Mild paranoia leading to thoughts of the Craigslist killer has prevented me from blogging about the uneasiness of living by myself. When the Love of My Life moved in, the tightness in my chest lifted and I was able to take an audible, relieving breath.
Although I try not to wake him up when my alarm sounds, my feet hit the carpet, the floor groans and he shifts in his sleep. The creaky stairs and sticky doors wake him up, lead him to the culprit (me) and a premature birthday surprise. These charms of an old home get even more fabulous when I am in a fight with him. The plaster walls block zero sound. How can I effectively sit in another room and pout when I can hear him sighing or clicking his Xbox controller? The sounds are amplified by how much I dislike him at the moment.
I crave the silence of true solitude. I fantasize about several hours alone, during which I focus on and clear away my circular, incessant ideas as I drift from one task to another. Or I can sit idly with no self-imposed obligations. Of course, there is a certain caliber of dancing and singing that can only be reached without the preoccupation of if/when another person will meander into the room or put his key in the door.
Unless the Love of My Life agrees with my proposal to live next door or across the street from each other, I will not live alone again. For now, I’m attempting to lower my alone-time-requirement-meter—maybe one hour can rejuvenate as well as four—while resisting the guilt and perceived selfishness that surrounds a need to be alone. Each time I emerge from my psychological hermitage, I gain new perspective and get better at being together with him (and you).