There are no closets here

I live in a large white flat where the sun wraps around the rooms from dawn til dusk. That is my cat Georgie in the corner. He is deaf but enjoys his white world, where white cat hair never seems to disappear. The following is a story about finding my 'home'.

Loneliness, delusion, abandonment, marriage and divorce had all come to visit very early in my life, blocking serenity, contentment and courage.

At twenty-five, some of these monsters stayed stuck in the closet, while others waved their scary faces from behind the masks of normal situations. But they all stayed like uninvited guests who would not leave the house of unknown.

I wanted to be somewhere, anywhere the monsters couldn’t lash the old wounds, whipping like a leather belt against cool, smooth skin

Gauntlets are the stuff of every life, but when you learn, young, how to pick them up, how to work against the demons, life can seem more merciful alone.

At thirty-five, I began carving the demons out, like chipping away at a hard block of ice, coaxing them from their hiding places, melting their faces using a blow torch with stubborn determination. Each achievement came with a cost. I hurt people, as if a stallion rearing up, pawing them away if they got in my path. I knew no other way. No one had showed me.

I warriored on, raising children, nurturing my gardens, learning, listening, invoking the spirits from above, trying to resolve my loneliness. Not waiting for the rescuer, I salved heartaches. Asked for playtime with the male gods, asked to stay strong for my babies, made choices that were healthier, tried not to be hard on myself. I did not fear poverty or solitude to do my interior work.

‘Wait, wait, I think I get it now. I think I can do it better. How did you get to be thirteen? How did you get to be twenty? Yes, of course you must leave. I love you, baby. I love you mommy. Can I hold on to the serenity now without you?

By forty-five, I understood it was me that that had to dream my life into my reality. I had far less to fear though I kept thinking it must be me who was all wrong, me that could not be happy with an ordinary life. No man worked very hard to dissuade me.

I wanted the tall, clean white rooms that opened out to air. I needed to paint vivid canvasses on the walls high above ancient parks. I wanted the freedom to write in old cafes, meander down dusty streets in the sun, where no one knew the tempests that once haunted. I chose to leave that other life.

I had to decide what would go over the sea and what would stay. I sold almost everything and divied up the rest into small legacies. The girlfriends got the vintage clothes and hats, my brothers received the Persian rugs, and various womens’ shelters got the rest. And rather than being sad at parting with so much, I found my new minimalism exhilarating. I dug down and all that was left was the bare, clean bones of a woman with a rich inner life, a PhD and a resolve to recreate from the ground up. I brought my paints and pastels with me.

Sometimes I step out-of-scene for a moment, checking to see if I find some errant monster thought rising from the shadows. Am I a used girl/woman pretending to be new?

I am not old, writing here in the big white flat with my paintings on the wall. The tall double windows are open to the sunshine, birds trilling in the leafy bowers across the street.

The demons, the monsters, the tempests sit quietly in the corner, they are my friends, reminding me only of ermine cloaked beggars and prostitute nuns. I think they stand guard, providing always the impetus to dig deeper, explore the wilderness within, craft my words and life with courage. I am at home and there are no closets here.