I’ve written a lot about missing my friends back in the states, and all of those sentiments were true.
It is equally true that my favorite part about life in this city (aside from the ducklings) is the sense of isolation. I grew up in a small town, went to school in a small town, lived in well defined communities in small western cities as an adult.
Wherever I went, I always knew everyone, and they knew me, and I found the experience oppressive. I liked moving to a place where I was not only unknown, but invisible. Nobody registered my existence, nobody cared.
The only people I talked to on a daily basis were beggars, buskers, Big Issue salesman, and the brothers at Bacchanalia. Even the other boaters are people I mostly just exchanged friendly waves with, aside from the occasional rescue operation. This suited me.
I have always yearned for solitude more than companionship. This might be a byproduct of being an only child, or the lifetime of chronic illness. Whatever the reason, these four years in England have offered a melancholy sort of liberation. I liked being alone. Over the last few weeks my life has changed in a radical way, and I am horrifically upset about it. In fact, way more disturbed than I would be about things like, you know, cancer tests.
What happened? People decided to talk to me. All sorts of people, including a vast contingent who have studiously ignored me every single day. Suddenly, instead of just a few scattered North Americans and a couple of nice Londoners, I seem to know, well, everybody.
In fact, I think it safe to say that I have not only made friends, I have been officially adopted by my new homeland. Rule, Brittania!
Before you speculate that this change has anything to do with my behavior, I can assure you it does not. And my physical appearance has not changed whatsoever – I am wearing, literally, the same outfit I arrived in. Lipstick, hair, and attitude are also intact. If anything the isolation has brought out my mischievous and scandalous sides – I say what I mean and mean what I say, but there are no other filters in operation.
Perhaps the British like this sort of misbehavior – back home, people would flinch. Though I doubt this explains the phenomenon.
The more logical reason is basic: this is a famously standoffish society, and it was bound to take at least twice as long to settle. Living in Cambridge, the city that gave the world words like scientist and concepts like evolution is a whole other quagmire.
Regardless, I am not amused to find myself suddenly popular. I loathe small town, parochial games and sensibilities. If I had wanted to live that way, I would never have left home in the first place.
What always happens when this mood hits? There is no mystery – I move.
Unfortunately I am stuck here for at least twelve months. I can’t even get away for the traditional mental health break of summer in Seattle; I would have been there already if I could go.
Yes, I know that my problems are ridiculous. Stateside friends often throw up their hands and say I have no sympathy for you!