The Bed that Broke Me

Building my bed broke me –or, should I say, my futile attempts at building my bed by myself broke me.

Like countless of single girls before me, I ventured upon the uncharted territory of living alone as a necessary step in my transition from graduate student into full-fledged adult. The time could not be better; fresh off graduation with highest honors, a new full-time office job, and a new apartment close enough to work determined my new fate. I had always shared living space with people. That I’m good at. As it turns out, I’m just not so good at living alone.   

You’d think it’d be easier. I mean, when you live with people you have to be mindful of their quirks and their presence, you stand higher chances of drama, of cleaning up after them, and you stand higher chances of being disrupted at all hours in the day. Growing up in my particular household, I never had a chance to be uninterrupted. Whatever I was doing, my mother would interrupt with a request to do this or that, no matter if I was penning important words. With roommates, I’ve had my fair share of good friends, and rambunctious dwellers.

But this silence in my new place… It’s just something to get used to. I resort to employing the company of chick flicks to distract myself from the silence. It was during the middle of one of these In Her Shoes, if you need the details, that I had the bright (if by bright you mean dangerously stupid) idea to build my new bed.

I don’t know what prompted the waterworks, but something inside me broke as I glanced back and forth between the panels, bolts and pieces that were supposed to compose my new bed and the instructions. It could have been the scene in the movie that was playing in the background –a sad one to be sure, the overpowering feeling of being alone, the assembly instructions telling me I’d need two people to assemble the bed, or a noxious combination of these factors. All I know is that if I’d walked in on myself I would have slapped myself silly because I must have looked like a sad, sad version of the woman I’m supposed to be as 

I was sobbing on the floor amidst the debris that would be my bed.

The fact that I was a sad spectacle to behold did not escape me at that moment, but that didn’t stop the pity party. This particular pity party lasted a whole ten minutes, playing my most-loved hits, such as “This is all my fault,” “This is why I’ll never get married,” “I’m all alone because I’m a horrible human being,” “What did I do wrong to end up building this lovely bed by myself?,” and “No one will ever love me enough to commit to this amount of crazy.”

Then, I realized I might never be over my broken engagement because that’s just something I have to learn to live with. That’s the thing about broken hearts, you think they’re fine, but then you realize that the heartbreak was deeper than you previously thought. I loved someone for six years. He said he loved me for six years. That’s a long time.  They weren’t always wonderful; in fact, I’m convinced that it was an unhealthy relationship for many reasons. But if I can commit my heart for someone that wasn't that good to begin with for six years, that means I have the capacity to make it work in a good marriage when the time comes. Most importantly, that means I can commit to myself and make this living alone thing work. Because I’m damn wonderful.

Oh, and that bed that broke me? Well, I enlisted the help of my new boyfriend to assemble it, and it was quite alright. Sometimes there are things you can’t do by yourself.