According to Dodie Bellamy, you can never trust a person with a neat bedroom.
The bedroom is a place fraught with conflicting emotions. It’s where we go to feel safe and protected, to put our guard down, rest, and build ourselves back up. It’s our innermost sanctuary, our last line of defense: when everything feels like it’s falling apart, we can always just stay in bed. At the same time, the bedroom is where we go to expose ourselves to others, to test and experiment with what our bodies want and need from and can do to other bodies—which can be soft and sensual but can also get loud, sweaty, and even a bit rough. For those (and many other) reasons, the bedroom needs a door that closes, so that it can be kept separate from the rest of the house. It’s where private gets even more private, or, as my aunt Judy likes to say, it’s the indoors indoors. And even though it’s our most familiar place (considering we’re there for hours every single day), it’s also our most sacred and cherished possession, shared with others only at personal risk.
To open ourselves to the joy of a loving union means accepting the possibility (inevitability) of loss. To be able to love, we need to accept the melancholy of life, the little losses of every day and the great loss called death. Paradoxically, once we except that change, loss, discomfort, and grief are inevitable, life is not so frightening and we are freer to create intimate relationships.￼