I [heart] Davids It helps me to say these things aloud, I think.

This makes day 10 of Dave’s trip, my tenth day all by myself. The first few days are great, lots of free time to watch whatever I want, play whatever music I want, eat what I want, be as lazy or as productive as I want.

But by this point, I begin to sink into a bit of a funk. Being able to repeatedly listen to my musical faves does not a ray of sunshine make: Billy Bragg and Palace Music, David Bowie and The Postal Service. Neither does diving head-on into my latest TV obsession, whatever it may be (this past week has been Dead Like Me and Christopher Eccleston’s Doctor Who).

My mom and I had a really nice time together this weekend. It was so nice to be so very relaxed with her. We didn’t bicker or disagree at all. We even had some of that heart to heart conversation that’s so nice, sharing stupid secrets or hopes or dreams. I confessed how when I hear Billy Bragg sing, it make me think of Christoper Eccleston – I think I’m starting to get them confused.

We talked about anxiety (mine) and social anxiety (hers). It made me think about this funk of mine. Just because I haven’t been able to talk to Dave, it feels like I haven’t talked to anyone for days. It’s like Dave is my anchor to reality. It’s not that I haven’t spent any time with people. But something about the time I have spent with others, mostly at work, doesn’t count. It isn’t real. Why? I don’t know.

But I do know that starting at about Day 2, I got back into the habit of long conversations with myself and the cats, out loud. I watch TV or listen to lyrics in songs and I’m drawn deeply to their poignancy. I get emotionally attached to whatever players are involved, and think of them long after the sounds leave my head. I feel a sadness and touch of longing in everything I see and hear. Is this normal, I wonder, for everyone who lives alone? What about those people who live alone without pets? I can’t imagine doing this without my two furry balls of affection.

I remember quite fondly the time I lived on my own. It was a brief period, only a year or two, after I moved out from my mother’s and then from my evil ex-boyfriend’s, before Dave and I moved in together. I remember the freedom, the independence, the isolation. I remember loving it. What I do not remember was how out of practice I got interacting with other people, but I believe it had to have been there. It was probably a factor in the breakdown, depression and anxiety I suffered during that period, though certainly not the only one (can you say “evil ex-boyfriend?”).

I see now that part of living on your own is learning to live with this sense of isolation, to translate it into something useful and productive. I am proud of myself for the past week. I kept the house clean every day, ate decent meals, and managed to keep from getting sotted as a potted plant every night.

What if I had to do this for a lifetime? Could I keep it up? What about my mom? She’s pretty much in constant pain and often she feels like nothing in her life can go right. How can you actively interact with the world in a social situation when all you’re handed is crap? I am young (32) and I think I get along with people pretty well. What implications does this have for those who lack the skills or other social facilities to easily make friends? Is what I’m experiencing basic loneliness borne out of the absence of my husband, or is it something more sinister, the roots of anxiety and depression that I feel clawing at my self any time I loose control over my life’s course?

I can’t wait for Dave to get back home.