I sit here and memorize what is left of my Room, the only spec of familiarity that has grounded me to a mindset of comfort over all these years. She’s been there for me watching me cry, watching me have sex, watching the transient people coming in and out of the beaded doorway. She waited for me as I packed up and went away to treatment, then the hospital, then treatment again, all the while holding Her breath, not moving a finger. Now, I leave Her here. And I realize now, the Room and I have more in common than ever before: Emptiness. I read back in old journals and old posts of how long I’ve been fighting what is so instinctive to me. When it comes down to it, we are all animals breathing the same air, with our brains wired all to a default of security and comfort. But what is to happen to those of us who’s wiring is set to self-destruction?