Why Do I Hate Being alone?
It doesn’t take much to make me feel that way.
For some reason I often find it difficult to be alone.
I don’t know why. I ride crowded trains to work, long for my own space, but then when I actually am alone, I feel excluded, cut off.
At the end of the day, the door closes behind me and before long, the walls close in a bit. I experience a sense of loss for something, someone, a longing for other human voices, as opposed to the yowling of cats.
I do love my cats. They’re almost human, but not quite.
Everyone, with the exception of mothers, spends some time alone.
My thoughts make no sense and my mind knows it.
“There’s no one here. No one cares about me. I could die and no one would even know.”
And if I died, I wouldn’t care about being alone, would I? See what I mean? It’s just irrational.
It’s irrational because I have friends and interact with people on a daily basis. It’s irrational because I have family members who live nearby and who I visit. It’s irrational because I use the time to write and catch up on my bills, clean the house, clean out files. You know, all that good stuff!
It’s part of the human condition. It’s normal. And I ask myself why I cannot be happy with my own company.
What’s at the root of this feeling?
In Psychology Today, Karin Arndt, Ph.D. notes that aloneness is far more prevalent in her female patients. This makes sense. Women are naturally more communicative. We don’t even mind asking for directions.
Feeling alone is not about filling-up your time being busy. It’s not about finding hobbies. It’s about developing the tolerance to be with our experience.
The experience of life without the distractions, without the self-talk, and the monkey mind.
We live in a hyper-connected world, texting, posting, face-timing, seeking human connection in cyber space. In a sense, we’re all trying to feel like we’re a part of something, keeping the aloneness at bay.
We are uncomfortable with our solitude and sometimes it’s tough. I know that I should be enough at peace with myself to enjoy my own company. What I don’t know is how to do it consistently.
It’s difficult to listen to the silence and know it’s not the same as emptiness. It’s the space in between where we give our voice and words a rest.
There I am in my silence, and I hear life going on around me, outside my window, people going for walks or walking their dogs, and there it is again.
In the morning I awaken to a room filled with sunshine, the glistening blue ocean, seagulls, life, and happy voices. With the sheets wrapped around me, I listen and feel languid and alone.
The times of the light are beginning to outweigh the darkness that leaves me feeling blinded and helpless. I know I need that human connection and I know I indeed have it.
Through music, meditation and quiet times, the turbulence is beginning to settle. Through reading, I know that I am not alone and it makes the world feel like a smaller place.
Our stories and feelings are all so similar.
The peaks of the waves are less sharp and I land on the other side more gently. But it still exists.
I have no resolution nor do I feel hopeless.
It’s just that I felt it again and decided to put it down in black and white. It’s like seeing it on top of feeling it.
As the summer sun begins to set in the sky, the light takes on a reflective, ethereal glow. Bird song fills the air and a breeze flows gently. My day has been productive: yoga, swimming in the ocean, reading, cleaning, and writing.
I am content and welcome the night.
