to love spending time on my own, in my own room. Hence, as I’ve described here, I’ve filled my room with things that make me happy; pictures of my friends, posters from my favourite shows/films, plants to brighten it up a bit, books to inspire me to read & write, mirrors to admire my one true love and my computer & television to indulge in some video games or Netflix. This, coupled with my weight loss and improved mental health, means that, although I’d still much rather be out lunching or partying, I’m perfectly happy spending time in my own little space. As I look back now I realise that, in trying to escape my own space, I was essentially attempting to escape my own mind, which I probably knew was inescapable, yet I tried anyway and, for several years, the constant distractions were enough for me to get by. It saddens me to look back and consider how trapped I felt by the thoughts circulating in my own head but after some serious hard work, I can now turn the lights off, get into bed and be comfortable with my own thinking and, whilst that may not seem significant to most of you, to fifteen year old me, it’s the greatest gift he could have been given. I finally appreciate my own space, and I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.