I stare into the abyss of loneliness daily. Divorced now for nearly as long as I was married, I was often lonely even when wedded. I had a husband who worked and golfed. A lot. Being lonely with someone is decidedly different to and more difficult than being lonely alone. Alone doesn’t necessarily mean lonely; the former involves more intentionality than the latter.
Alone
Aloneness – physical separation from others – is a choice. It humbles me to know that many past luminaries opted for solitude: Buddha, Thoreau, Proust, Howard Hughes, and Greta Garbo all “vanted to be alone.” Some for spiritual and metaphysical pursuits; some simply to avoid the corrosive glare of the spotlight.
My reasons were neither as lofty nor notable. I left my marriage to rediscover myself. I remember thinking that doing so at a relatively young age (<50) would allow me time to make a new, more bespoke, connection with someone special. Sitting and getting reacquainted with myself has proven rewarding. Yoga teacher training challenged my physical and spiritual confines, while studying Shakespeare fed me intellectually.
Alone: having no one else present, according to the ether’s dictionary. For me, it means sitting in a theatre (back when that was even a thing) midday, by myself, as far as I can get from anyone else, watching a movie of my choosing, with a big barrel of unbuttered popcorn that I must share with no one. It means eating what I want when I want, even if that is refried beans and corn on the cob at 5pm while bingeing Hit and Run. It means no thermostat, window position, or blanket wars. It means sleep uninterrupted by snoring or alarm clocks I haven’t set. It means cleaning up after only my tidy self. It means that I can pick up and go – anywhere – if wanderlust strikes.
Lonleliness
I am lucky to have good friends and a caring family. But love remains elusive – no one has my back (or front) as a partner would. The number of dates I’ve had nearly equates to the number of years as a reborn single woman; most of them left me depleted and disappointed.
The dark B side of the hit single liberty is loneliness. The myriad definitions of the word almost all include the adjective sad. The state of solo-hood may be a choice, the sometime unhappy consequence, not so much.
Freedom has sinister side effects. Tremors of anxiety shake me periodically when I feel untethered. I dive into a pool overly chlorinated with existential angst, wondering if anyone knows or cares that I am alive. I do far too much wandering in the recesses of my mind, undistracted by other human beings. Sometimes I go to Starbucks just for a change of venue and to hear voices other than my own. Weekends are especially difficult because the world eschews third wheels like bicycle riders graduating from tricycles to two-wheelers. I do my best to keep busy – at the gym, running errands - but even that is a challenge on Saturdays and Sundays. Traffic blossoms like feisty mold, as do crowds in town. People go away, and homebodies couple or quadruple up.
I would like, just once, for someone to make me a cup of PG Tips tea with precisely the right amount of milk. I would like someone to rub my feet – they, and the rest of me, are starved for human touch. I would like to know that if I fell down the numerous slippery wood stairs in my place that I’d be discovered before I’d started to fester. I would like for anyone to care how my day went. I would like to share intimate, inside jokes with someone.
In the Meantime…
I comb the beach alone for sea glass and watch the seagulls angling for beachgoers’ food while those around me sit together for wine-fuelled sunset vigils.
Maybe I am the problem. I don’t suffer fools, I have a short list of acceptable mate traits, and a very long one of non-negotiable deal-breakers. My independence breaks down barriers to some amazing experiences, but also builds a wall against potential suitors. I have watched other divorcees settle for subprime partners, like the overenthusiastic mortgage lenders of the previous decades – and I suspect many of those relationships will pancake on themselves like so many precarious loans. I don’t want to go through that again. I have grown (more) skeptical and cynical.
But I feel justified in that – even if the proactive election of aloneness does result at times in the uninvited scourge of loneliness. As a friend reminded me, I am the prize. I know I am not alone in either being alone or my sometimes-companion loneliness.
I stare into the abyss of loneliness daily. Sometimes it sucks me into a dysthymic despair. Sometimes I just stare back, defiant, with a Cheshire Cat contented grin.