Comfort

Every year for the past several years, I've attended a gay film festival with several friends near the end of January. It's generally a great time, full of laughter, excellent food, and life-affirming GLBT films. It's pretty nice to be somewhere for a long weekend and be able to be fully out and surrounded by like-minded folks and feel pretty darn okay about myself.

The film fest that took place at the beginning of this year was a little different, unfortunately. It was the weekend before I decided to leave the job I referenced in this post and I was a wreck. I was going to skip the festival and stay at home to wallow, I guess, but ended up going to the festival and hanging out with my friends. I was terribly out of sorts and fielding phone calls from my parents and lawyers (seriously) because of how bad things were and didn't get to fully enjoy the weekend, BUT I do remember the sleep I got at my friend's house the night I arrived.

My sweet friend Em lets me sleep in her bed when I visit. She beds down elsewhere with her partner and I'm treated to a luxuriously soft bed with scoonchy sheets (trust; it's a compliment) and several blankets that are great for warmth but also a kind of safe smothering, if that makes sense. I recently heard about people on the autism spectrum who use weighted blankets to help them keep calm, and it makes complete sense to me.

I like best being able to cocoon when I sleep and I desperately needed rest when I arrived at Em's house. I remember burrowing beneath the layers and letting out a sigh of relief. I got the kind of comfort I am missing at home with my wonderful, albeit solo, comforter on a mattress years past its expiration date.

I aspire to have soft pink sheets, thick blankets, quilts with history, the weight of warmth and safety, a haven from the outside world even when things are going all right. These things are currently labeled someday, but will eventually become my everyday comfort.