The Bottom of my Closet

For the past few days Nialla's words* have, for some reason or another, been floating around my brain.  'You don't know what it's like to come flying apart at the seams.'

And then Flavia's response: 'Yes, I do.  More than you might think.'

I remember my mom used to say to me when I was younger that I would 'take myself out of circulation', like a library book of sorts.  What she meant, of course, was that I would become pensive and withdrawn -- temporarily removing myself from the social circuit of my highschool days.  And here I am, all these years later, finding myself without a circuit and not knowing where to go.

Finding one's self circuitless is terribly easy to do, particularly if you have a propensity for moving a lot.  And if one does not think that a certain location will last too terribly long, it makes it even easier.  For why would one build up a social circuit only to leave a short while later?  Yes, it does help stave off the loneliness, but no matter how many people are around, we are all bound to feel lonely at some point or another.  It's human nature.   

Anyway, we moved to Mississippi (Jackson, to be precise) immediately after Michael graduated from law school, so that he could do a clerkship for a federal appellate judge.  (I was still in graduate school at Villanova at the time, so I spent part of that year doing a rather absurd commute to Pennsylvania.)  During this Southern stint, my quiet nature completely took over.  I was by no means reclusive -- on the contrary, I did all sorts of things, I just did them on my own.  I've never really minded my own company -- one of the bonuses of being particularly fascinating, I suppose.  And so days would pass, it seemed, without my actually speaking to anybody.  Of course when Michael got home from work we would talk, but that was from 6 or 7 in the evening on. 

However, the days are long, or at least they can be anyway.  And I remember thinking how odd it was to hear my own voice sometimes when when I went to Broad Street Cafe to order an iced tea and a salad, and to sit down and read.  I was doing research for my thesis then, which is a very solitary thing anyway, so I didn't really mind.  Besides, I didn't know a soul in that city.  I could have used a soul though, as it was a very difficult year.

Much happened in Jackson that year, September 11th, for starters.  But I also went in for surgery, then quickly became pregnant, lost the baby a few months later, went in for surgery again, and was traumatized by nightmares for ages after.  And I felt very much alone, and I felt very sad.    

But I did love the thunderstorms.  And I loved the sound of the rain pounding down on the air-conditioner, waking us both up throughout the night. I loved the smell of the magnolia trees when you would walk out of the house in the morning, and the moss hanging from the trees.  I loved the way you would always get sweet-tea everywhere you went -- whether you asked for it or not.  I loved the beautiful houses in our Belhaven neighborhood (including Eudora Welty's), and the candles that would flicker and glow on their porches.  And I dearly loved our monthly trips to New Orleans.  Because of these things, I liked it there.  If you are going to live somewhere when your life is coming to pieces, and not know a soul all the while, the south is a good place to do it.  In fact, not a day goes by without my missing the south, in some form or another.

After we got married we used to move around quite a bit, and I used to thrive on it.  After all, there really is so much to see out there.  Now we are a bit older, and we are finding ourselves in the same place for longer than expected, but what can we say?  Michael has a job that he loves.  And I stay at home with the only other person who has ever been able to fill the hole in my heart.  In between I wash dishes, fold clothes, go to the drycleaner, the post office, do the vacuuming, cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner -- and I worry, on an hourly basis, how we will ever be able to sustain it.  And I'm trying desperately, all the while, not to come flying apart at the seams.  But if I do happen to fall to pieces, then you will probably find me, in the manner of Flavia de Luce, 'weeping at the bottom of my closet.'  Not to worry though, 'tis only temporary.

* The words of both Nialla and Flavia de Luce are from The Weed that Strings the Hangman's Bag, by Alan Bradley.  Quite a fabulous little book, really.