As of roughly two weeks ago, it is the first time in my life where I am neither dating, nor interested in, nor talking to anyone, nor interested in talking to anyone. I don’t consider myself a serial dater. I realize now that I often unfairly judge my friends who seem to be constantly shuffling through romantic and sexual prospects. I think to myself: How embarrassing to be so lonely that you can’t be alone. How uncomfortable must it be to always need someone else to validate your existence by reflection? How anxious must you be to be constantly seeking physical relationships?
But it’s easy to judge when you are in a certain position of privilege and are able to feel safe from the eye of your own neurotic judgment. It’s hard to remember that all the things you dislike in others are also true—somewhere—of you.
I had a roommate once who certainly had a sex addiction. She had a long-term boyfriend, as well as one or two one-night stands per week. I distinctly remember an instance of being incredibly frustrated to hear her and a handful of suitors together in the shower late one night before I had to wake up early for work. In retrospect, she was overwhelmingly miserable—but not in terms of charisma. Her primary character trait was her self-centeredness, which she disguised using spiritual terms. She spoke of God and nature in the same terms she spoke of herself. We got along very well for a while (not like that). I remember discussing concerns for her behavior with my long-term girlfriend at the time, who agreed with me that it is self-destructive to be so dependent on others for validation.
Before I dated that girlfriend, I was talking to or going out with several women, including her. Before that, I had another long-term girlfriend. Before that, I was talking to or going out with another handful of girls—and so on, stretching back to middle school or whenever I first noticed girls. It validated me greatly to be with each and every one of them.
I talk about this in Paradise Harvard Square—I have always belonged to a group. It has never just been me.
I grew up in a close family with many cousins my age. I have a handful of siblings all close in age to me. In school, it was always me within the same group of roughly ten boys, and I knew exactly what to do and where I fell within the roster. I played on baseball teams and in garage bands. In college, I was active in clubs with active group chats and multi-weekly meetings. I live in a walkable city and return to the same places where I know I will see familiar faces.
On one hand, I do appreciate all this. On the other, I’ve been more frequently wondering where the dividing line is between me being socially healthy, and me being dependent on others to accurately perceive myself—as if I might not exist when I’m not contrasted by other personalities in the room.
Last month, a friend of mine—who I also happen to have dated briefly—booked a trip by herself to NYC on a whim. She took a long weekend and, for three days, walked around and entertained herself in the big city alone.
I’m not sure how she actually spent most of this time. She took a few pictures and bought a few things; she went to Central Park and a bookstore. Her primary intention was to be alone with herself. When she told me all this, I was sincerely confused and inspired. I couldn’t picture how I might feel if my intention was to go somewhere with nothing specific to do for the sake of being alone, with myself, by myself only.
I took a week off of work and booked a trip to Portland, Maine, where I’d never been before.
To ensure that I would be truly alone with myself, I purchased a blocker app which locked my phone entirely except for a window of a few short hours in the evening. I brought only some books, my notebook, my camera, and clothes and other necessities.
I’ll write more in detail about Portland some other time maybe. With nothing to do, I spent most of my time writing. I stayed in a charming hostel, but didn’t spend much time there unless I was sleeping. I was there, alone with myself only, walking around for the better part of three straight days.
Here are some ideas:
1.) It is so incredibly hard to be alone. I don’t know that this is true for everyone. I doubt it is, given that the friend that inspired me seemed to genuinely feel peaceful and renewed in the absence of others. I’m reminded of that famous frog-eyed Sartre’s thesis: Hell is other people. Which is a thesis I hated as soon as I heard it. I hate it because intuitively the opposite seems more true—but believing the opposite might also prove the original thesis.
It’s not that being perceived by others makes me miserable, it’s the lack of being perceived by others. This cannot be good. Why should I need to be around others to feel complete? How do I unlearn that?
2.) I’m an addict for perception like any other addict. Re: my previous statements about judgment, I think most people are guilty of judgment for others’ addictions. It’s not always so clear as being married to a dangerous substance.
I catch myself looking down on people who willingly rack up credit card debt for apparently useless stuff, or are constantly taking pictures not to preserve the moment, but to advertise the impression of a life on social media. I know many people happy to shame cigarette smokers, or influencers, or others with a clear compulsion which developed into a character trait.
A very kind person once told me, “Everyone is doing their best with what they were given.” And this is another thing I don’t want to hold true but keep finding myself having to.
At one point in Portland, I went to the movies in the early afternoon on a weekday. There was no other person at the showing. About an hour into the film, I started feeling the symptoms of a panic attack. I hadn’t had a conversation with anyone familiar in a few days, and even experiences intended to be shared socially with strangers were isolated and alien. This shouldn’t have driven me so insane. I stayed for the whole movie. It was this one.
3.) I’ve been back now for a few days. It bothers me that it was so hard to be by myself in a strange place for such a short period of time. It bothers me because I should feel complete while alone.
I’ve continued to isolate myself socially back home to see if I can get to the root of the anxiety. I texted another friend—who I also happen to have dated in the past—about my weird feeling of having no default person to relate to romantically, and about the weirdness of being to yourself for an uncomfortable period of time. She said, “I haven’t not been in a relationship since I was seventeen.” And, “That’s just the libido having no direction. After I’m through with finals we can brainstorm a project and channel that creative turbulence into some cool project.”
One more thing: I know a man who closely aligned his personality and attention to his dog. When he spoke of the dog, he seemed to be speaking of himself. He’d be quick to tell you the dog’s opinion of sports and politics and life and love—with no awareness that he was using the dog to speak for his own thoughts and ideas.
The dog developed a very aggressive kind of cancer and died within a two-week period of showing symptoms. Not a month later, the man bought another dog of the same breed and named it after himself. He continues to use the dog as a medium to convey himself. He seems to have no awareness of how insane this appears to people around him.
I believe this kind of neurotic behavior is a similar, more advanced version of my current problem. If I don’t figure out how to be comfortable alone with myself, I might someday have a string of dead dogs that share my first name.
It isn’t lost on me that I’m posting this for people to observe me through.
I need a fix.
Loved it!
Happened to me when I moved cities without knowing anyone. No one knows who you are and no one can remind you who you are either
Strange to see it from the other side. Alone is my default state and I’ve often felt I needed a fix for *not* wanting to be around others. Well written piece.