If I was anywhere near Australia today, I would be in the gymnasium of Blue Mountains Grammar School. I’d be staring into the aged faces of some-people that I used to know. I’d be maudlin; hovering by the bar, if there was one, which there might not be, because it is a private Anglican school. I’d be wondering how much more they’d achieved than I, explaining that I, like some of them, have one less parent. I’d be remembering how much I hated ironing five yellow blouses and one pure wool navy blue skirt every Sunday night. I’d be looking around the gym, partly for deadly spiders, partly remembering the times I stood trembling before an audience as I sang and danced or the time I skidded half the length of the netball court on my arse. 20 years later, bruises on both knees, I’m still as clumsy as a newborn foal and today is my 20-year High School Reunion.
I am not there because I live 16951km and approximately €1500 from Sydney. I’m also not there because the last two years of my high school life weren’t the most fun; even if they did make me the woman I am today. I spent one of those years in France, which afforded me the opportunity and skills requisite to live in Paris today. I spent the other avoiding/shouting at/being traumatised by, a very tall boy who filled his days calling me fat…loudly...in public.
I decided, by myself, when I was 15 that I wanted to go and live in France. I wanted to discover the world, I wanted to learn another language and I wanted to extend beyond the realm my suburban Sydney life presented me. I did not want to grow up and get married. I wanted to grow up and get away from my parents so I could live my life.
In the intervening years, I’ve done all kinds of crazy things. Some of which were the result of excessive alcohol consumption; my first long term relationship, the scars on my knees and feet from swimming in an oyster farm and more broken shoes than a blacksmith. Few of which were truly physically dangerous because I’m a colossal scaredy-cat; no bungee jumping, no shark diving, no illicit drugs and no tattoos. Many of which make no sense at all; living in New Zealand, 3 years of intimacy with a sociopath and the inflated alien foot. And a handful of which I am ferociously proud; writing and reading the eulogy at my father’s funeral (without crying), Sapphire knowing three words in French, filing my first French taxes and not quitting the whole shebang when I was passed over for a promotion. But much of which involved long hours spent alone on board aircraft, alone inside trains or alone walking the ancient cobbled streets of some ancient cobbled town.
I almost never travel with another person, a fact that has recently proven quite fortuitous, business class upgrade anyone? But equally, requires the gumption and creativity to fill endless days, alone. A couple of weeks ago, I woke up in a bed that could have comfortably slept four adults. I was curled up on one side, wrapped in a giant quilt, a quilt big enough for a family and stretched out in the empty space beside me was a computer, a phone and a tablet. Yes, I’ll admit it. I’m having an affair with my Mac, my iPad is jealous and my Phone feels inferior that he was passed over for a bigger model. The scene beside me served only to remind me that this loneliness, while self-inflicted, is my only life companion. So why do I do it?
When you are by yourself, every single decision you make, you make. You do it because something inside your head tells something else inside your head that you should, that you must, that it will make you feel better or not doing it will make you feel worse.
Every single morning, including weekends, my alarm goes off at 6.15am. The following 30 minutes are locked in mental armed combat as I physically hover between awake and asleep. My multiple personalities argue as to whether I’ll go running that day. “It is good for you”, “but I’m so tired, I went yesterday”, “think of the too-tight red dress in the wardrobe”…etc, etc. There is no one lying beside me telling me to get up, no one nudging me out of bed. There is no approaching wedding/pageant/latex-fashion-show that I’m desperately trying to slim down for; I do it only because my inner strength (or not) tells me too.
I face the same battle every time I’m presented with a restaurant or café menu. If a cheeseburger and fries is placed in front of me, it is because I put it there. Equally, if there is a filet of steamed fish and flavourless vegetables, I chose it. There is no smiling man opposite me to guilt, or inspire, my choice. There is nothing inside my belly prompting me not to order the sushi. It’s just me and my subconscious nutritionist (who is chronically underqualified) debating the calorific merits of foie gras.
What will I wear today? The same thing you wore yesterday, you aren’t seeing the same people and it saves time washing. What will I do today? A manicure, that uses up a good hour or two and you can’t answer the phone or read email at the same time. Will you answer that text? No, I don’t feel like talking to anyone. But what if someone is inviting you out for the night that will change your life…who cares? I rented a Colin Firth movie and home cinema doesn’t require makeup or a bra.
Having no one else to blame, no one else to consult, renders the most basic of choices riddled with guilt and self-hatred. If the house is a mess, I did it, and worse still, I was too lazy to clean it. If there is nothing in the fridge, I have to get dressed, go out and get something, part of which I inevitably throw away because I don’t have time to eat it before it goes bad. Then I feel guilty about wasting food.
There are simple impracticalities to being alone. There are moles on my back that I can’t see well enough to diagnose melanoma. I can’t purchase a six-pack of milk, or water, or wine (oh, the humanity!), because I can’t carry it home. Buying theatre tickets, only to give one away. Having to take my entire luggage into the loo and get it all out again, because I can’t leave it with someone else. Most embarrassingly, the recent sunburn scandal; result of the anatomical truth that I can’t reach far enough over my shoulders to apply sunscreen, stamping a giant white hand in the middle of two scarlet scapulas.
And…I always have to finish a bottle of wine…by myself!
No doubt, many of you will read this, if you made it this far, and label me selfish, or self-indulgent, or arrogant, or f**k you, you live in Paris and your life is dreamy and smells of coffee and croissants; hashtag first world problems. Others will be shouting, wait until you have a child, then you’ll understand what life is all about. Let me make one thing quite clear, I do not hate my life. But I do hate people telling me how amazing it is when they have no idea what it’s like. While I did choose to live in Paris, I didn’t choose to be alone; I’m just made that way.
I live in the same city as the Eiffel Tower because I am employed here. I’m one of those insane people who think you should work to earn your living rather than expecting someone else to pay for your choices. I live in Europe for many reasons, mostly connected to my recent family history (and that’s all I’ll say about that). I’m still here because the increased value of the Australian Dollar in the 7 years I’ve lived away would render me bankrupt if I moved home.
I also stay here, alone, because most of the time, my personalities and me are really not sure what else to do. Leaving would be admitting defeat… and if there is one thing that fuels most of my decisions, it is the desire to win, to triumph, to be better than I am, better than I was. It is hard; I only have myself to blame and only myself to congratulate when things go unexpectedly well.
On the mornings when I roll over, those days when I can’t find the strength to stand up, let alone run, I close my eyes and remind myself of the singular truth that keeps me sane.
I chose this life; me, myself and I. I did it by myself. I’m still here, waving not drowning, the Aries Warrior, I won. I’ve got my share of cheerleaders; some of you, who read this and give me a virtual thumbs up, the Art-sist-ologer, The Smartarse and the ever present Motherbear, my champion. But ultimately, if I am what I am today, I put myself here.
I chose, I fought, I survived…and for that, all of my personalities cheer, together, as one.