When I was young, my room felt really safe. It felt the safest when no one was at home. No one to disturb me, to interrupt. 

It felt safe because the room was mine. I had chosen everything within it. The flowered comforter, the teeny bedside lamp, the veneered bed frame, the chipped desk, the secondhand desk chair, my stereo, the dresser. They were solely selected by me, solely used by me. We had an intimate relationship. 

The comforter was the first item I purchased with my own money. I was 8 years old. It was $100 at TJ Maxx. I knew it was for me the moment I saw it; it felt like fate. Not having it was unacceptable, like I could no longer have a part of me that had always been a part of me. We could not afford it. I used money I had saved from birthdays to buy it. 

In having it, I felt more connected to myself. More secure within myself. Anchored. The jumbled up pieces of my identity had found peace in the bizarre certainty that this comforter represented me. 

My bedside lamp was translucent, with a head that extended outward on two thin metal poles. The lamp was a companion when I couldn’t put down a book, it held my night time secrets. Its click warmed me. Its light held me. It was my conspirator when staying up late into the night. It didn’t yell at me, argue with me. It understood, unlike my parents, that a child that wanted to stay up late to read was something to be appreciated rather than scolded. The lamp accepted me unconditionally.

Only objects I loved had been allowed into my room. 

These friends understood me, and I understood them. They were there when I was lonely, and they made me feel less lonely.

In my solitude, they made me feel connected to myself. When I felt alienated from my family — misunderstood, isolated — I connected to myself through this space. They were my rock, not because they simply existed in my room and I spent a lot of time in my room. But, because each of them had imprinted on my soul, and my soul had imprinted on them. They felt like different versions of myself that were more empathetic, accepting, and kind.

I identified parts of myself through their shape, through my repetition of usage. In turn, they affected me, changed me. A relationship in constant symbiosis, but its existence a hardened fact. 

I experienced the magical meeting between object and soul many times as a kid. Mostly through home objects but on occasion with a purse or a blouse. Today, less so. Maybe because there’s so much more stuff I encounter today. Or maybe I am no longer searching for who I am. 

Still, the occasional object comes about that elicits this rare feeling, that clarifies who I am. 

Chairs do this most often. Don’t ask me why. 

An impossible amount of character, personality, past packed into a relatively small object. A symbol of relief, rest. Little creatures that spend a lifetime supporting us.