It is winter and I am holed up in a hotel room, writing.
More and more lately, this is where you can find me. There is both a good and a bad to this. I’ve long known this was the life I was supposed to lead. I tried really hard to set up a home and be that kind of woman, but it just never took.
The desperation that domesticity inspires in me is best portrayed by characters in stories like The Yellow Wallpaper, Wide Sargossa Sea, A Room of One’s Own.
I’m romanticizing it, romanticizing myself, my own experience. Of course I am. It’s what I do. Want to know why?
Because I am so fucking ridiculously and endlessly in love with myself. The unique gift of my solitary mind.
There’s a whole landscape in here that others will never know. And it is by its rich, dark soil that I’m held voluntary captive.
(What narcissism, I’m aware. I’ve no defense; let’s just move on.)
Until recently, I always assumed that my run-away tendencies were fueled by an unwillingness to participate in bonded life. That I found catastrophic fulfillment in the sharp precision of relationships torn asunder.
And even now, I don’t want to undermine that sentiment.
(The words themselves still make me breathless.)
But anymore, I’ve become so calculated in my relationships that there is no one left from whom I need to take flight.
I’ve overturned my own fear.
Only to find that the safety of a home, even the one I’ve created myself, feels like a suffocating condemnation (an airless chamber, a tomb).
Despite everything—the growth, the strength, the years—I am still the child that wants to sneak out of her dark window at night.
Truth be told, I think it might be growing even more extreme with age.
As if it’s the one weapon I’ve left to stave off my own death.