I grew up in a two bedroom house and we had eight kids. Everyone played an instrument or sang and it was pretty darned chaotic.
My poor brothers had a room that was actually made from making the one bathroom even smaller than it already was. There was room for a bunk bed and one dresser.
I shared a bedroom with my three sisters. There were two bunk beds and the hallway had a clothing rack from a defunct department store for our dresses and blouses. My mom took large Tide boxed and lined them with brown paper bags from the grocery and that was where we put our shorts and jeans and panties and, later, our bras. We each had two pair of shoes which were on the upper rack.
I had a lower bunk and that is where I read. Reading allowed me to escape for the noise and to travel to far away places. I’d go to the library a few times a week and I walked home carrying my all but one of my books on my head and that one book I would read while walking. Yes, I can still do it and I have excellent posture.
Part of the way home there was a large weeping willow. I’d go underneath it and no one knew I was there. I’d get lost in a book and it didn’t matter that the ground was hard or that I’d get in trouble for having grass stains on my school clothes.
To this day I still read in bed. I take a book with me wherever I go and I do read while sitting in a chair, but my focus is not the same and I don’t get lost in the story as I do when I am curled up in bed. I lived in Africa for two years and we slept outside on a mat and I’d use a flashlight to read even though it was truly the most uncomfortable place to sleep or to read.