I’m the Madwoman Locked up in the Attic of Your Favorite Gothic Novel, and I Actually Don’t Really Mind It Up Here

“What it was, whether beast or human being, one could not, at first sight, tell: it grovelled, seemingly, on all fours; it snatched and growled like some strange wild animal: but it was covered with clothing, and a quantity of dark, grizzled hair, wild as a mane, hid its head and face.”

-Charlotte Bronte, Jane Eyre

Of late, I’ve been the contentious subject of all manner of books and articles, and I think it’s time I clarify a few things. Yes, I live cloistered away in a dark, albeit opulent set of rooms, hidden behind an elaborate byzantine tapestry. Yes, most people do not know of my existence, except when I venture out in the evenings to cause mayhem and scare the servants. At this point I’ve been called a demon, ghost, and vampire in different contexts but it seems that no one is willing to acknowledge what I really am: a woman just like any other attempting to navigate post-grad married life, although in an extravagant gothic estate.

And honestly, I find it reductive when folks assume my appearance, lifestyle choices, and personality are solely the reflection of my husband’s desire to keep me locked away. Sometimes when I wake up, I don’t feel like brushing my long, grizzled mane—so what? If I want to parade around on all fours, pretending to be a wild animal, why shouldn’t I be able to? I’m a grown woman with an absurd amount of generational wealth and an alarming amount of spare time!

Why does it never occur to the hoards of discerning readers that there is a reason my chambers are furnished to look like the hiding place of some reclusive and deranged witch—a reason that has absolutely nothing to do with my mental state? Is it so hard to believe that I received my PhD in Interior and Environmental Design from the University of Oxford? That I did my dissertation on the intersection of non-western configurations of dwelling and queering space? That subsequently my rooms are a living representation of my life’s research into the interface between the domesticated civilized world and the chaotic and untamed natural one? Besides, my husband snores, so there’s no way I’m sharing a bedroom with him.

I’m so unbelievably sorry that I wasn’t born a clean freak or a Virgo. I wish that I could keep all of my possessions nice and organized in case someone wrote a winding, compelling novel set at my formidable and vaguely terrifying estate on the English moors. But to be fair, how could I have known that complete and utter strangers would take such issue with my innocent introversion?

Recently, things came to a head when my husband of several years attempted to marry the woman we had recently employed as a governess, while I was off relaxing in my chambers. I would have come down for the ceremony but I was tired from popping out of secret passageways and frightening maids to within an inch of their life the evening before. I can’t be expected to walk my romantic partners through every aspect of their life. Do I trust my husband? Not really. Do I have an airtight prenuptial agreement? Absolutely, I do. Ours is a story for the ages--I met Rochester at Competitive Dressage Camp in grade nine, and it was love at first sight. Believe it or not, I also have my own life and aspirations outside of him. I am above all, a modern woman.

Following this debacle, various neighboring aristocrats attempted to reach out to me to express their discontent on my behalf. However, I feel that now is the time to explain that my husband and I actually practice ethical non-monogamy.

Honestly, opening up our marriage was the best thing that could have happened for us, but some of you aren’t ready for that conversation. I’ve learned through extensive couples therapy that polyamory is not the dirty word society would have us believe, and my own bisexuality is nothing to be ashamed of. If my husband and I decide to add another consenting adult to our relationship, it should be well within our rights to do so.