Pride imitates what is lofty . . .

Saint Augustine

Chapter Nine

Sabina

I wake on Sunday morning after my evening out with pale sunlight streaming through the shutters I forgot to close last night. The room, bathed in gray, is cold. I reach for the robe draped across the foot of the bed, climb out from the warm swathe I’ve slept in, and step into the robe.

I close the shutters against the dull November sky and then debate: back to bed or to the kitchen for coffee? I look at the digital clock on the nightstand—9:33? Already? I’m sleeping my life away. Not that it matters. I have nothing pressing me to get out of bed. But I am accustomed to rising with the sun.

Coffee it is. I push my feet into my slippers and walk the few steps from the bedroom to the kitchen. I like the size and floor plan of the rental. The master bedroom, just off the kitchen, is separated from the other two bedrooms, and has a private entrance from the front deck. I could see living here and converting the bedroom into an office, where I could see clients.

But then my memory wakes and slaps me across the face. I no longer see clients. I work to push the memory back into its state of slumber as I watch a pot of coffee brew. Instead, I let thoughts of last night take over.

Getting out, I discovered, was a great distraction. Good food, listening to the conversations of others, and even entering conversations myself—with the hostess, whose name I learned is Rosa, and the owner of the café, Ellyn.

It gave me space to breathe in an environment where daunting memories had no place. The café, the people, were not connected to my former life.

My former life?

Is letting go really so simple?

No. But the escape was good. I will own it and call it what it was, because I’m too smart to fool myself. But sometimes there is a place for escapism—when it can be used as a tool to help transition one’s thinking from an area of hyper-focus to something else. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

One thing I know for certain is that isolation doesn’t help depression. I need people, yet I’ve moved to a place where I know no one. Why? Because I want anonymity. I don’t want to have to explain myself or answer questions. Why aren’t you practicing anymore? What are you doing with your time? Or worse, Rumor has it . . .

I reach for one of the pottery mugs in the cabinet above the coffeemaker and then fill it. Back in the living room, I turn the iPod speakers on and click my iPod to play Yo-Yo Ma’s Bach: The Cello Suites. I turn the volume low, so the strains of music are an accompaniment to my thoughts rather than the focal point. As I head for the sofa, I recall an article I read not long ago about Bach’s compositions. The author felt there was an emotional detachment about Bach’s music.

I shake my head at the ridiculous assertion. I wouldn’t be drawn to Bach’s work if I sensed an emotional detachment.

I settle on the sofa, cradling my coffee. Living here affords me new opportunities. I am free to embark on a new journey—to redefine myself rather than allowing my past to define me. I am still me, Sabina Louise Jackson, PhD. I’m proud of who I am. Those letters behind my name mean something. I worked hard for them. I won’t hide. I’m not using an alias. Instead, I’m looking forward.

And allowing those I invite into my life to do the same, rather than be waylaid by my history.

Am I ready to invite others into my life? I don’t know. But ready or not, it’s time. Last night reminded me that I am a people person—one who needs the companionship and conversations of others to enhance my life experience.

I’ll not only stay depressed if I remain alone, but I’ll go crazy.

Maybe I’ll call the restaurant this afternoon and see if I can reach Ellyn.

There’s an ease about her. I noticed it in the doctor’s office too as she spoke to the receptionist. It would be good to have a female friend. How long has it been since I’ve had one? Several colleagues come to mind, but friends?

I haven’t had time.

Well, time is all I have now.