When I left the city last week, I thought I was escaping chaos. I packed my life into storage, drove off with my dogs, and told myself this was a fresh start, a retreat, a spiritual cleanse, maybe even the soft-launch of a more peaceful, creative era. But here’s the thing: chaos is surprisingly portable. It fits neatly in the backseat next to a duffel bag and a half-empty Starbucks cup, and it has a nasty habit of following you no matter how far you drive. I’d left behind the man with the tracking app, the police reports, and the crumbling illusion that professionalism meant safety. What I hadn’t left behind was the exhaustion, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes silence feel like suspicion.
The safe house was deep in the woods, the kind of middle of nowhere where Google Maps gives up halfway down the road. It was small but charming in that “potential crime scene” way. The air smelled like pine and generational trauma. The stillness was so heavy it felt like the house was holding its breath with me. For the first twenty-four hours, I convinced myself it was peaceful. Then I realized peace wasn’t what I’d found. It was just a different kind of noise, one made up of insects with bad intentions and absolutely no respect for personal boundaries.
Within a day, I’d met creatures that I’m convinced do not exist in the scientific record. They were the kind of bugs that don’t just bite you; they make eye contact while doing it. One landed on my hand, stared me down, and I swear I saw God blink. Another had wings, teeth, and the confidence of a man with no car insurance. By day three, I’d stopped screaming and started negotiating. I am, as of this week, a bug diplomat. Please update my LinkedIn.
But the bugs were just the opening act. The real headliner was a black cat named Stephen. And when I say cat, I mean sentient landlord. He was tall, lean, and gave off the energy of someone who once owned a boat but lost it in the divorce. Every time I moved, he’d hiss, not aggressively, just enough to remind me I was on his property. He’d vanish for days and return with the same silent judgment as an IRS audit.
Now, I had been to this cabin before. I knew about Stephen. But somehow, in the mess of my move and my mental exhaustion, I forgot one crucial detail: I am violently allergic to cats. Twelve hours in, my lungs began to throw a tantrum, and my throat felt like it was trying to close for business. I was taking Claritin, three to five a day, washed down with resignation and coffee. My voice got raspier by the hour, which, admittedly, made me sound sexier (; , but the near-death part was less ideal.
Meanwhile, Stephen had decided his new hobby was psychological warfare. His main victim was Dino, my golden retriever/chihuahua, who has already declared war against the safe house’s tomcat. Stephen would sneak up in the middle of the night, tap Dino on the head, and vanish before Dino even opened his eyes. I’ve seen horror movies with less suspense. By 6 a.m., Dino and I were both traumatized and wheezing.
The air outside was merciful. I sat on the porch steps with both dogs, wrapped in a blanket, watching the sun make its slow, arrogant rise over the trees. For an hour, I just breathed, slowly. Inside, Stephen paced the windowsill like a mob boss checking his territory. I knew then that this wasn’t sustainable. I had to leave, for my breathing and for my sleep.
I went back inside, packed my things, and drove to safe house number two, farther out, cat-free, and, blessedly, bug-light. It’s been a few days now, and my breathing has returned to normal, which is to say I only choke on air when thinking about my career. I’ve been looking at local serving jobs, something simple and temporary. Nothing like being a hideaway waitress in a town where the only Wi-Fi is in a Cracker Barrel.
But it’s peaceful here. The quiet doesn’t feel eerie anymore; it feels deserved. I still lock the doors twice and check the windows three times, but the air feels different, cat-free, breathable, but also safer somehow, or maybe just unfamiliar enough to trick my body into relaxing. I don’t know how long I’ll stay or where I’ll go next, but I do know this much: as soon as the dust settles and I am no longer this strange man’s obsession, I’m going back to my life. My glam, high-heeled, positively chaotic life, the one where I belong.
Until then, I’ll be the most overdressed, overly perfumed woman this side of whatever county I happen to be hiding in has ever seen. Sequins at the grocery store, lipstick for no one but myself, champagne in a mug if I have to. I might be off the grid, but I refuse to go off-brand. If I’m going to be in hiding, I’ll be hiding in style. 💋
xo,
Sheridan Guerrette
WhatSheridanSaid.com
Life Behind the Artist: Wed at 9/8C
