i'm an adult and i can put books in my bathroom.

when i was a kid, my parents would keep old copies of reader's digest that my grandparents had already read and passed on in a basket on the toilet tank alongside the extra toilet paper. that and whatever paperback fantasy novel my mother was thumbing through at the time were my constant friends - magazines no one wanted and the novel sitting on the windowsill. 

yes, the window was right next to the toilet. i think of it as the ur-anti-modesty window: the window that flashes everyone in view. my parents have moved since then, and they have even upgraded: they now have a window directly INSIDE their shower. you'd better open it, too, otherwise you will get chewed out about mildew, as that shower window is the only ventilation in that bathroom. naturally, there's no window screen. you can reach outside, or inside, with no impediment at any time, especially not when scrubbing up in the tub. does the window lock? of course not. 

there was only one bathroom in my childhood home. really, it was my ancestral home, as my father and his mother before him had grown up there. the house had been built before indoor plumbing, so they retrofitted the old foyer with toilet, sink, and shower, and called it good work. 

the bathroom had three doors and none of them locked. those doors led into the dining room, the little bedroom under the stairs, and the staircase itself (this one with a foot high drop right off the second stair). the door to the outside had been fitted with the anti-modesty window and otherwise blocked off. when outside, you could see the outline of the old door frame in the siding.

no matter how many people the house was stuffed full with at the time, we still only had one bathroom. it was a constant battle. however, as a young child (and a precociously early reader), i learned one thing: no one bothers you when you're in the bathroom. they may bang on the door and tell you to get out, but as long as you don't hide in there during peak bathroom hours (i.e. right before bedtime), they won't actually barge in and drag you off the john. it was the only room that had doors in my house, even if those doors were threefold and swung open with a twist of the knob. they still closed. it was a place of quietude and sanctuary. 

i spent a lot of time just sitting there, pondering my mother's intricate paisley shower curtain. the other thing i did a lot of was reading. it was a well lit spot (thanks to the anti-modesty window). not only that, it was quiet, i was seated comfortably, and reading material was even provided. 

i found reader's digest fascinating. it was a look into the things the most boring adults out there found useful. it was a perfect window into the world that everyone expected me to know, but which i never got to go near. if it had also had explainers for spongebob episodes, i might have been able to get along with my peers more normally. instead, i had a mental database of jokes meant for retirement-age office workers. 

none of the places i lived in after moving out featured a commanding figure like my mother, someone who had total control over their surroundings because offenders would get a powerful tongue-lashing otherwise. my mother never feared that her book would grow legs and wander off the anti-modesty window's ledge. my mother never even feared that someone would question her judgement in leaving a book in shared space at all. it was her house, and her book lived next to the toilet, where i would read through it in one feverish sitting.

i'm 28 and today i realized that i never once considered leaving my own book next to my own toilet. i guess worries lived in my mind: what if it's in the way? what if someone gets it wet? what if someone gets mad and tells me to put that crap away? what if someone jumps straight to throwing it out?

?

who's that someone?

i still have housemates, and i even still share a bathroom with one, but i trust them. i don't live with people who pee on furniture as a last ditch effort of voicing their distress anymore. all the furniture in my bathroom is my own. i do all the cleaning. i buy the toilet paper and soap and toothpaste. but, deep down, i am still afraid of putting a precious, precious book in there. people will see it. they might get ideas. 

i have trouble reading books in my house. my eyesight is bad, my joints and muscles are bad, and leaning over a book physically hurts. i need a lamp to place behind my couch or something so i can see, plus some kind of contraption to hold the book up so the strain isn't in my shoulders. maybe something like that. i also need to move soon, and one more lamp is one more thing i have to move with, and people get mad at me for having things because i really, really like things, maybe too much. 

one thing i have is a bathroom i have carefully sculpted into a place of perfect hygiene safety. now, perched beside the toilet paper, there is volume 3 of tezuka's black jack stamped with PROPERTY OF CHICAGO LIBRARY. i just have to wait out the spike of panic whenever i think about it until my amygdala gets tired of reminding me that there's urgent danger. it might take a few books, seeing as i'm already halfway through this one and i've barely made a dent in unlearning the fear. 

with this, i can finally read paper books again.