I’ve Been a Hermit for Long Enough

Originally posted to Medium’s Modern Women.

Photo by ayumi kubo on Unsplash

When I was in my twenties and then newly thirty, I traveled more. Sometimes I would do it with someone else, and other times it was alone. I have fantastic memories of being a woman alone, taking up a table, eating by myself. Not just in coffee shops, either. I mean even in fine dining establishments, sometimes — just me, sitting alone, savoring the food while tapping my foot to a song running through my head.

A reservation-only tomato restaurant in Iceland. A vegan spot in Dallas. A diner by the Great Sand Dunes. A cafe in New Orleans. All of them easily experienced, and not a toe felt out of place.

Then a pandemic  happened

I was alone a lot during the pandemic. It was me and my dog, wandering around empty streets. I would make a grocery order and wipe it all down in my apartment. I would walk to the nearby brewery to pick up a six-pack, just to see another person. Bodies continued to pile up in our country’s morgues. Wearing a mask to minimize viral exposure became political. Being in public felt dangerous.

Then I had a  daughter

By then, dining alone was entirely divorced from any routine I was still scraping together. My husband would kick me out of the house on Sundays, telling me to go have a coffee alone. I would do it, and then I would walk back home again, feeling like I had just gotten off stage.

Then I had a brain  tumor

Being a patient in the ICU, followed by several months of painful and clumsy recovery, made existing in public feel alien. After the surgery, I was unable to drive or see well for several months, which meant that leaving the house was a group effort. I recall the first time I was in a group setting again. All of the people there were friendly toward me, but I still remember whispering to my husband, “I don’t remember how to do this anymore.”

For a long time, it felt easier to be at home or with small groups of 2–4 people. It still does, to be honest. It probably always has.

It feels  weird

I notice that being in public now feels like being intrusive while simultaneously being intruded upon. What am I doing here? My discomfort seems to say. It’s weird that I’m here. I feel out of place. I could be at home. No one would look at me there.

It is that cognitive distortion of thinking that everyone is looking at you, and everyone thinks you’re being weird. Of course, this makes a person tense up and look around awkwardly so much that people do start noticing and wondering what you’re up to.

It is becoming apparent to me that there is some avoidance at play, in reaction to these things I’ve experienced in the last few years.

The Task

When I lived in New York for a summer, I said yes to every outing I was invited to, even if I was tired. It was intentional, and it was meant as a way of getting out of my shell, getting out of my habits and routines and assumptions. It was meant as a way of feeling certain that I got everything I could out of the experience.

I can say that I did.

Along those lines, I’ve recently started an exercise for myself. My task is to, once a week, pick a novel and pleasant thing to do, preferably out of the house. A sort of “bucket list” that requires my participation in the occasional meaningful discomfort.

A week ago, I impulsively chose to eat a solo lunch at the restaurant that adjoins a museum of Fine Art. They had gazpacho on their menu, and I’ve wanted that all summer. I was dressed for work, so it was not my most polished look, but I was presentable.

I felt like an alien cosplaying as a human. I probably acted like it, too.

And.

The food was delicious. It felt like remembering a part of myself from years ago.

The person who wandered into shops and cafes and made myself comfortable. The one who meandered through parks and sat beneath trees, confident that I was doing what I wanted. The person who planned long hikes through mountains, deserts, and old forests. I remember her. I want to welcome her back.

My tasks include things like going to the symphony, going to book stores I’ve wanted to check out but never have, going to see live music, trying the new bakery, sitting in a hot spring, signing up for a race. I want to be a part of my life again, in the way that used to feel easy. I want to rebuild tolerance for that.

It’s working

I have seen some progress. A week ago, my husband asked if I would be interested in attending an out-of-town bluegrass festival in the fall. If he had asked me a year ago, I would have said no. I would have said that I wanted him to be able to go, I would have supported him going, and I would have wanted to want to go. But the idea of going myself would have filled me with dread. This year, I said yes. And while there is still some trepidation around logistics, I can honestly say that I’m excited to experience it. 

That feels like coming home.