Like Emily Dickinson without the Poetry: Becoming a Recluse

I strongly suspect I am becoming a recluse. I only leave my house to walk the dogs and for a few other necessities. I rarely speak to anyone IRL who doesn’t live with me. Currently that includes my spouse, a child who’s soon leaving for college, and these two dogs:

I am surprised by this reclusive turn of events. In the other places I’ve lived I’ve always enjoyed an interesting circle of friends, had people over for dinner, hosted holiday parties, and so on. Now I can hardly bring myself to talk on the phone.  My husband says to think of myself as a hermit instead of a recluse. Hermit at least seems to have some spiritual potential along with the taint of social failure.

At this point I’m pretty much like Emily Dickinson without the poetry. Or Howard Hughes without the money and jars of urine. I’m not being judgemental about the urine. I understand strange compulsions. I once spent six months being inexplicably compelled to silently recite the names of Sarah Palin’s children.  This was bothersome as I do not think of myself as being at all like Sarah Palin.

Btw, three great biographical reads are Lives Like Loaded Guns: Emily Dickinson and Her Family’s Feuds by Lyndall Gordon,  Hughes by Richard Hack and The Rogue: Searching for the Real Sarah Palin by Joe McGinniss.

I started isolating myself a couple of years ago during an usually long and intense period of fatigue and despair. Now I’m feeling somewhat better but the desire to be with people outside my family has not returned. I can’t decide if this is a problem or not. In any case I’m getting lots of knitting and reading done. Here is today’s output, produced while listening to Marisha Pessl’s creepy and compelling novel Night Film about a reclusive movie director:

Aren’t spirals wonderful? I hope you’re having a good day whether you’re spending it alone or with others!

Reading in bed

I didn’t knit as much as usual yesterday because I was able to read an actual, physical book for the first time in quite awhile. My mental misadventures often make such reading impossible  so I was thrilled to finish Norman Rush’s novel Subtle Bodies in almost one sitting. My dog provided moral support:

I even broke the sleep hygiene commandment thou shalt not read in bed so I could see what happened to the unusual middle-aged friends before I fell asleep.

One sentence really stood out for me, on p. 174, when Claire notices her husband’s bare feet look like wings, but thinks the effect would be stronger “if he would stop wriggling his toes like a mental patient.”

As luck would have it I was actually wriggling my toes quite vigorously before, during, and after reading that sentence. In fact my toes often dance around all day.  I wasn’t offended by the mental patient line, but given my extensive psych history I did feel odd reading it, especially since I got this toe tic from taking psych meds.

In any case, I highly recommend the author Norman Rush, even though his books aren’t available on audio so I have to put down my knitting to read him. Now I’m itching to pick up my needles and make this yarn happy:

This should keep despair at bay for awhile. I hope the day is good for you, too!