Pillow Princess

I am reading My Year of Rest and Relaxation by Ottessa Moshfegh, and I didn’t expect to feel nostalgic. I sometimes miss the moments I just gave in to my depression. Moments when I decided to just put my hands in the air and say to myself, “That’s it, I’m done trying,” before crawling back to bed in my little room in my shared Parisian apartment. I’d lie there for days, make weird concoctions with whatever was available in the fridge, and stuff my face until I was super full to make sure I didn’t have to get up later on. I’d bring in weird snacks like trail mix and slices of ham just in case I got hungry. I’d lie under the covers and just stare at the desk in front of me, sometimes for very long minutes, thinking about how much I had failed yet again because here I was, in the same position as I had been a couple of weeks ago. I had gathered the strength to get myself together and worked towards bettering myself, but then I got tired again. So I’d crawl back to bed. 

There’s no other feeling like lying in fresh sheets, the cold pillow against my skin. I’d feel my body instantly release all the tension. I was safe again; nothing was expected of me in there. I kept my pills, the ones given to me by my psychiatrist for my insomnia and anxiety attacks, in a little white box secured with a red ribbon. They were special to me. They had the power to make it all stop. Just one of those, and I’d be out in 15 minutes, no matter how much I tried to fight it. I’d be gone for 12 hours minimum, experiencing no dreams, just void—a temporary death. Then I’d wake up in a haze, too groggy to worry about anything else, slowly making my way to the bathroom to pee before getting back into bed. The only energy I ever had was for maintaining minimal hygiene. I always found the strength to brush my teeth and shower because feeling unclean meant I couldn’t fully and comfortably go back to sleep.

Once I was up, I’d do any remote copywriting I had to do because it was the only way I could afford to rot there. If I wanted to stay in bed, I made sure I didn’t have to leave it and could upkeep the bare minimum of my responsibilities. Then I’d watch movies. I liked the ones that made me dream a little, made me feel like I was living through the characters I was watching, helping me strip away any guilt that could arise from choosing to wither away this way. Vicky, Christina, Barcelona was a good one, I too wanted to be in a throuple with Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz. Either that or rewatching the same three comic American TV shows with super bright colours to trick my brain into thinking I was in a good mood. How could you ever be sad watching Tina Belcher be Tina Belcher? But suddenly, the monstrous amount of screen time would make me physically nauseous, and I’d realise that the air in my room was awfully thick and stuffy, making it hard for me to breathe. It had been a couple of days of me lying in there; it was bound to happen. But it was already nighttime, meaning my friends were probably off work, so I’d guess I’d join them at the bar.

I’d try my best to look put together. I’d do a little bit of makeup and stick to my basic outfit, which was a pair of man jeans, a Uniqlo sweater, my Superpuff, and my Uggs. I’d walk out with just my cardholder, my keys, and my phone because a bag would annoy me. The first step outside is glorious. The first seconds of ice-cold air violating my skin are what I imagine the first line of coke feels like for a coke addict who hasn’t had one in a few days. It wakes me up and gives me a little bit of energy. I put my headphones in, listen to the same songs I’ve been listening to for years, and make my way to the metro station. Sometimes, the homeless guy that lives in front of my building is there, playing on his phone in his tent. I’ve never said hi to him, but when I come home drunk at night, I politely smile in hopes that my kindness will prevent him from wanting to hurt me—not because he’s homeless but because he’s a man. 

Boulevard Voltaire is never crowded at this time. I watch the people relieved they are getting off work, stopping by the grocery stores or the Chinese spot for those not in the mood to cook. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’ll witness all the yellow streetlights light up all at the same time. I take the stairs and buy a ticket at the machine. You’d think I’d have a monthly pass because I live in the city, but I don’t like to commit to these things. Sometimes I have a spare, so I do not have to get one. I look at the digital time board to see when the next train is coming. I am overcome with joy when I see “1 minute” and always run to the platform because one thing I do not like is waiting for the metro. The bright light and the sudden heat overstimulate me every time, but it’s only five stops, I tell myself, and I’ll be able to have that first sip of alcohol that’ll soothe me. I think it’s the closest thing to having a bottle as a baby. 

I wonder if my crush is going to be there this time. I always kind of hope he’ll be there because maybe he’ll take me home again, and I’ll get to sleep in his bed and pretend we’re in love. I don’t think too much about how I’ll feel like shit afterward. It would just be nice to be held and feel worthy because nothing else makes me feel that way. As I approach the crowded bar, I see the faces I am most familiar with, and I feel some type of comfort. There is no small talk to be had, no “hi, how are you’s,” no weather bullshit. Just straight to the point, like seeing your siblings after school. No mask to keep up. We are seated fairly quickly; we are regulars, and the staff knows us. We sit in the cold, huddled up, and are served the drinks I had been craving. We talk about everything—or shall I say, everyone—and the conversation is seamless. I do not feel like expressing the fact that mentally, I am down bad again. To be honest, it wouldn’t be news; it happens to me a lot, and they know it.

My crush isn’t there. He usually rarely is. But sometimes, the man a decade older than me that I had slept with on a few occasions stops by. We pretend we do not know each other, but if we are put in a situation where we have to acknowledge each other, we’d say hi like two colleagues. He never stays very long—usually there for a quick drink before he goes off to dinner. If it’s later, maybe a nightcap. Sometimes, when he leaves, I’d text him, and he’d ask me to come over to his flat, an eight-minute walk. So I’d walk the eight minutes, type in the code because I already know what it is, knock on his door, and barely talk to him before he strips me naked in the middle of his living room. Then he fucks me on his couch—very rarely on the bed. I think maybe he believes I’m not worth changing the sheets for. And that would last 20 minutes maximum. 20 minutes of mediocre sex because he is so very well-endowed it just straight-up hurts. He fucks me like they do in the hardcore movies—it’s mechanical, there’s no intimacy, but it just fills the void. I am unable to think about anything else, and that is a form of relief. I never finish. I make my way to the bathroom to clean myself up, get dressed, and stay just a little to be polite. I know he is also trying to be, but we both just want me to leave. Maybe a part of me sometimes wants him to want me to stay but that never happens. So as soon as the five minutes of small talk end, I run out the door. I feel nothing. Sometimes my friends would still be at the bar, so I’d join them again. If not, I’d walk back home. There I undress again, and shower. In hopes it’ll make me feel less like a slut. Suddenly, I am overwhelmed with hunger and I make my way to the kitchen where I stuff my face. I can’t stop, it’s like a gaping hole that can never been filled. I eat and eat and eat standing up. Until I am in physical pain. And if I weren’t so afraid of vomit, I’d probably already be on my knees for the second time that night but this time over the toilet bowl, emptying myself. But instead, I lay in bed in pain from all the food but am also experiencing a weird calm. I stay up until early in the morning, watching whatever show I am hyper fixating on at that moment, late enough so that I can make sure that I wake up too late the next day to fulfil any obligations. By the time I open my eyes, it is late in the afternoon and if I’m even luckier it’s a late Friday afternoon meaning that I get to go out and be with my friends again and it’ll be a guilt-free pass to drink a lot and stay up late. I sit on the couch, scrolling on my phone, I find that it was the fastest way to kill time. I sit in whatever I slept in the night before, before hopping into the shower and getting ready. I’ve been looking ugly all week, so I do my big one and do a full face of makeup and make sure to wear an outfit I feel fuckable in, without it being too obvious. It could be a blouse buttoned down or a pair of trousers that I know makes my bum look nice. However I don’t intend to go home with anyone. Then I do the same route I did the night before, I can feel people staring on the train, I usually am looking good so I don’t blame them. 

Back at the same bar, and oddly enough, it never gets old. I high-five the owner, he compliments me, and I make my way to my friends. We drink, we laugh, and soon I’m itching for a cigarette I never have. So, as always, I steal one from Alex, who kindly says yes every single time. That first nicotine hit sends me over the edge—now I’m drunk. And when I’m drunk, I beg my friends to go to Belleville, to a dive bar called BootyShakers.  

It’s a grimy spot with sticky floors and an odd demographic. Most of the crowd is in their 30s, and we’re usually the youngest ones there. But their resident DJ, a middle-aged man, spins an eclectic mix of songs that somehow keeps me dancing. Random genres, unexpected transitions—yet it all just works. On the rare nights I convince my friends to go, we make a beeline for the bar to order Get27 shots, a minty liqueur that tastes like mouthwash. Four shots each, downed quickly. After that, I stick to vodka sodas, which I drink way too fast.  

Then comes the dancing—always in a circle, lost in the sweaty chaos. At some point, I look up to catch my breath and, inevitably, my eyes land on my ex-boyfriend’s and I’s initials on one of the walls. He wrote them on my birthday, during a night that felt like our own little world. UK drum and bass blasted through the speakers as he climbed up with a marker he always carried. “I love you,” he said, and in that moment, I thought forever might actually be real.  

I stare at the initials, remembering how it felt, and sadness creeps in. I snap out of it, shaking off the memory, and throw myself back into dancing.  

By the time the music stops and the bar closes, I’m stumbling into the cold air outside. We smoke one last cigarette before the bouncers shoo us across the street to avoid noise complaints. And, without fail, I suggest we egg my ex-boyfriend’s window—because he lives next door. “For the plot,” I say every time. My friends have to physically drag me away, insisting I’ll regret it in the morning. But I know I wouldn’t.  

I love imagining him struggling to clean the eggs off his pristine French windows, the clean freak that he is. The smell of yolk slowly invading his perfect room. The same room I helped him move into with his mother. I wonder if the coffee stain on his mattress that I made is still there. Does he think about me when he sees it, while changing the sheets with his new lady friends?

We’d stand there, still full of adrenaline and energy, wondering what else we could do, before ultimately agreeing that there was, in fact, nothing left to do. So we’d start making our way home toward the eleventh, going down the hill of Rue de Belleville, lined with shopfronts opened by hardworking immigrants. Their creative names and interesting font choices always caught my attention. When we finally reached République, I’d feel a pang of sadness, knowing it meant I’d be home soon. We’d stop in front of Ruby’s first to hug Alex goodbye before he continued his journey into the Marais. Ruby would wait with me until my cab arrived—she never liked me walking home alone late at night. I hated ordering Ubers, but I did it when I had no choice.  When the car arrived, I’d hop in, greeting the driver as Ruby called out, “Text me when you get home!” I never did. I usually struck up a conversation with the driver—it was the only interaction I’d have with a stranger for a while. We’d always end up talking about the same three things: Hidalgo and her “stupid” city plans, God, and the importance of freedom. Cab drivers, I’ve found, value freedom above all else.  If the driver was Muslim, they’d often ask if I was too, once they figured out I was Indonesian. I’d say yes, adding, “but I’m a bad one.”When they dropped me off in front of my building, some noticed the tent where the homeless man slept. They’d wait until I was safely at my door before driving away. I’d try to be as quiet as possible, gently closing the car door and tiptoeing to avoid waking him—because he, too, deserves a good night’s sleep.  Then the cycle continued. I’d wake up on Saturdays with a massive hangover, treating it as though I were truly sick. It gave me an excuse to “rest,” ignoring that this was entirely self-inflicted. After all, sick people deserve to rest when they’re not feeling well.  

So I’d lie there, binge-watch something again. Anxiety would creep in, thanks to the liquor from BootyShakers and the fact that I am no longer 17 years old. I’d take a magic pill to calm myself and sleep for what felt like forever, waking up only when it was Sunday again.  

On Sundays I usually meet Ruby for our late afternoon walks, which often happen when one of us has something weighing on our mind. Together, we gently unravel these thoughts, carefully analysing them, each as invested as the other. Our struggles feel shared: what she feels, I feel, and what I feel, she feels.  Our philosophical walks begin at her flat in the 11th, winding through the Marais and leading to the river. We stroll side by side, her blue eyes with their perpetually dilated pupils glowing under the warm orange hues of the setting sun. Her hair floats in the fresh breeze, mirroring the gentle dance of the leaves on the trees by the Seine.  Sometimes, we cry—timidly, hoping passersby don’t notice. The other discreetly strokes an arm in quiet comfort, careful not to draw attention, knowing neither of us would want that. Then if we’re not too broke we’d get some dinner together or she’d cook for me as we watch something. I then find the strength to go home, usually by foot and I take the long way because I love the calm that reigns the city on Sundays. I can think clearly and I finally take the time to process what it is I am going through because I know that the whole week ahead will be a blur once again. 

I was always miserable whenever I turned into Pillow Princess—there’s no doubt about that. Yet, I can’t help but romanticise those moments in my life. There was something cinematic about them: a helpless young woman, tortured by her own thoughts, in desperate need of a savior. I spent so much time pitying myself, hoping someone would find it endearing that I was so miserable.  No one did, and no one ever will. It only put me in vulnerable positions, opening myself up to the wrong people. It’s pathetic. I have no doubt I was mentally unwell—you have to be, I think, to act that way. But I was also being a coward.  Still, there are moments when I miss being her. Yes, it was pathetic, but at least I knew where I was headed. Everything was predictable. I wasn’t failing because I wasn’t good enough—I failed because I chose to. It was my decision, my control. There were no daily battles to be better, no constant effort to avoid letting myself down.  It takes so much energy to show up for yourself when you’ve spent years believing you don’t deserve it.

Pillow Princess still shows up now and then, but she doesn’t stay very long anymore. I think she’s getting bored. Maybe she’s starting to yearn for better things.  

Bali, January 2025