Home alone
My sweetie has left me for the day/night (and taken the step-monkeys with him) and I am home alone. I'm almost never home alone any more, at least not at night and not for hours and hours. The house feels quiet and I'm finding myself spooking easily and pushing open the blinds to check every strange noise. I feel a little lonely and I can't help but think about what my life was like when I was always alone.
Before I met Mr. Monkey (thanks again to Rie and the Abstract Gecko for making that happen) I lived by myself in a series of crappy apartments in sometimes questionable complexes. I didn't miss having roommates, though I had loved my college roommates. I felt like living alone was an important thing to do, a necessary step in becoming a grown up. There were things I took real pleasure in during those years. I liked decorating for myself and watching whatever crappy TV show I wanted to. I really liked not having to clean up after any one but myself. My last crappy apartment was a little studio that I could, quite literally, clean from top to bottom in less than two hours. I slept in the middle of my queen sized bed and I never, ever made the bed in the morning. It was my space, completely.
I'll always be glad I lived by myself but the years that I was alone were, in many ways, a really tough time for me. I was lonely a lot and I was pretty thoroughly convinced I'd never meet someone who would love me. I felt fundamentally unworthy and I really didn't think I'd ever get married. I had a pretty serious eating disorder that living alone allowed me the privacy to get really, really dangerous with. I had a self-destructive streak that would, I think, surprise most people who know me now. It surprises me sometimes when I think about it. When I think about the years from about 20-25, I feel grief for that version of myself. I wish I could have known that things would get better, that I would get better (therapy can be a very, very good thing) and would, in time, meet the love of my life. I wish I had liked myself as much back then as I do now. I wish that I had trusted that other people would like me to.
There are days when I still don't feel comfortable in my own skin. There are days when I still think all of my problems or frustrations would be solved by being skinny. Sometimes I still worry that I'll be found out-that everyone who likes me will suddenly come to their senses and stop thinking I'm funny or nice or whatever they think I am. But those are just the bad days and not everyday and for that I am grateful. Tonight, though, as I sit in my house alone I can't help put think of all of the other Saturday nights I spent alone. I don't know that I've really made peace with that time yet.
My husband won't be home until late tonight, long after I've gone to bed. I suspect he'll find me sleeping in the middle of our queen size bed. He'll probably push me over and then, hopefully, curl next to me with his arm around my waist. We'll sleep curved like kidney beans and I know I'll be the last one to wake up tomorrow morning. The house will probably smell like sausage and toast and Mr. Monkey and the younger monkey son will be fighting about the merits of watching football versus Sponge Bob on TV. This is a normal Sunday morning. This is the life I wished for back in those crappy apartments. I know I won't be lonely in the morning but a part of me wants to hold on to what I'm feeling tonight. I guess that's why I'm writing tonight. I want to remember that sometimes the past isn't quiet or distant.
Before I met Mr. Monkey (thanks again to Rie and the Abstract Gecko for making that happen) I lived by myself in a series of crappy apartments in sometimes questionable complexes. I didn't miss having roommates, though I had loved my college roommates. I felt like living alone was an important thing to do, a necessary step in becoming a grown up. There were things I took real pleasure in during those years. I liked decorating for myself and watching whatever crappy TV show I wanted to. I really liked not having to clean up after any one but myself. My last crappy apartment was a little studio that I could, quite literally, clean from top to bottom in less than two hours. I slept in the middle of my queen sized bed and I never, ever made the bed in the morning. It was my space, completely.
I'll always be glad I lived by myself but the years that I was alone were, in many ways, a really tough time for me. I was lonely a lot and I was pretty thoroughly convinced I'd never meet someone who would love me. I felt fundamentally unworthy and I really didn't think I'd ever get married. I had a pretty serious eating disorder that living alone allowed me the privacy to get really, really dangerous with. I had a self-destructive streak that would, I think, surprise most people who know me now. It surprises me sometimes when I think about it. When I think about the years from about 20-25, I feel grief for that version of myself. I wish I could have known that things would get better, that I would get better (therapy can be a very, very good thing) and would, in time, meet the love of my life. I wish I had liked myself as much back then as I do now. I wish that I had trusted that other people would like me to.
There are days when I still don't feel comfortable in my own skin. There are days when I still think all of my problems or frustrations would be solved by being skinny. Sometimes I still worry that I'll be found out-that everyone who likes me will suddenly come to their senses and stop thinking I'm funny or nice or whatever they think I am. But those are just the bad days and not everyday and for that I am grateful. Tonight, though, as I sit in my house alone I can't help put think of all of the other Saturday nights I spent alone. I don't know that I've really made peace with that time yet.
My husband won't be home until late tonight, long after I've gone to bed. I suspect he'll find me sleeping in the middle of our queen size bed. He'll probably push me over and then, hopefully, curl next to me with his arm around my waist. We'll sleep curved like kidney beans and I know I'll be the last one to wake up tomorrow morning. The house will probably smell like sausage and toast and Mr. Monkey and the younger monkey son will be fighting about the merits of watching football versus Sponge Bob on TV. This is a normal Sunday morning. This is the life I wished for back in those crappy apartments. I know I won't be lonely in the morning but a part of me wants to hold on to what I'm feeling tonight. I guess that's why I'm writing tonight. I want to remember that sometimes the past isn't quiet or distant.
posted by Mrs.Robinson at
7:03 PM
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