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.