Long-Suffering Woman EXPLODES into RAMPAGE of SELF-RESPECT

In which I awaken from a death of a thousand tiny indignities and buy a new bed.

The author and former sufferer of 1,000 tiny indignities

For eighteen months, I’ve been sleeping on a mattress on the floor in the worst room of the house.

The room functions primarily as a closet in which my family collects the discarded things of our lives: old toys, Legos, cardboard boxes of seasonal items. It’s a mess.

The “mattress” consists of two thin Ikea pads stacked one upon the other, a pallet designed for paupers. Nineteen-year-old frat bros live like this, and yet I’m a forty-three-year-old homeowner.

By the way, I bought this house with the fruits of my labor, and yet I’m sleeping on the mahfuckin floor in this bitch.

I was embarrassed to tell people this fact of my life, and so when I had to admit it, I’d do so with a laugh—but the recipient of this information never failed to look appalled, shocked, sad.

Why was I sleeping in the floor?

Well, when this whole floor-sleeping fiasco started, my toddler was but a baby who kept me awake all night, gnawing on my teat and shoving his way through what little space my husband and I shared in our modest full-size bed.

I hadn’t slept in over a year.

I needed to sleep, yet I couldn’t bear to put the baby out of our room and make him sleep alone.

So—I left the baby to sleep with Daddy—

and Mommy moved out of the best room in the house, and into the worst.

At first, my new situation saved my sanity. Suddenly, I could sleep a full night again.

Yet, of course, there was no…furniture in this room.

My clothes piled upon the floor.

Random objects continued to stack around me.

Last year’s Christmas wreath. A box of supplies for my business. Toys the children had outgrown. Legos. An unending array of jagged, podiatrically-damaging Legos.

Yet—it wasn’t so bad, was it?

Sure, I slept on the floor, surrounded by boxes, without a single drawer to my name; sure, I shared a bathroom with my teenage son, which came equipped with all the messes of a teenage boy; sure, just one room over my beautiful master bathroom went untouched by me at 3 a.m.; sure, I stepped on an unending array of podiatrically-damaging Legos at all hours of the night; sure, I resented the fact that I had personally saved the downpayment for this home and paid the mortgage every month, and yet I was sleeping in the storage room floor. Sure!

But it wasn’t so bad, was it?

I had a roof over my head. A family I loved. At least I got to sleep through the night.

I wasn’t furious over the situation. I was merely mildly, consistently annoyed.

This mattress on the floor was but a microcosm, of course.

(I’ve written about my self-inflicted and/or willingly-received mortifications already here and here , and frankly this one was a cry for help, but if you want to witness my unravelling in process, you can do so here.)

My anhedonia stemmed not from mental illness. No chemical imbalance nor family history had falsely wired my brain. No pill nor therapist could solve my problems.

You see, I had been enacting upon myself a death of a thousand tiny dignities.

In his recent essay “25 Useful Ideas for 2025,”

Gurwinder

describes a concept called the “Region-Beta Paradox:”

Often we fail to improve our lives simply because things don't get bad enough. If your new job is hell, you’ll leave it, but if it’s just unsatisfying, you’ll likely grind it out. Thus, small problems often threaten our quality of life more than big ones.

Gurwinder

, “25 Useful Ideas for 2025”

Once, I lived in a rental home that suddenly exploded into a flea infestation. The dog had fleas. I had fleas. Flea larvae wriggled hideously on my fucking couch, and by the way, I am haunted by that image.

I discovered this heinous issue, found a new apartment, broke my lease, and moved the fuck out—all in the span of one week.

When shit gets real bad, I act—real quick.

But when it’s only mildly bad, well—I’ll let it fester interminably, another ingredient in the pot of my shapeless discontent.

Yet recently I awoke, wide-eyed and stone-faced, with a strange determination.

No longer will I sleep in this floor!

In my robe and slippers, I padded into the master bedroom and announced to my husband:

“I’m buying a king-sized mattress. I’m moving back into the master.”

Days later, I received a check from iHeartRadio for ad revenue from my podcast Hookergate. The check covered the cost of the king-sized mattress.

Next, I walked into the mattress store, picked out a mattress, and paid for that shit in the span of fifteen minutes.

From the moment I awoke wide-eyed and determined—until the moment I had a whole new master bedroom designed for happiness and sleep—a span of a mere week passed.

my sleeping situation, before and after.

Other things in my life which have happened contemporaneously with this sudden move from the floor to a king-sized bed:

THE NICEST FUCKIN GYM IN ATLANTA OPENED UP MERE MINUTES FROM MY HOME and I dance my ass off and use the hell outta them free toiletries on the daily. I rearranged my professional life to make me less stressed. I’ve started writing creatively again, after a broken-spirited dry spell. I viciously scraped the peeling paint from my bedroom ceiling. I’m back at work on Hookergate, which is one of the greatest works of my life—I hate that I momentarily lost sight of that. I’m watching movies that inspire me creatively (have you seen Nosferatu? What about The Substance?). I’m playing a ton of piano and singing at the top of my lungs. I’m petting the dog again.

And right now? I’m writing from the cozy corner of my brand new old bedroom, where I sleep like a queen in my king.

- L.B., January 2025