Alone At Last

It wasn’t that long ago when I was terrified of being alone. Of being truly single. I’ve been trying to remember the last time it was that I was actually on my own for longer than a few weeks, and I can’t picture it. Even in high school, I was always crushing on someone or hooking up with someone, always boy crazy and wildly in love with someone new every other week.

This fear has led me into relationships when I wasn’t ready, and kept me in them long after they should have been over. Desperate to be partnered. Convinced I wasn’t anything if wasn’t attached to someone.

I’ve lived alone for the majority of the last few years, having a brief moment of living with a boyfriend, which ended quickly yet our relationship did not.

I was so excited to move back to Portland to be totally on my own. Realizing that this would be the first time I am renting an apartment while completely single, the possibilities seemed endless to me. All my time would be mine to spend however I wanted, no one would be waiting on me or texting me or expecting anything from me.

Quickly I realized that this would also mean no one would be texting me, or expecting or wanting anything from me.

Alone. Totally alone.

I don’t mean to put so much emphasis on being partnered. This idea that we must always have a mate, always be looking for love or wanting love or feeling attracted to someone has overwhelmed me in the past, and is something I still struggle with. It’s addicting. Just like everything else in my life, I have to learn some moderation or cut it out completely. My addictions aren’t just substance, they can come in many forms. Exersize, sex, love. I’ve been thinking that just because I have a handle on the more accepted forms of addiction, that I am not an addict. But this isn’t the case. I conquer one thing and move to the next, eagerly consuming all of its parts, wanting everything all at once.

Everything in extremes. It’s always all or nothing with me, as anyone I’ve ever dated will attest to. You’re in or you’re totally out. All or nothing. Wasted or sober. In love or in hate. Blissfully happy or dark cloud depressed.

So what does an addict do when she is stripped of nearly all of her vices?

Panic. Freak the fuck out. Binge eat. Waste time on Tinder. But publicly hold it together because I refuse to be that person again, I refuse to break down AGAIN, to crumble because my boyfriend broke up with me 8 months go and kept fucking with my head until 3 months ago and I’m still crushed and sad and dealing with a hurricane inside my body because “closure” is a made-up word. I couldn’t even get it if I tried. And I have. But no matter how badly I wanted the end to be respectful or compassionate, things don’t always go the way you planned. People shut down and it has left me questioning if respect and compassion ever existed because who the fuck just disappears?

I’m so used to cleaning up messes at this point. It all just feels so routine; walking on egg shells around someone else’s feelings.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever got better or if I just got better at hiding. Maybe that’s a stretch. I know I’m better. But I want so badly to be that person that people tell me I can be. I feel like part of my identity was stolen. My heart broke and pieces of me scattered, which is incredibly embarrassing to admit because yes I am saying I lost bits of me because of a man. A boy. Because of another person. And I beat myself up everyday because I allowed someone else to ultimately dictate who I am, and I am left here caring much more about this demise than he is and that makes me even more upset. One person is always the loser, one person moves the fuck on and acts like nothing ever happened.

So my move back hasn’t been graceful. It felt close to being stripped naked and having cold water dumped on you and then having to scramble for your clothes and putting them back on when your skin is still wet and everything sticks and feels horrible and you’re falling all over the place panicking to get your stupid pants on and you just have to walk around wet and awkward and it takes forever to dry out.

My first week in this apartment everything broke. My fridge, my sink, my stove, my bathtub. I ran out of money, like totally ran out of money and had to borrow and draw from my paycheck (I have the best parents and best job ever). I spent a few nights drinking too much, sleeping with people I had no business sleeping with, and feeling exceptionally sorry for myself.

Was this the fantastic single life I had imagined for myself at 29? No. Not at all.

I am a fortunate person. I am lucky. I’m not naive to my privilege, and I feel very grateful for the things I have. And I try to remind myself of the good things in my life, of the moments of happiness I have felt the last few months. I try to hold on to those.

I also hold on to the days that totally suck.

There were days this last month that I didn’t know how to move forward. I would sit in the middle of my tiny crappy apartment, unable to cry because apparently I don’t do that anymore, unable to have a panic attack because somehow those have gone away too, and I would yearn for my old apartment with a garden and a huge space to move around and appliances that worked and a building that didn’t reek of cigarettes.

Being single doesn’t mean always being busy, or always looking for the next person. I am my person. And I’m worried that I’ll never find her fully if I continue to distract myself with mindless activities or feeling sad over a boy who sure as shit never felt sad about me.

I started meditating again. I take deep breaths. I think about my job and how to improve my performance or I think about the future of the work that we do and how badly I want to be a part of it. I talk to strangers more, I watch less TV and listen to more podcasts about how the world works, how beautiful and magical God is, how endless and terrifying the ocean is because it’s filled with thousands of giant squids and we’ve only seen one. And it all makes me feel completely small and wonderful and comforted.

My worth isn’t measured by another person. Things can change very fast and this may be the only moment of slowness and quiet that I have for a long time, so why am I so eager to ignore the silence? To ignore myself? To compromise my beliefs, AGAIN?

I am okay with being alone. I’m not thrilled with it all the time, as I do feel lonely some days and wish I had more friends. Sometimes I’m tired of carrying all this weight on my own. Tired of laughing at my own jokes or dancing by myself in the kitchen. Sometimes I wish I had more people that really see me.

I accept that everything is a bit messy. I’ll never be one of those humans that isn’t a bit scattered or wild. This process is new to me and that’s maybe the most exciting thing; no matter how weird or sad or anxious I feel, I can sit alone with it and welcome it and learn from it and maybe it won’t be so weird or sad anymore.