For the first time in quite a while, I found myself with sustained alone time over the past few weeks. Right after Chuck died I was alone a lot and many people wondered if I would be afraid to be here, isolated, on the farm. The answer was always no - I have never been afraid to be here. Right after Chuck died I was too numb, however , to process that sustained alone time has never been my thing and likely would prove challenging over the long term.
Now, when the girls were all little and the inability to take a shower or use the bathroom without interupption was a luxury, a few quiet moments were always welcome. But long periods of solitude? Nope. That desire to be in and among groups has driven many of my choices personally and professionally in life, even if at times it was subconscious. One of the things deep grief brings is a better understanding of one’s self. And acceptance of my preference for being part of a group has been one thing I have come to embrace.
The other thing I’ve never much liked is feeling different. That is hard to admit because I am not too sure where the line between ‘confidence’ and comfort with feeling ‘other’ sit. And like many girls and young women I have also struggled with self confidence.
What I realized this week is that many times my discomfort with feeling alone goes hand in hand with feeling different. And these intertwined feelings have been a recurring theme even before widowhood. (Note I am starting to be able to type, and even say, the “W” word.)
Those who know me well have heard the story of my careful planning of my outfit for my departure from North Adams to Trinity College in the first day of college. In my supportive and loving home and hometown I was seldom alone. In fact, until my senior year at Trinity I had never had a bedroom to myself. And like most teens, I worked hard to fit in, mostly successfully.
After all my careful planning, I arrived at Trinity with my parents and our overloaded blue and white Chevy Suburban wearing the baby blue sleeveless souvenir t-shirt I had proudly bought earlier that summer on my first ever trip to New York City with some of my high school besties. We had driven to a friend’s very hip young aunt’s home in New Jersey which felt very cosmopolitan and grown up. On our day trip into NYC we of course attended a show at Radio City Music Hall to see the Rockettes. It was where I bought the shirt which said “Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Dance!” I am sure it also said Radio City Music Hall on it somewhere. It paired nicely with the pinstriped, pleated jeans that I believed made me look least fat. And despite knowing I would be moving in to the dorm and after an argument with my mom, who was sure I would break an ankle, I topped it off with high heeled backless clogs. While this was a sophisticated and perfect look for North Adams, circa 1983, let me assure you it was an outlier at Trinity College. Most of the girls were in Izod polos and khaki shorts with Tretorn sneakers. Some had cool embroidered belts and most had pearl necklaces. It is probably a false memory that all the shirts were pink and green. I definitively looked completely different. And in my mind, completely wrong.
I owned nothing like those clothes. I eventually found where to buy the Tretorn sneakers, but I never did figure out how to wear the khaki shorts without looking fat. Like most college freshmen, I was very lonely my first months of college and it took a long time not to feel different. Maybe sometime after they gave me an honorary degree in 2002, or when the girls came with me to my 25th reunion and I outfitted each of them with matching Vera Bradley overnight bags - exactly the right thing for alumni/ae children.
What was more striking about that first year of college is what happened when I came home for winter break. I was excited to see friends, and subconsciously I am sure I was most excited to be back in a place where I fit in. Where I wasn’t different and felt less isolated. The Saturday night party somewhere in the woods, probably the hunting camp in Vermont we often trudged to, and the crowd were reassuringly familiar. But at some point during the evening, one of my high school friends, likely with a few beers under her not-embroidered belt, turned and looked me up and down and said, “So, who do you think you are now? All dressed up. Are you too good for us now that you are at your fancy school?” I don’t have the same vivid memory of what I was wearing that night. I am certain it was NOT an outfit that would have blended in at Trinity. I think I had a long, black wool jacket on. A Christmas present that I was tremendously grateful to my parents for investing in as the jacket would fit in back in Hartford and I am sure was well above what they planned to spend. I was devastated by the cutting comment. Suddenly I realized I did not fit in at home anymore either.
When I arrived as a newly elected twenty-five year old, female state senator I was of course different from my colleagues. But during my campaigns and service in office including as Governor, the handful of young women who had journeyed with me from the Berkshires, to the Senate and on campaigns were my anchor. As some know that caused ethics investigations and its own special form of grief. Most acutely, the hullabaloo around babysitting. After that, I had to erect a professional wall that no other elected official was required to install between me and my closest aides. For the most part we maintained that in private as well as in public until I left office. But of course, by then I had Chuck. Even still, I often felt isolated from “the group” and my “difference” was gleefully highlighted by the media. For many, the ways that I was personally unique is the only memory they have of my service at all.
So you would think with all this experience and acceptance of my challenges with isolation and difference I would be prepared with tools to conquer the recent ten or so days alone on the farm. Not so. There is video evidence. I made what I thought was a funny recording while cleaning the goat stall. However, the one friend I sent it to gently counseled that my acting career was not yet quite ready for public release. I did wonder if you are talking to animals and no one but the animals hears it - are you really talking? Yeah, I guess in reflection that is neither profound nor funny. Just odd.
I channeled a bunch of energy into some long delayed chores. And predictably over did it and ended up with a broken rib and a few broken fingers - a mishap involving the 4 wheeler and a well intended plan to dumpster stomp (very different from the dumpster dive). All in an effort to avoid bear chaos, or so I told myself. But also a day designed to exhaust myself so as to stave off the loneliness. I am not sure where my logic considered that stomping down trash in a dumpster would make me less different - but I was pretty tired by then.
Another aspect of grief, and perhaps alone time, is that with awareness also comes acceptance. It is unlikely that at this point in my life I am going to suddenly embrace the joy of long stretches of solitude. There are definitely moments of downtime that I need, but on balance I am more social than most. And many times when I feel awkward and different - like being the only widow in my peer group - I can feel isolated even in a group.
A friend suggested my deeper understanding of the discomfort with feeling different or isolated might give me insight into those whose difference is visible. I loved that thought as it allowed me to take something I have harbored as a weakness and convert it into empathy and understanding. I think that is the best I will be able to do - accept myself as a more-than-average social being and use my feelings of difference to show up for others who might feel outside the circle. And hopefully stop short of dumpster spectacles because recovering from a broken rib and a few broken digits leads to …. a lot of alone time.
Praying for your healing. God bless you, Jane. 🙏🙏🙏
Take care! Heal quickly (from the broken bones). My first day at Trinity I was basically wearing garanimals—- white shirt with multi colored stars and red pull on pants with white piping. And basketball sneakers way before the days when “girls” wore those.
Your memory made me laugh!