The Sum of My Parts

I'm not always so sure that thinking is the best thing to do. But I've been doing it, and a lot lately. I can tell that I am approaching a change of some magnitude, I haven't been completely comfortable with my life for some time now, I'm getting itchy.
I've been thinking.
My husband tells me that I have  more of a tendency to know what I don't want, than what I do. I don't always agree with that, and I don't think that I care to be 'always' or 'never'd' anymore than the next person.
It's called being pigeonholed, and it's very uncomfortable for me, an artistic person any time that another person presumes to think that they know what it is that I am feeling, thinking, or want better than I do.
Perhaps that's what got me thinking.
I know some of the things that I have that I want to keep, things that run the gamut from my grandson, to certain pieces of furniture, works of art, my red pick up truck, and a certain kind of a life not yet lived.
A life that has a yellow room in it, this room isn't bright yellow, although it is bright, the color on the wall is more of a mustard over uneven plaster, almost grotto like, there are smudges of white paint over the yellow, not too many; with unhewn beams running up the walls here and there. Wood poking out of them to hold up the ceiling, which is white, again poorly lathed plaster.
OH it has large windows with a lot of northern light, but they have many small panes of glass in them and they open not up and down, but out, out into the surrounding grove of very fragrant trees that insulate my room, my art, perhaps me, from the world.
I'd like to have a gigantic ivy covered philodendron plant hanging from the ceiling somewhere close to the middle of the room, just hovering there, catching the shadows and the light, bringing me oxygen and bringing my room life.
In the middle of the room are a couple of easels with works in progress, or what appear to be works in progress on them, a small old table in between with brushes in jars, and smears of paint covering it. One picture is of a young girl sitting somewhere, she has on a large straw hat, and a blue dress, she is sitting very straight, she is order, melancholy, the walls are blue and white.
The other is of a place in southern italy, a house hangs off a cliff, the foliage is impossibly lush, the colors burst from the canvas. Mostly reds, oranges, yellows and green. There is lots of off white dirty stucco and a couple of little kids in front of the house. The deep blue of the aegean reflected only in the perfectly cloudless sky above that cobblestoned road.
Representing purity in chaos, washed clean with age.
There are a few large red geranium plants, frothy blossoms, almost obscene in their copious bloom, hanging out of black steel birdcages attached to the walls.
The geraniums are older than I am, I think, they have seen more, they know more, and still, they are quiet, only the small deep red, heavily bulbous buds can show us anything of what they hold, and they will, when it's time and they explode and the bees and the hummingbirds fly through my open windows for a visit. To pollenate.
There are some stucco plaster bas relief on the walls as well, two or three, and perhaps a table with a small replica of David on it.
There is a large trestle table off to the side beneath one of the large, small paned windows. Upon it sits a large wine bottle, with a couple of glasses next to it, there is a deeply colored cotton throw casually tossed over one of the three or four mismatched chairs, all of the chairs hold many pillows of many colors, pastels and deeply jeweled hues, all of the colors of me.
There is a wicker rocker of pure white sitting in the corner, it has an enormous wicker ottoman covered with a huge white down pillow exactly like those on the chair, and when together, the chair and the ottoman form a chaise, it is for sleeping. Next to it sits a small ancient white chest of drawers, with a blue pitcher and bowl perched on top, the pitcher is kept full of ice water at all times.
In this corner there is also a white birdcage and in it lives a blue canary. The canary has no name, but she trills sweetly and infreqeuntly, and keeps me company all day long. She is my minds companion, for other than her this mind, it is full enough, just enough.
I sit day after day at that trestle table in front of the sunny windows, and I write, so comfortably. Finally, for once, now I am in that space.  That reflection of me, the place that I am supposed to be, where everyone has always told me to go, not what to do when I got there, just to go. But I know what to do and the words come, at first slowly, and finally in a flood of excitement, and I'm on my feet, a picture is replaced on one easel with my story board, and I am living the characters, they are acting themselves out, and this I am free to do.
For as long as I inhabit this room and it inhabits me, nothing can come between my world and me.
No presumption, no carelessly spoken words, no dinner to cook, no time for bed because I said so. No, I don't care if you need medication, I'm not giving you the money nightmare stress. No considering what others think about the fact that I suffer from MS and need the help, but because I choose to keep that one thing to myself, my controller, my jailor chooses not to believe me. "Prove it" he rages, and the more he wants it the less chance, I know, that he will stand of ever getting that information from any doctor or from me.
My daughters know, they have gotten that information appropriately, but then, the jailor accuses them of lying as well, for why should they think that he shouldn't know, why should my simply asking them to not speak of it be enough? Should I have that credibility if he didn't say that I could have it? That would NEVER suit his agenda, if it's true what will that make him look like? Are we supposed to care? Evidently.
OH, the patterns we repeat. 
I lived the abuse as a child, and then I lived it in three well patterned and subconciously planned marriages. I lived the unconscionable frustration as a child growing up, deliberately humiliated and degraded by my own brothers and later, by my own words, because we are taught to become who we later are. For the price that I have paid to unbecome that person, for the price that I will always pay because of those who cannot believe that she no longer exists, for it will kill their rational, in some cases their agendas; for that, I have earned not only my room, but the peace, and lastly the book.
The words that no one can take away from me, and that not a one of them can prevent me from writing down. I get control of the words, I choose the context, I publish them, and I live like a free whole decent person who no longer has to look over her shoulder for the next misunderstanding, the next deep deep hurt. That will go as the words pour out. 
In my room.
I will, once I have my room, no longer be living in that world. I'll be here, on earth, but that room will afford me the doors to close, a place to leave the lights on all night long. A place where no one knows what I am doing, and that what I am doing, for the most part all that I am ever doing is pure, not at all insulting to anyone, I am far too frightened for that. 
Then, as now, I am not what others presume.
I am only me, but then, I am close now to happy.
Because I have the vision, and that is far closer than ever, I know what it will look like, and what will happen, when finally it all comes together.
The sum of my life, the sum of my parts.