hermittown's slogan: "where it's all about you."

I have always had some difficulty in making myself leave my house.  It worsens for awhile, and then tapers off.  But it's been a part of my arduous daily self-analyzation since -- well, honestly, I can't remember when it began.  In my teens, that's the first impulse I'm led to think; but then, when I really tilt my head to one side and narrow my eyes and consider it, I kind of recall it being there longer than that.

*shrugs*

Anyway, I don't like it, I struggle with it, but it's been more or less a hurdle for me for a long while, and was one of the lesser reasons that I was afraid to have a kid.  I was fearful that it would interfere with my provision of a normal, healthy social experience for him. 

I had such good excuses to pretend to myself that it wasn't skulking in my emotional closet, either, for some time during my son's earlier months of life.  After all, any new mom knows how difficult it can be to deal with a two-nap schedule that also entails pooping, breastfeeding, spit-up and the requisite costume changes and sometimes bedding and linen detail that involves every layer of the bedding (we're talking duvet, comforter, sheets, blankets, and matress pad, and sometimes even a pillow or two, not to mention the cases - that's a lotta laundry, people.  That's a full day of remembering to stay on top of the washing machine's cycles and the dryer's crappy behavior).  Oh, and even a meal or two for yourself squeezed in there, and maybe a visit to the bathroom if you're lucky. 

Which leaves you with no need to be concerned that having remained ensconsed within the walls of your abode for sometimes more than a week at a time is not a result of your fear of seeing the other side of those walls.

Now, though, my excuses are revealing themselves to me through the fast-becoming-ragged resemblance to the former schedule; my kid only takes one nap a day, and his non-nap, non-nightime-sleep periods are pretty damn lengthy.  We have time, a lot of it, with which to spend traveling to places far removed from this home's geographical position.

And I'm hearing the excuses when I explain painstakingly to my husband and friends the numerous reasons why we didn't go anywhere again today.  Why the sun and bright blue, limpid heavens and vividly contrasting reds, oranges, sages, browns that dress the vast array of trees, thrown grandly against that blue expanse, haven't tempted me out of doors, towing my son along in his red wagon, gleefully banging on its shiny metal bottom, clapping his hands and shouting, "app-o!  app-o!"  and "buh!" at the various creatures scurrying and flitting about; when I know how much joy it would give him.

Excuses as to why I haven't been trying to patch together a network of people like me, people who have young kids, whose kids aren't in a daycare of any kind, kids who need social interaction with other kids. 

I don't make the excuses to other people very often, because the people in my life don't realize that I am afflicted with this fear of the -- of the outside place.  The place where there are other people.  Where I must talk, and then the talking takes over, the on-switch I am so familiar with, its having been placed clearly, and with good, obvious signage; but the off-switch?  I can't discover its whereabouts until I've traipsed down into the musty cellar, knocking over bits of flotsam and boxes and an old, unstrung guitar that clatters loudly into a shelf and a jar of ancient canned pears flies off and hits me on the shoulder, then breaks into a thousand gooey pieces on my new-ish shoe, and I *still* haven't found the damn switch, and the person/people listening to the play-by-play of the cellar scenario are lost.  Damn lost.  But then I accidentally run into the chain for the old lightbulb, the one that links to the trigger for damning up the flow of my verbosity, I tell everyone while I smile with my coffee-stained teeth on full wattage, which happens to be at about 25 watts these days, and suddenly the flow ceases.  I shut off.  It's abrupt.  It's unsettling.  I can't understand why I have groped, not only for the switch, but also for a decent fucking segue, and my fingers have found only dirt and some dog hair.

And if I'm not talking, I'm absorbing, I'm sucking into my head and my eyes the full, fascinating feast of stories on display in the tableau of vivid life spread out around me, even when I'm safe in my car, tucked cozily, with the radio blapping and squawking and my son chattering and "brrrrrr"ing and I see that old man, the one with his hand trembling as he tries to open the door to the county facility that I'm passing on my right, why is he trembling?  Is it because he just heard that his old friend from days gone by has become a victim of any number of the diseases we face in our later years?  Is he simply trembling because his own health is failing him?  And what about that woman who pushed through the door, passing him, too rapidly to see that she could've aided his passage through the entrance that was clearly difficult, heavy, causing him to tremble?  And there's that fantastic statue, it always reminds me of that night when I was drunk and the temperature had dropped so quickly and my friend's car went a little out of control, skidding on the bridge where tiny crystals of ice had formed on its surface but giving no warning glint in the dull light of the city's street lamps, that was scary!, but we had laughed, drunkenly, and to think of all the times when I lived so carelessly, not heeding any of the warnings, subtle and strong, because I didn't want to live past that time, wanted desperately for some random act of carelessness to hurl me into a different place, away from this one where souls pulsate and dance right in front of you, near you, they reach out and press themselves so rudely against your own, when you want nothing of that interaction.  When you want no knowledge of the pain of existence, because pain it is, whether pain resulting from the awfulness of raw flesh-on-air life, or from the encounter with hard, gaping beauty that scrapes you and leaves you bloodied and cut away and your lungs are half-revealed and the cillia wriggles helplessly against the oxygen, it wriggles red and shimmering, there is bile and anger and emptiness.

I hate going outside. 

I love feeling everything that is outside, I love it too much.  There is bile and anger and emptiness, it is post-coital and the cigarette tastes dank and bitter and forces a headache up around the base of the skull, and does not remove the bile or the anger, but only multiplies it, and you stomp around trying to shake off the feeling so as to not throw up *again*,

and then you remember you're going to see The Decemberists tonight.  And you smile, even though it means leaving the house.

After all, it'll be pretty dark outside by then.  And that's a relief.

Comments

[Mrs. Chicky]

I'm telling you, you and I were separated at birth. But I never could have said that as well as you. I would have said something like "Outside, bad. Inside on couch, good. People, bad. People on television, good.". You get my drift, right?

Have fun tonight! Wear cute shoes, it'll make you feel better.

[toyfoto]

While I don't have the same problem, I still have the problem thanks to combination fear and laziness. Do I want to deal with the tempertantrum, the refusal to leave a place, the refusal to sit in the stroller, walk on the sidewalk or cross the street while holding my hand? No. I am tired, and the laundry needs doing.

[jozet]

Damn! Damn!!!!

Hey...hey...tell you what...hey...

move nextdoor to me.

Or I'll move nextdoor to you.

We could talk to each other morse-code like with flashlights at night. Walkie-talkies!

omg...I would put up a clothesline and do laundry all day long just to talk to you and listen to you talk!

[Lotta]

I fully understand and I suffer from the "Just as soon as my house is totally in order I can go out". And of course, it never is!

[Bobita]

Inside feels safer most of the time. I call my inside days "pajama days." That way the kids think it is something special. What? Candy coating it? Heh.

[qt]

*whether pain resulting from the awfulness of raw flesh-on-air life, or from the encounter with hard, gaping beauty that scrapes you and leaves you bloodied and cut away*

I don't have your problem every day, but when I do the above is why. Sometimes I go outside and it is so beautiful I cry. The BF thinks I'm nuts. At least you understand.

PS - You will have to leave your house to pick me up at the train station, m'kay?

[something blue]

Sometimes social interaction is too much to bear while at other times it can make life so precious and worthwhile.

I have days when it is hard to get dressed. Yet I find myself, usually at dusk breathing in the brisk, polluted air, while taking in the multicolored sky, strangers in a hurry, cars zooming by and I think it is great to be alive.

You don't need to make excuses for being you. I'm sure the people who love you wouldn't change you for the world. I know I wouldn't.

[Andrea]

If you talk like you write, then I'll listen all day long.

[julia]

You describe how I feel most days. Even going out into the back yard paralyzes me sometimes. Inside is where no one can see me.

I really love reading what you have to say. It's not always easy to read, but it always makes me think and feel. I'm glad you're not going away completely, and I, for one, will still read your stuff, whenever you write it.

[dodo]

I think i know this feeling. if its the one where the feel of the air, the sight of trees, shoppers, buildings, ducks waddling along the ponds edge brings a lump to the throat or tear to the eye. if it's when someone randomly calls at the house, for a charity colection of package delivery, and you are afraid to go to the door, stand very still and hope they go away soon, and that you're not visible through the glass in the door. Or worse, you answer the door, and your jaw flaps about but no sound comes out. Or you do that nervous laugh thing followed by high speed high octane lord-knows-where-that-came-from verbal diarrhoea.
And when there's a chink in the making excuses for yourself. legitimate excuses. dozens of them. there's a very quiet voice tellign you that you know the longer you leave it, the worse its going to get. psyche yourself up, put your coat and shoes on, make up even, then only make it to the hallway and cry. Then beat yourself up some more. Cook more and more elaborate time consuming dinners and desserts. Iron underwear.

once, finding myself about to iron underwear actually helped because (warning: stress incontinence reference coming up) suddenly another self popped out in parallel and saw what i was doing.
I laughed and cried so hard i pee-d my pants. Because this necessitated a shower and a change, I didn't stop. I showered, changed, put on my shoes, grabbed the offspring and my keys and went out. Only to the shop on the corner, and the offspring did all the talking, but its amazing how briefly proud of yourself you can feel.

[Deb]

If you and Mrs Chicky were separated at birth twins, then so are Bobita and I....I too call them Pajama Days and worry that my 5 yr old's speech problems are due to her lack of social interactions with other kids or people for that matter. I so struggle with this too....It seems many of us internet people do. I do exactly as you described, I call it fake conversations and then suddenly I lose my momentum and my mind goes blank. No longer am I willing to be fake and so....now I have awkward but real social interactions when I feel up to it. I am feeling better about it and the more I do it and see how happy my girlies are, the more motivated I am. Some days are dark indeed and I do dread this NW Winter.
awkward hugs to you for being brave and sharing

[Mignon]

Did they play 16 Military Wives? I love that song. La dee dah dee dah.

Perhaps it's the dank uninviting skies over Portland, effectively shoving you back inside if you even peak your head out the door... I remember that feeling. Get a little light box and some puppets. Problem solved!

[you da mom]

i feel the same way, as i'm sure many women do. i want everything to be perfect, and while it never is, i'm constantly striving to make it so. getting out and going places is sometimes such a chore, and i'm always so glad to be back home, to put my pajamas on and close the blinds!

[Lawyer Mama]

Damn, is right. I feel like that soooo often. I guess I'm lucky that it's not an every day thing with me, but I *definitely* understand what you mean. You said it so beautifully too.

[Izzy]

I always chalk my lack of interest in going places to social laziness since the birth of #2. But the talking? I don't know WHAT that is. I've even blogged about it...lol

All I can say is I dig what you're saying. Can relate. Wish we were neighbors. We could avoid the world together :)

Have a great time tonight!

[jen]

makes you want to run so wild you can never go back - and it's in the pause that you must contain yourself for fear of drowning. yep, i can relate.

[roo]

I think that was my old guitar in the cellar. Sorry about the shoes.

[nonlineargirl]

Does this mean I should not count on your carpooling to that book event?

[Mommy off the Record]

I often feel like I'd rather stay home than venture outdoors, but I have the opposite problem. I have trouble chatting it up with people. I wish I had the gift for gab. Maybe something in between our two extremes would be good.

I hope you had a good time on your night out.

[Kristen]

I've never heard anyone express this - I thought it was just me and my incessant weirdness. The talking, the off switch, the taking everything in, the pain and the beauty... yeah. I truly understand.

[Kevin Charnas]

Wow...I'm feeling rather speechless. So honest and palpable, although I'm not surprised by your candidness. I feel privleged for having read it. Thank you...

[Ruth Dynamite]

Who needs to go anywhere with an internal landscape like yours?

Alone time is good. Connection with others - even remotely by computer - is good too.