The Defiance of Being Alone

My husband left on Sunday.

Not like “left the marriage” left. He left to carry on the next phase of that insane training referenced earlier in our defiance history. I’m pretty positive he’ll lose another 15 pounds and I’ll gain at least 5. Bastard.

And so I’m alone.

I haven’t been alone in quite awhile. My husband and I dated long distance for a year, but that alone was more like a 4-day waiting game for the weekend’s adventures. This alone is more like “I’m really glad I have cable because I would go INSANE in this silence” alone.

I remember the silence.

The first time I had to learn how to be alone was after the inevitable end of my first adult relationship. I spent ten years living with, arguing with, making a life with, or breaking up with (on repeat) the same man. I was never alone even when it felt that way. And then, one day, I was. And while I never doubted the decision to end the relationship, the accompanying alone was an unexpected, terrifying by-product of my new found independence.

It took eleven months.

Eleven months for me to figure out how to do alone. Back then, I waged a war against alone. I built an emotional fortress, buttressed by three jobs, no free time, even less money, and a small, but life saving band of single thieves who occasionally got drunk with me. I crafted a moat around my loneliness and sat proudly and safely in the middle of my creation. I wasn’t happy, but I was content.

And safe, don’t forget safe.

And then my dumb ass let someone doggy paddle his way through the moat. My alligators must have been asleep that day. After three months of bliss, three months of work, three months of total shit show, and six months of some combination of the above, I quit.

And found myself alone again.

Except this time, I didn’t have the strength to build another fortress. I vividly remember lamenting “I just want my moat back.” But alas, once you let someone other than the prince cross your moat, your kingdom is kinda fucked. New strategy — I just won’t do alone this time. And I didn’t. I crammed my days with work travel and my nights with friends that filled my heart and my wine glass. I opted out of alone. And it worked.

Until now.

I’m too happy with my life to build another fortress. Plus, my husband is already swimming for his life; he’s likely to balk at having to ford another moat upon his return. And I live in a new city with no wine bar (I know, I know, we’ve covered this before) and a much smaller, albeit delightful, social circle, so avoiding alone is kinda out too. This go round, I’m trying to embrace alone. Leveraging the quiet for reflection and the hours for exploration. I have to retrain myself how to be by myself, safe in the knowledge that I am never truly alone anymore and surrounded by the potential of a new city and the promise of the one I still call home.

I am alone. And it is lonely. But I am okay.

It’s a softer defiance, for sure. Less loud and proud, more humble and hopeful. But that’s okay too. I kinda like it that way.