Why You Should Listen to Your Loneliness
“I realize it’s a fine line to walk,” my brother said.
In 1974, a man walked a tight rope from one Trade Center Tower to the other, dancing along the line. He stood out there for hours, the police on both sides hundreds of feet in the air trying to coax him down from the perilous height. All the while, he jumped on the thin cable, spun, sat, and lay down. He had trained for it, and he was unafraid.
But my brother was not a tight rope walker, and I was scared. I was scared because a tight rope is a dangerous place to be — both sides are a steep steep drop off.
And this fine line was not a cable, really, but a sharp wire. Not only is falling off a horrible plunge, but even walking carefully leads to deep cuts in the bottom of your feet.
“Take it from me,” I replied. “I fell off. I did it the wrong way, and I’m still paying for it.”
Two years ago, around this time of year, I was deeply submerged in my senior year of college. I was double-majoring, my schedule chalked full of tough classes, a new job as a resident advisor, and volunteering for my church.
It was October or November that something happened. Well, a number of things happened.
First, a fight. The group of my closest friends split apart because two members had a falling out. Everyone was choosing sides, making arguments, and refusing to all be in the same place together.
Second, I was required more and more to spend my weekends on campus. My job as an R.A. had me on duty one or two times a month, which gave me more and more excuses to spend my time in my apartment.
Third, I developed some anxiety. It started to hit me that my life was changing, that soon enough I would have to decide what to do after I graduated, and that I had less and less control of many of the areas of my life.
I didn’t want to pick sides. I didn’t want to deal with drama. I stayed in. I had excuses to blow off plans with friends, to go do things in town. I stayed in. I felt the weight of life for the first time, and started sinking into myself more and more. I stayed in.
As a freshman, a sophomore, a junior, on nights I spent by myself, I felt sharply lonely. But this was a whole new experience altogether, because as I got really comfortable being alone, something shifted in me. Loneliness became normal, so much so that I couldn’t feel it anymore.
The wire ripped into my feet, but I was numb. I walked that line — keeping my feet on what I thought was solitude and contemplation — until life blew some harsh wind my way. Then I plunged down,
down,
down.
Three weeks ago, I felt lonely for the first time in two years.
I know most people might think that sounds astounding, like it’s been a really good thing. But trust me, it wasn’t because I was surrounded by friends at every turn. It was because being alone became my greatest comfort — now I am still re-learning how to let people back into the empty spaces of my life again.
My brother called me to talk about life, and as he sat in the basement of my parent’s house in Denver and I sat in my own apartment in Indianapolis, he finally got around to telling me how much of his life he spent isolated.
“I get up, and I get dressed. And I drive alone to the bus. And I get on the bus with my music in and even though there are people on the bus I am alone. And then I walk to class and sit in class and I don’t really have friends because I’m a commuter student. And then I get back on the bus.”
He spoke to how he’s unsure about getting more involved with people at his college church group, how his friends are married or working or busy or living too far away.
“I want to be proud of doing things alone, like I don’t need another person or other people to be comfortable and have fun. Hell, I’ll go see Blade Runner twice by myself because it’s a good movie.” He said.
All the while, my head was spinning, thinking about tight rope walkers and feeling the sting in the bottom of my soles where I have walked this road…feeling the free-fall.
“But there is this loneliness.” He tacked it on the end.
Being lonely is the healthy scream ingeniously written into our beings, a desire to share of ourselves, to pour into others, and to simply exist in proximity to other human souls.
“When things changed in my life, when things got complicated, being alone just seemed so much easier,” I told him. To seek out other people meant I would have to change my plans, think unselfishly, or even embrace awkward interactions a lot of the time.
Making friends takes years and years. Making time to continue those friendships in the middle of shifting winds and lives, new perils and old, is rigorous. Isolation stings until it is easy, then it pulls you in,
in,
further and further in.
For awhile, I would wake up early so that I could eat breakfast alone before anyone in the house was awake. I would cancel plans at night because I just didn’t feel up to getting drinks with friends when I could just watch a movie by myself. If I had the option to go do something alone, I just went for it without thinking about asking a friend along.
Loneliness is a mechanism just like pain. It would be nice to not feel pain, but imagine a world without it. We could go days and days with broken bones not knowing there was a problem, our limbs folding in half where they aren’t supposed to. We could be bleeding to death and have no idea it was happening.
Pain lets us know what is wrong, and loneliness is the same. As we ache for human connection, for companionship, for conversation, we recognize a deep need within us to be around and in communion with other people.
Two years ago, I ignored loneliness until I didn’t feel the sting of being alone anymore.
Sure, it’s a good habit of being comfortable in your own company. Solitude is precious, is needed, for many to think, pray, grow, dream, and imagine. But there is a reason that solitary confinement is torture…
We need people. And not just brushing shoulders with people, or sitting on a bus next to someone, or chatting at the grocery store. We need human touch, voice, forgiveness, understanding, laughter, affection, and attention.
That is why I was hopeful to hear of my brother’s ache. That is why my wish for you is to stay just a little lonely . You know that something ought to be there, but isn’t quite yet. It reminds you to draw back to the people you love. It keeps you from being numb and coating yourself in a shell of ambivalence disguised as independence.
“I know it’s not fun at first. But go. It doesn’t matter if you connect right away, if you make friends right away. Go. Even if it is a little awkward, go.”
It was hard advice to give, because I have done the exact opposite so many times. How many excuses did I think up? How many reasons did I justify in my head to ignore social gatherings or time getting to know others?
It’s not convenient. They don’t understand me. I don’t belong. I have no friends. I don’t have time. I’m not feeling well. It’s a long drive.
Of course, there is a balance. Sometimes we just don’t connect with a group of people, or we don’t have common interests, or we can tell it’s not a healthy relationship, and that is fair.
But some of the best friends I made in college, some of the best memories, were because I went even though I wasn’t sure if I would make connections with people or even if I would have fun. I pushed myself to take a step to get to know some other people, and those people radically changed my life.
I listened then to the scream.
Today, we have the same challenge. I recently moved to a new city and I know very few people. I live alone. I see the tight rope right in front of me, tempting me to choose the option of solitude, of ease. I’m sure you are faced many times with the same decision: do I make a move to reach out, or do I draw further into myself and go the distance alone?
For me, it’s the new imperative: make some friends. Go out. Make plans. Laugh. Try new things.
Silence the scream in the right way…feed it.
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