No Performance

Some time ago, I spent a week alone. Just me and Tobby.

I did not cook. I did not tidy the apartment. I left for work at eight in the morning, came back at seven in the evening, and was in bed by eight. In between, I sat on the sofa and watched The Hobbit for what must have been the ten-thousandth time.

It was not pleasant. The mess bothered me. The dishes in the sink bothered me. The part of me that has always known how things should be kept whispering that I was letting everything fall apart.

But in that moment, it was healing.

For a whole week, there was no need to speak. No need to explain how I was, or to find the right words, or to feel anything for anyone else. By the end of it, I felt as if my lips had forgotten how to form words. And strangely, that was a relief.

Because the alternative was harder. Being around others meant playing my part: smiling at the right moments, caring for everyone's feelings, trying not to be a bother, holding it together so nobody would worry. I had done that for so long that I did not know how to stop. That week, for the first time, I stopped.

Tobby did not mind. He did not need me to talk. He did not need me to be fine. He just needed me to be there, on the sofa, with Bilbo on the screen for the thousandth time, and his head on my knee.

I don't think hiding from the world is the answer. I know that now. But I understand why I needed that week. Sometimes, before you can learn to be yourself around others, you need a few days where there is no one to perform for at all.

And maybe the real lesson is this: the tiredness did not come from people. It came from the part I thought I had to play.

With love, and a wet nose from Tobby

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