Many of my regular readers will no doubt be aware that I’ve spent most of the last couple of weeks moving into my new home and something that my sister said to me as we were shifting boxes here and there on ‘moving’ day has really stuck with me.
In a break in the shifting and moving of heavy boxes, my sister said she thought it a brave move for me to move out and live on my own for the first time in my life
“Why?” I asked her, genuinely confused by her statement.
“I couldn’t do it,” she replied with a rueful smile. “Live on my own, I mean.”
Maybe that’s the difference between my sister and I. Maybe she feels as if she needs the presence of another person in order to not feel lonely. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that, but it’s not the way I feel about my own life.
My childhood was tough and many times I would hide away in my room, keeping well away from the often vicious arguments between my parents. I daren’t leave the safe confines of my room for fear of the treatment I might receive myself.
Over time I learned to be happy with my own company and I think this is part of the reason why I feel compelled to be a writer; there are so many characters and voices in my head that I have more than enough folks around me to keep me company.
I hope that doesn’t make me sound like some sort of unhinged schizophrenic, but I’m sure other writers will know where I’m coming from when I say that the people in my head are usually all the company I need. I can dive straight into the world created in my imagination and then try my hardest to get something similar to the images in my mind’s eye down on the page.
My past has also made me wary of others and their intentions toward me. If someone who is supposed to love and care for you treats you with contempt, is cruel and vicious toward you, then how in the hell are you supposed to have the confidence to want to voluntarily put yourself out there in the world for all to see?
Perhaps that is part of the reason that I have spent most of my life hiding away, not feeling good enough to be accepted in the world as the person I am. Hiding away in my own space became an escape for me but I am finding that where I once found freedom, I am now being held hostage by my own fears of what may be out there for me.
I certainly wouldn’t class myself as a delinquent (not anymore, anyway…) but I would definitely label myself as a recluse of sorts. That’s why moving out on my own and accepting responsibility for all aspects of my life is such a huge step for me – it’s going to force me to get out there and meet other people.
Perhaps a writer is a recluse, one certainly needs a lot of time and solitude in order to create an output that would enable one to grow as a writer beyond it just being some sort of hobby for them. Yet I have hope that pushing myself from the safe confines of my own company will not only make me a stronger person, but a better writer, too.