Alone and Unobserved

I don’t believe I’ve mentioned it on this blog before, but my Brazilian roommate—whom I’ll call Danilo—moved out in December, leaving me one flatmate poorer and one living room richer. You see, we met a year and a half ago at a party in Provo, Utah, and it came out (as such things do) that we were both about to move up to Salt Lake and needed a place to live. A couple of months later, Danilo called me, very excited, to tell me that he had found the perfect place, with very low rent—a “studio apartment,” as he called it. I was a bit leery, since I had no desire to share a bedroom with him, let alone a cramped, little studio apartment. It turned out that when Danilo said “studio apartment” he meant “apartment with two bedrooms and no living room.” Upon inspection it became clear that this, in turn, meant “apartment with one bedroom, and one living room the previous tenant had been using as a bedroom.” So we moved in together, I into the actual bedroom, and Danilo into the living room. This wasn’t as bad an arrangement as it might sound, since the main entrance was in the kitchen, and once Danilo fitted his new bedroom with a door and lock, we were able to stay tolerably out of each other’s way.

Well, now that Danilo is gone on to better and brighter things, I have the whole place to myself, and let me say that living alone has been an interesting experience so far. For the first time ever, I have more room than I know what to do with. Without another person’s furniture and belongings, the rooms feel a touch empty, and I’m looking forward to furnishing and decorating them according to my own half-formed aesthetic sensibilities. Things in general stay the way I left them: things that are clean stay clean until I dirty them, and then they stay dirty until I clean them. Clothing is optional now that Danilo the Modest is not there to be shocked (although I expect my neighbors would prefer it if I got some better-fitting blinds or drapes).

Not everything has been so positive, however. Danilo was actually more nervous and anxiety-prone than I am (I know! Sounds impossible, doesn’t it?), so when he was around he took care of the worrying and panic attacks, and I was in charge of reassurance and manly stoicism. Now that he’s gone, there’s no one to do the hyperventilating and fingernail-biting except me, and I’ve been spending more and more time doing both. At first, it was just the occasional night terror, and then it was the creeping suspicion that someone had silently broken in and was sneaking stealthily around the dark apartment. Now, when I’m alone in the house, any sound sets me off, even if it’s the middle of the day and I can hear the carefree laughter of children in the street outside.

All of which has made the past weekend very difficult for me, since I’ve been in such a depressive funk that getting out of bed has required a supreme act of will (or tearing hunger), and leaving the apartment has seemed next to impossible. So I’ve spent the last few days sleeping in, dragging myself into the living room to check my emails, and then dozing fitfully for hours in the middle of the day, only to start awake at every noise, heart pounding painfully, my breath coming in short gasps . . . Add to this the fact that my fear of dogs has reasserted itself dramatically, making me afraid to walk anywhere for fear of being attacked by one of the many packs of feral dogs that roam my neighborhood, and I am on the verge of becoming a complete shut-in.

In hopes of avoiding that fate, I am sitting at my work computer in the main library, smiling cheerfully at my puzzled coworkers who are actually here to work. As soon as this blog entry is done I will go out into the browsing area, find a nice comfortable chair, and read my book. Maybe I will actually talk to someone. And perhaps this weekend will end up not being so bad after all.

My roommate finished defending his thesis* a few days ago, and now he just doesn’t seem to know what to do with his time. He’s still teaching at least one class and working retail, and he spends about a thousand hours on the phone, but he apparently feels very much at loose ends. Thus I attribute his invitations to go out (as friends), last night to go to a club and the night before to go to a party at the U, to deep and unshakeable boredom.

I was hoping the party at the U would be better than similar parties had been at BYU, but guess what–it was worse! The activities were lame, the sparse venues were crowded with lowerclassmen (and -women), and there was only one dance floor, which was almost completely empty! Where was the party, I ask you? Where was the party? In the end we watched a fairly bland belly-dancing routine, ate some galette des rois, chicken, and tortilla chips with zucchini dip, and then left.

After the abortive outing to the U’s “party,” I was suprised when my roommate wanted to try going out again last night–especially when he had to be at work at ten this morning. Still, of course I accepted. I hadn’t been to a club in at least two months, maybe longer (I don’t remember exactly when I went before, but I know it was cold, so . . . December? January?) but it all came back to me as I stood there in the smoke-filled air, the music pulsing around me, begging to be danced to. This is what I was born for! This is what I live for! This is my past, present and future!!

When my roommate and I stumbled groaning and sweating out onto the sidewalk at 1:00am, I remembered why it’s good to be in shape before giving it your all on the dance floor. People who watch me dance often think I’m flexible, but the reality is that in the heat of the moment I don’t care if I’m pulling every muscle in my back and sending my legs into spasms–the call of the music is simply too strong. Afterwards, when I can hardly walk, I promise myself that next time it’ll be different; next time I’ll be more careful and less self-destructive. And someday I will, too. When I’m in a walker, most likely.

*If you can call what happened a “defense”: from what he said it was just a big, affirming thesis party. I think it’s disgusting. Where is he going to learn vital lessons in intimidation, humiliation and powerlessness if his thesis committee doesn’t do its job?

I finally wrote my brother. As I’ve mentioned previously, he is on an LDS mission in or around Maceió, Brazil. I started off in English, apologizing for never having, ahem, written him in the entire time he’s been out, and then moved into Portuguese as I described my Brasilian roommate and talked about learning to dance the samba. Hopefully he will write me in Portuguese from now on, instead of inflicting it on my sister or other people who won’t understand.

My Brazilian roommate has graciously consented to give me lessons in (necessarily Brazilian) Portuguese. When I mentioned this to my mother on the phone last night, her immediate response was, “Well, then you can write your brother in Portuguese!” I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of that earlier. My younger brother is on a Mormon mission in Maceió, Brazil, and by my mother’s account often writes to the family in Portuguese. My mom speaks Spanish, so she is usually able to figure out more or less what he’s trying to say, but the rest of the family is pretty lost. I’m all excited to write my brother now, and try out my new (albeit untried and flimsy) language skills.