It is not remotely unusual for me to spend up to twenty-three hours alone most days. Not only that, but it’s also not unusual on those marathon alone days to spend the bulk of my time in bed. I am not unaware that this behavior could and would easily be pathologized by some experts somewhere who insist I get to the root of this chronic self-isolation.
In my head, when I argue with these imagined experts, I point to Brian Wilson, random parable hermit monks, and the grandparents in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Granted BW was a mess, monks don’t stay in bed, and the grandparents had each other. But there’s enough isolation in those stories to console me.
Last week, during one of my long stretches in bed, a plausible explanation arose for my need to be away from most people most of the time. There are contributing factors: age has slowed me down and lockdown got me in the habit of never going anywhere except out to get yet another booster shot and then home again to wait for the next booster to arrive. At least that’s how it feels.
But looking back much, much further, my obsession with being alone, preferably in tiny spaces, dates back to the ‘70s when I got my first taste of this heretofore unknown emotional delicacy. For not until I was a teenager was I assigned my own room for the first time and, not only that, it was one of only a couple of rooms in the entire house that had a door.
Prior to inheriting this room when one of my older sisters moved out, and because I have eight siblings, I always had to share my space with someone else. Only it didn’t feel like sharing because the situation was imposed upon us sans choice.
I think the lack of doors may have been about monitoring us. My parents had so many truly odd rules, restrictions, beliefs and behaviors that there was no way to keep track of which bizarre commands were connected to which fucked up mythologies they held about life and parenting. For example, on the very, very rare occasions we were allowed to go visit a friend, there was this rule—just remembering it I think, ‘This cannot be true,’ though I know it was—-we were never, ever to use the bathroom at another’s house. As for our own bathroom—nine of us kids shared one bathroom—showers were forbidden. Years after I escaped that crazy house I began to wonder if maybe this latter rule was to prevent us good Catholic girls from accidentally getting impure thoughts from droplets of water raining down on the little man in the boat.
My first very own bedroom to myself was perhaps ten feet by ten feet. Very much like a cell, its contents were sparse. A crappy mattress ensconced in a casket-like box my sister had herself made with scraps of lumber. Probably a dresser. What else? The only other thing I can see is my clock radio, which saved my life, as I listened perpetually to WMMR and sometimes WYSP in Philadelphia, absorbing the messages of Springsteen and Elvis Costello and the Clash and The Who and so many other bands clueing me into a much bigger world waiting for me out there.
This room is also where I drank in peace, beginning at fourteen. I would pilfer scotch from my parents’ stash, spirit it to my room cleverly disguised in old vitamin bottles. I’d do shots and listen to the Stones remind me that I couldn’t always get what I wanted, but one of these days I would get what I needed.
I would absolutely throw myself into my homework, which I loved, because I was very smart (save for the part I let the adults convince me I was not), and because the learning and the booze were the best escapes from the violence and chaos happening just beyond my beloved door. I was never lonely with my booze and my books. In fact, I preferred things that way.
I did get out of that room, that house, that town, that state when I ran away at 18. I’ve been gone forty years now. I heeded the radio advice. I saw the world. My mind was sufficiently blown on countless occasions as I flitted from Mexico to Canada to Japan, Israel, Argentina, France, England and all over the US. When lockdown made me stop and be still, like Max with the monsters in Where the Wild Things Are, after a good stretch of stillness, it dawned on me that wherever I go—to visit or to live—I am happiest in the smallest setting available. In London I always stay at the same tiny hotel in the same tiny room because it is like a dog crate. I can see everything. This makes me feel safe.
Until I got my tiny house and moved it into the cow pasture, whereupon it immediately became my favorite place to dwell, the longstanding record for My Favorite Place in the World was held by a little garage apartment in Galveston, in the backyard of my college roommate and her husband. I’ve been spending holidays in that bright tiny space for decades and the minute I climb the narrow staircase my entire being exhales. As with my other favorite places, here I can see the entirety of my surroundings, which is no small thing for one who suffers from hyper-vigilance.
Given my brief and limited forays into the world in the past 2.5 years—am I the only one still locking down?—the empirical evidence I have unwittingly gathered feeds my notion that being alone is the way to go. Yes, I am well aware of and agree with the idea that we humans need connection. I maintain connection with a very small group of friends on a very regular basis. But the part of me that used to be able to go out into the world and be friendly with some measure of ease seems to have left the building.
The other day, I went to get what seemed like my twentieth booster. Mostly because I am, or try to be, a nice person out in the world, but also based on my previous booster experience, I approached the situation with caution and resolve. That penultimate jab at the hands of an incredibly bitchy pharmacist who, as the needle was literally a half-inch from my arm, said to me, “Well maybe I just won’t give you a shot,” had taken a toll. In that exchange, as if out of body, I had watched the two of us have a most unenthusiastic disagreement in which, it felt to me, we were reading from a tired old script whose underpinnings rested upon two burnt out humans going through the motions of pretending to hate each other, though in reality neither could muster the proper energy for the gig.
This time around, reminding myself that pharmacists are burnt out, I vowed to be kind no matter what. The guy looked at me blankly when I asked how his day was. He looked at me blankly when I thanked him for the shot, administered wordlessly. His resentment—not at me but at life—was palpable. And I realized that I have grown so accustomed to this unnerving, ubiquitous rage out in the world that, at long last, I don’t even fight it anymore. I just walked away.
A recent (to me anyway) trend in pop psychology is to examine this thing called Hyper Independence, which is labeled as a negative thing, a trauma response. It’s said to be caused by small children being forced into roles far beyond their ability—say, having to raise five younger siblings as I was—disallowed to have genuine childlike experiences. Worse, that they (we) may not have needs and that if we dare to try, we will fast learn no one will meet those needs. So we grow up to push everyone away, convinced we must do everything for ourselves.
Hey, I’ll cop to suffering that syndrome. For while the list of people who have loved, helped, and encouraged me (and continue to do so) is far, far longer than the list of jerks, I’ve reached a point where I avoid conflict as best as I can. Relative to others, maybe I’m not progressing much. But relative to my personal prior experience, currently I find that the philosophy that best applies to me relates to Bukowski’s quote about not hating people, but much preferring when they aren’t around.
I’m well aware of the fact that what happened to me in Shitville has gone a long way toward my choice to stay locked away. Sometimes I say I was driven out of that town. Other times, with stubborn pride, I say I left of my own volition. The truth is that living in that racist, homophobic, utterly cruel hamlet, and being assaulted every single fucking day by a group of people who deemed me unworthy of existing, really took it out of me.
As I sit at home alone and think about the hurt, I realize that what made living among those hateful people so painful had far less to do with me as an individual. To be certain, it is incredibly taxing on a personal level to wake up every morning knowing that before sunset someone will be threatening murder, vandalizing one’s property, spreading rumors, etc. Even if I hadn’t arrived in town with PTSD, I certainly would have exited that way. As it happened, since I did have PTSD, since I do have it, living amongst so many proud bullies truly broke something in me.
What it broke was not my personal spirit. Having grown up being abused on a daily basis, I am one of the strongest survivors I know. It took me as many months being back at the ranch as I was in Shitville to get to a place of calm contentment. This condition rests heavily on staying away from people. For that is what brought me down the most in that stupid little town. Not that “they” were attacking “me” but that “they” delight in attacking, period. That is what they live for—to isolate, prey upon and crush anyone who they perceive to be different. I just happened to be a handy target. I’m gone. I’m sure there is someone else now.
Today, for the second time in four days, and perhaps the sixth time in more than three months, I am going to get up, put on clothes, and venture out into the world, I have chosen my itinerary carefully: tacos, tattoo, friend visit. A perfect Self-Care Monday. I am going to be as nice as I can be and see what happens. Then I am going to come home and get in bed. Possibly for a very long time.
I am curious—because I very much want this forum to be a place for conversation—to hear how lockdown has changed how you are out in the world. Do you go out in public? Do you stay home? Do people get on your nerves like never before? Or are you out there living life like nothing has changed?
NOTE: Over at SconeCrone.com/register you can find a list of classes I’m offering starting later this month. On Saturdays in September as well as Oct 1st, there is Yoga & Scones for Ladies at 10 am at the ranch. We hang out afterwards and make art. It’s really fun. Join us. I’m going to start baking again in a week or two. If you want to receive ordering updates, sign up for the newsletter at sconecrone.com. And finally, thank you very, very much for subscribing. As this little experiment progresses, if ever you feel inclined to switch to a paid subscription or throw a few shekels in the tip jar, I would be most grateful. Thanks and Happy Self-Care Monday!