Features

I hail from a tiny little attic, with many corners and only one small window. Most of the day, I wallow around in the shadows because my window only lets in a sliver of sunlight during parts of the day. Sometimes when there is sunlight, I move the shades away and let my eyes absorb some sweet light. It’s almost like eyedrops to an irritated pupil. My room is obnoxiously shaped due to its being an attic, so the walls are slanted. This minimizes my space and accessibility so much I have to cherry-pick what furniture comes in and out.

Over time, I progressively hated my room; no, I began to hate the walls for some reason. Specifically the wall to the point where I almost blame it for my daily frustrations. There are so many walls it’s in a way overwhelming. I never actually counted and don’t think I will; the idea of touching such toxic walls is repulsive. Toxic? What’s wrong with the walls? Are they coated with lead paint? Or made with asbestos? No. You see, I fear the world, so I don’t go out much. This room has seen every moment of my life. I have too much pride to cry outside of my comfort zone, so almost every tear I’ve shed has been absorbed into the walls. Every smile, every outburst. The walls are so plastered in trauma that I hope the next tenants tear them down to uplift this tiny attic room.

Sometimes I like to just stand in the middle of this room and take a good look around at all the walls and reminisce about all the events. My heart hurts for the ones that happened in my youth. The gray paint on the walls only further highlights the gloom of the room. I just imagine how one could curl up into a little wallowing ball of shame and let the cold embrace of the sad walls devour them. The tiny ray of light from the undignified window can either be a slight chance of hope or the early signs of defeat.

Even though I hate them with every bone in my body, I am guilty of using my room as some sort of crutch. I’ve convinced myself that there is nowhere else where I feel safe than in my room. Whenever I feel the slightest bit of discomfort, even if I’m still in my own house, I have the itching need to go back into my sad little cave—no one ever there to bless me with comfort except these walls. The walls close in on me and are almost a filler for a loved one’s missing arms. They’re the being I cry to when something’s wrong. During the moments of my most outstanding achievements, the uncontrollable bursts of excitement were shaken out in this room. Feelings of falling in love, winning a video game, chatting with friends, and even just waking up from a nap and having that familiar peak of sunlight highlight some corner of the room. 

The light isn’t bright, but it sure is comforting. The edges are jagged, but they do make for funny memories. The corners are dark, but when I wish to be cradled, they make for a lovely friend. And the walls . . . oh those familiar walls of agony. I apologize for my hatred towards you even though you’ve had my back through thick and thin. How many of you are here? When I place my palm against them, they’re cold but have a texture that pleases my smooth fingertips. When I reach out to count, I can’t help but smile as if I’m greeting an old friend. Twenty walls. There are twenty of you here right now, watching me traverse this torturous life. Thank you for being here for me. When the days come where I leave this room for the last time, I will shed a tear for you. But please . . . don’t let it leave these walls.

Ivy Immediato is a Computer Arts major in her sophomore year at the School of Visual Arts. She hails from Westchester County, New York. Ivy has this to say: "Earlier last year, I wrote this essay about the tumultuous relationship between myself and my bedroom walls. I hope when reading this essay one might begin to think about their own relationship with the many inanimate objects in their lives."