The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Everybody needs a little time away

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It does the soul good to take some time alone, I think.

That said, I’m not the biggest fan of solitude. What it does, at first, is purge all the tension from the interactions I’ve had with other people, leaving me feeling clear-headed and focused. I clean things, then, scouring countertops and pulling sheets until they are quarter-ready, and I light candles and polish windows. I always feel spectacular when I’ve finished, too. It’s when I’m done, when the sparkle fades in the looming darkness, that a new kind of tension whelms me.

I feel alone, unloved and invisible and the silence muffles the good thinking. My mind travels back to unfavourable moments, and I loop them over and over until I think I might go mad. Sometimes, I lose myself in a film, or a book, or on a good day, in writing, but most of the time I am lost in the thick of self-loathing, wondering why it matters so much that the mirrors are shiny and perfect. I project into the future, seeing myself surrounded by hungry cats who pretend to love me, but are waiting for me to collapse in a heap on the floor, a mountain of premium grade cat chow. I will have been white-haired with swollen ankles, wearing the same damn sweater, day after day until it’s all over and the cats pull at the buttons.

What? Am I the only one?

There are other moments, too, when the solitude is far too beautiful for any kind of movement. Lying across the bed, with the window cracked wide open, and the soft wind coming through, lulling me to sleep. I could lose entire afternoons to this, and have. There is also the bathtub, with a good book and glass of wine and music coming from somewhere. The water calms me, especially when it’s hot, and I rarely go to the bother of bubbles. I also like to eat something decadent alone. There’s more pleasure in it, for me. I take small bites and I let the chocolate, or the cheese or the whatever, roll on my tongue until I’m done with it.

My stranger habits are more likely to come out when I’m alone as well, like the way I talk to myself (I recommend this, it’s therapeutic, especially when you experiment with different accents), or attempt find a way to speak to the dead (grandma? if you’re there, give me a sign). I pray, sometimes, always feeling self-conscious about whether or not someone is actually listening, and whether or not my prayer is silly and frivolous (please God, make him love me!). There are also the impromptu Dixie Chick or Tori Amos concerts, with muddled words and loads of awkward humming until I get to the chorus. No matter, I think, no one but me hears it, and I am fabulous. I dip apple wedges into the peanut butter, and eat ice-cream from the carton. I dance to loud music until the furniture looks to topple. I talk about sex with my friends on the phone (I had no idea until last night that men could be multi-orgasmic). I watch graphic films and I leave the bathroom door open when I’m in there. I study my face, my hair and body, sometimes thrilled with what I see, and other times, not so thrilled. I stand in his office, knowing it is forbidden territory, but I touch nothing. Just being in there feels rebellious enough. Sometimes, though, I go to the basement and I look at his old pictures, the ones with the images of old girlfriends or his ex-wife, and I let myself react to them. If it’s an invasion, I am sorry, but when I’m alone I cannot resist.

Mostly, though, I am happy to know there are others in the room next to this one, and I like to hear their movements, their throat-clearing, their thumps and bumps. While I cherish the easy silence of aloneness, I am more comforted by knowing it won’t go on forever.