I grew up without
what some may call a proper door to my bedroom. The room was a converted den, gifting me with the washer and dryer, and double French doors out to a patio. At the time, my parents were heavy smokers, so people used my so-called-private-space room as a hallway. I lived in public.
Where most first-world adolescents ran away from domestic tribulations into the safety of their room, I found solace in the only shelter I could lay stake to, my own mind. My thoughts were mine. Whatever I discovered, dreamed, or derived. It was mine. Privately.
Later, I discovered that physical privacy could also be had, but at a different cost. A 10-year-old may have a bed time. But a highschooler sure didn’t. And night time became my time, another private getaway from the tiresome pretensions of public life.
Well, many years later, I’m back in that same room. Older and more worn.
But I can say this: privacy sure has its perks.