The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

Fear of flying

The morning and early afternoon were wild, weatherly speaking. I walked to school in a warm wind, clutching my polka dot umbrella, eyeing the sky with suspicion. Everything was wet around me, evidence of the earlier rainstorm, but as I walked there was nothing to complain about, except for the wind, of course. When I came out of class, an hour earlier than usual as attendance was down and things had moved along swiftly, it was lashing rain, and it turned the umbrella inside out. I grumbled my way through the thick, squishy field toward the sidewalk on the other side, smelling worms and earth, cursing my socklessness and the heavy sweater I'd chosen to wear. The back of my pants were damp and cold, and I was hungry, having foolishly decided not to eat before I left the house.

When I got home, the smells of toast greeted me as the door swung open, M. and the wee one were giddy at my early return, full of questions about the weather and my unexpected presence. I opened the refrigerator to find a lonely heel of multigrain bread in an unsealed plastic bag with no prospect of a fresh, untouched loaf, and my mood went from slightly sour to totally bitter. I grabbed a yogourt, smaller than my wee one's clenched fist, and I ate it in two spoonfuls before grabbing a cracker and thumping up to my room. Why is it always my job to think about the cupboards and the fridge? How is it always my duty to remember that we need apple juice and bread? What makes him think it's okay to go the grocery store to buy bags of rice chips and bottles of mineral water when he's the only one who likes either? So, I took those questions into the bedroom with the still-closed curtains and let them sit.

Then, as I split the curtains, the clouds took my lead, and the sun blasted through with a vengeance. I decided that it was a sign that I should go to the library, having finished the one vampire book I've ever borrowed, and I asked Kitty Kat if she'd like to come along. Of course, she wanted to, and when M. heard the fuss she was making, he decided to tag along as well. We walked over, our footsteps drowning out the protests of the wee one who felt she'd been mislead as she'd wanted to go in the car. Once there, I skimmed the shelves impatiently, feeling anxious, all too aware that M. was seated by the door reading a newspaper. My time was not really mine, and I knew I was on the clocks of others, so I hastily grabbed two books: 'Any Woman's Blues' by Erica Jong and 'The Geography of Love' by Glenda Burgess. I chose the Jong because I've heard that her first book was something of a smash, and I grabbed whatever I could find with her name on it. The second was in the new releases and the jacket description baited my curiosity. I came home and started with Jong, rightfully assuming that it would be the less intelligent read, as my mind is rattled and unable to focus. I figured that a little light reading that flirts with sex and obsession might reel me in, but I wasn't prepared for this. I am actually insulted by it, so far. Only thirty pages in, I cannot figure out why this woman has such a great reputation when she's basically just Jackie Collins with blonde hair. Now, I've read her poetry and I really liked it, thought it was smart and engaging. Her fiction is a different story, and even though it is frought with sexual references, it isn't sexy. I suffered my way through the first few pages, reading about crooked penises and people with stupid names and I wondered how this woman achieved such fame, writing nonsense like this. So, as I was attempting to read it in the bathtub, I came to page twenty-five and found this, etched onto the bottom of the page in big, block letters:

How can anyone read this garbage? It has no redeeming qualities.

I found this funny, actually, that someone hated it so much that they saw fit to defile the book. It isn't likely I'll finish it. It seems desperate to me, the writing. Not engaging, just clumsily manipulative. I don't know. It's not even guilty pleasure reading for me, this book. Sookie Stackhouse and her vamps and shapeshifters are my current guilty pleasure, but this stuff? It might have appealed to me when I was a virginal fifteen, but right now it comes off...stupid. The other book looks more promising, though. A non-fiction work about a woman who meets her dream man, only to discover that his past is filled with tragedy, and how they both try to build a relationship despite all the darkness they've experienced. A memoir, if you will, which tend to be my favourite. I might dismiss the first book right away, actually. Not sure, yet.

I'm still a little unhinged, which is probably why I'm more judgmental than usual. I guess I've been stressed over the possibility of returning to school, even though it's a great opportunity, and my nerves are trying to talk me out of it. They tend to do that. I am frustrated by all of this, even though I always knew it was going to happen. People like me don't heal overnight. Recurrences are "normal", or so I've read a million times over, and it shouldn't come as a shock that I'm having symptoms when I'm about to take steps toward a different career. It's stressful for anyone. What frustrates me, though, is how much of my life has been held hostage by this problem of mine. The faithful reader is tired of reading about it by now, surely, but imagine what it's like to give away some of your best years to a fear you don't really understand. When I think of the things I might have accomplished had I been a confident, functionning woman I nearly collapse in shame. This emotional state is not only desperate and frightening, but it's also unbelievably sad. I think of all the people out there, just like myself, who might have talent, or limitless intelligence, or humour, or beauty, who lock themselves away from the world because it's too much to be a part of it.

My father likes to tease me by calling me a 'delicate genius'. I am not a genius, so I tend to find this term of endearment to be embarrasingly off the mark, and most people who know me would never use the adjective 'delicate' when describing me, but my dad does. He also tells me that I'm just like him, that he's the same way, and instead of being comforted by this, I am saddened. My dad is incredibly intelligent, but people wouldn't know that about him because he turned away from every opportunity offered to him out of fear. Not the sort of fear you might associate with someone who cowers, though. He doesn't come off as a fearful person, at all, but he has always puzzled us by turning down offers for things which sounded amazing to us. Most recently was the offer of radio talk show panelist on a local talk radio station. He likes to call in under an assumed name and argue politics with the right wing politicos and has developed such a rapport with some of them (the rest of them loathe him), that they actually asked him to become part of their regular panel. He declined, though, and when we asked why, he changed the subject. In confidence, though, he told me that it's for the same reasons I shied away from promotions, university, opportunities to travel, etc.: this damned emotional fragility.

If you're someone who jumps at opportunity, who takes offers without hesitating, I envy you. If you get excited about the prospect of travelling, rather than feeling terrified and offended by the notion, I envy you. If you know what you want to do and are enthusiastic about the steps it will require to get there, I envy you. If you get up in the morning, put on your running shoes and go for long runs through neighbourhoods which aren't your own, I envy you. If you can get into your car and drive long distances without heart palpitations or swirls of sick cold in your gut, I envy you. If you look to the future and smile about what might be waiting, I don't understand you.

I sit here, now, feeling almost calm and collected, and I am already gearing up for the return, which the gearing is certain to bring on. I see the circle from in here. I see it, and I wait for a break in the line.