The History of Alone

When you grow up, you're a kid going through shit, trying to be cool, make friends, have fun, survive your parents' bullshit, become someone.

Once you become that someone, that adult, you're left there silent, standing in a still night, on an empty street, wondering, "How did I become this way?"

Or your someone who is recovering from a tough break up, wondering, "Why am I so fucked up?"

Why do I find the thought of being alone so incredibly frightening? Not frightening in the smirky way that Bridget Jones-types regard singledom, but terrifying, like how'd you feel if you were standing at the edge of a steep cliff, losing footing. How did I become so afraid of being alone?

And what is alone, exactly? Alone is alone. No friends, no boyfriend. Independence. Netflix. Facebook. Those things are all "alone" for me. Filling my weekends with errands, accepting any social engagement people dare to include me in. This is alone.

I hate alone. Alone makes me want to jump out my window, hurt myself, scream, break shit, take pills, drink, etc. This is abnormal and irrational. Yet, irrational or not, this is my reality, my day-to-day life.

Which brings me back to the question: how did I become this fucked up? When did the thought of being alone begin to resonate with feelings of hopelessness, terror, and panic? I was told that it had to have begun somewhere. There was a catalyst, or were catalysts. I was charged with figuring out when, what, and why.

As it turns out, the when was a long time ago. Approximately 26.5 years ago.

The what is a lot of things. More things than I realized. Who knew.

And the why? Well, it's self-evident when you know the what--trust me.

It's comforting to have concrete, documented reasons why I suck at being alone. I feel reassured knowing that I felt the same panic and helplessness when my mom would leave the car to pump gas, at age 2, as I do now when faced with a weekend without plans, at age 27. There are reasons why I'm like this. Crazy for a reason is better than just plain crazy.

How do I get over these things? It can't be ridiculous as climbing back into that little girl's skin, and coaxing myself out of the original sadness and fear. I can't change anything. Do I beat or scream into a pillow? Do I meet with other women who faced similar challenges? Do I pen my stories in a journal (or type in a blog) in order to purge, and be rid of it forever? Do I meditate? Do I confront those who hurt me? Do I submit to hypnosis?

I have no fucking idea. Hopefully the madman leading me through this mess does, though. All I know is that it's still affecting me--the bad things that happened 26.5 years ago. That's retarded. Unacceptable, really. So I'm going to stop it. Stop being crazy. Stop wanting to jump out of my skin. Eventually.

In the meantime, I'm going to Switzerland. When asked if this were my version of Eat, Pray, Love, I replied, "I don't know what that is." It's a trip to Switzerland. It will involve exploration, mostly of the countryside, perhaps of myself as well. This is my first time traveling alone in a foreign country. I think Switzerland is the safest place to start. I wonder how I can do these things--travel by myself when I'm terrified of being alone. I guess now is the best time to do it. It's got to be better--being alone in a beautiful country than being alone in San Jose. Right? Right.

hypocrisy

I'm a hypocrite. I hate hypocrites, and am reluctant to join their club. But I am. Why is it okay for me to move on with my life, but the moment I feel like my ex is moving on with his, I'm struck blind with jealousy, sadness, and panic? It's a horrible, shitty thing to do to someone you love. I'm learning a lot about myself these days. How low I'll go, if you will.

While reflecting on my childhood, I discovered (with a little help) that I have an unfortunate history of men in my life claiming to love me, but yet moving on, abandoning me, with appalling ease. This causes problems for a myriad of reasons, obviously. It's so crippling for me because of the manifestation of feelings of worthlessness. I feel that acutely.

I wish I could be a better person. I wish I would not torture myself with conjured images of my ex making out with/making love to another girl, being able to make that girl happy in ways and lengths that he could never make me. Why wasn't I good or worthwhile enough to inspire him to change, be different? Why can't I accept the fact that it wasn't me? It couldn't have been me.

If anything, I was the reason why it lasted so long. I kept believing that it would work, had to work. Stuck with it, despite the unhappiness, misery, and torturous weeks/months/years. You know how it is. Things can suck for a while, but then you have a good week, when you remember why you fell in love with the person in the first place. Those good parts keep you hanging on, keep you hoping. Ultimately, all the hanging on and hoping is futile.

So yeah. I wish I weren't a hypocrite. I wish I couldn't give a fuck what my ex did and who he did it with. But I am, and I do. Not forever, but for right now.

I don't like right now.

Trapped in the Golden State

someone once described my life as a mobile french film. a mixture of cynicism and romanticism, a pack of gauloises, a bottle of of syrah...it made sense. these days, my life feels more like a black-and-white film about the Holocaust.

Sadness.

I'm single again, for the first time in over two and a half years. I've lost my best friend, my lover, my world. Worst of all, I'm now alone in California.

You see, I moved out for here with my now ex-boyfriend so that he could pursue his dream. I left my friends behind, my awesome Astoria apartment, the impeccable city of New York. I gave these things up in exchange for the greater hope that I would be with the love of my life, and we would start a brilliant new future together in the land of warm weather and palm trees. I would get a job at my dream company, which I did, and he would have his amazing new job.

The problem was that there were problems before we moved. These problems, I realize now, were permanent, fixed. And California sucked. Still does. Always will?

So here I am. A year and one month after moving to California, I am living on my own in a San Jose apartment. I miss New York so much my chest aches. I spend most of my weekends alone. I struggle to relate to people, to make friends.

A lot of my struggles have to do with my hating California. I mean, who wants to hang out with someone who hates the place you happily live in? Nobody. That's understandable. Also, I'm sad. No one likes sad people, either.

I'm not sure what to do next. My immediate hope is to move back to New York City, to the land of the sarcastic and street smart. My people.

In this economy, it's not as likely. I need to have a Plan B.

My Plan B: I don't have one. Survive, I guess. Try to make friends where I can, exceed expectations at work, and do my best to create a new life for myself, a life in which I can be happy. A pitiful existence, perhaps, but it's the best I can manage.

What about Plan C? Can someone rescue me?