Waking at Dawn in a House of Closed Doors

When I want to run down the hall naked with all the lights on

I recently spent a week on the road, sleeping in five different rooms in five different locations in California and Oregon. Hotel rooms allowed me the freedom to work and keep my own hours. Sleeping at someone else’s house meant I could no longer shower, eat, or watch TV when I wanted to. It meant I couldn’t put two sentences together without interruption. It meant having a TV on when I wanted silence and having to keep it off when I wanted TV. It meant shushing myself as I walked down the hall while others were sleeping and having to converse before my eyes were fully open.

I appreciate the hospitality and a chance to see my people, but I’m not used to being around people anymore. I have grown a little feral in my thirteen years of solo life.

Now, I have a house guest. It’s great having her around, and being a “we” for a while is a blessing, but I have grown used to: 

• Leaving the bedroom and bathroom doors open.

• Turning the radio on at 4:30 a.m. to catch the news when my bum hip wakes me up–or getting out of bed at midnight to watch another episode of my latest streaming binge when I can’t sleep.

• Changing the menu if the food I had planned to eat does not appeal to me. 

• Using my extra bedroom to fold laundry, sort pages, hang some of my clothes, or take a nap with a different perspective.

• Talking to myself.

• Singing to myself. 

• Going for a walk without explanation or ETA.

• Choosing to see the pink wild roses, fire weed, and purple foxglove in the field next door instead of the downed trees and dirt left by the owner, who plans to build a house there one of these days. 

• Loving the perfume of the rosemary bush rather than noting that it needs to be trimmed. 

• Walking naked in every room of my house. 

• Weeping or laughing as needed.

• Sneezing, coughing, farting, or spitting without explanations or excuse me’s

• Having an uninterrupted conversation with Alexa.

• Listening to music without anyone saying, “Ew, how can you listen to that?” 

• Exercising without an audience.

• Streaming the same TV series day after day without any comments from the peanut gallery. 

• Running the dishwasher, clothes washer, or shower without worry that I’m causing someone a water shortage elsewhere in the house. 

• Playing the piano badly but choosing to focus on the music, not the wrong notes. 

• Shamelessly watching “The Bachelorette” on TV

• Keeping milk in the fridge that’s past its expiration date but still works for baking

• Being able to put my purse and packages on the passenger seat of the car, where I can reach them. 

• Having private out-loud chats with God. 

• Letting the mail and unfinished projects pile up on my table, leaving just enough space for my food and my book.

• Reading while I eat. 

• Putting food in the fridge and knowing it will be there next time I look for it, even if that’s a month from now and it has grown fur or turned to mush

• Letting the tea kettle squeal a minute while I finish my thought

• Ignoring that odd noise coming from the ice maker, dryer, dishwater, or . . . well, we don't know where it’s coming from, but it’s not hurting anything, so we don’t need to get crazy over it. 

• Living with the burnt-out light bulb until I feel good and ready to change it. (How many people living alone does it take to change a light bulb? Just one.) 

Yes, yes, we need other people for all sorts of things, from someone to talk with to someone to scrape us off the floor and take us to the ER. There were moments on my trip when it felt so good to just sit around and chat.

We are wired to live in tribes in order to help each other get through this challenging life. We need hugs, lots of hugs. Sex is good, too. For these things, we must give up some of our freedom, but not ALL of it. The balance between happily alone and too alone is a tricky one. Just when you think you’ve got it right, something changes. 

At the moment, my guest is napping, dinner in the crock pot is smelling wonderful, and I’m writing in my backyard, surrounded by trees on a beautiful Oregon coast summer day. I am truly a lucky woman. 

Family and friends who might take offense at what I have written here, please know that it’s not you; it’s me. You were great. It just takes the hermit a while to adjust.

How about you? What are you free to do because you’re on your own? What frustrates you when other people are around?

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How did I end up alone? I didn’t have any kids. After my husband and I retired to the Oregon coast, far from family, he died of Alzheimer’s. You can read our story in my new memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available now at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.

Click here to listen to my June 29 interview with Jody Day about the new book.