We, Alone
Image Description: Self-portrait of the writer in her apartment, putting a record on the record player. A window with white curtains and the foot of a bed are in the background.
It’s Saturday morning and I’m so proud of myself for not hitting snooze. I’m out the door and running before 6 am. Prospect Park is quiet but by mile 3 the amount of people I’m counting around each bend increases, and so does my anxiety. Mask up, mask down. Repeat. Despite the feelings of unease, this beautiful morning has me feeling some sense of control and inner peace.
By the time I’m home I already feel accomplished, my mood is lifted, and it feels like the world is my oyster. Albeit a tiny, tiny oyster. I feel good. And that feels weird, and maybe...even wrong. We’re in the midst of an unprecedented pandemic and I’ve never been more alone, yet I’ve never felt less lonely.
I’m an anxious person. My extended family is small; my immediate family is big, but broken. My past is ripe with abuse, neglect and subsequent depression, and the work required to rewire my brain, to love, cope, and just be OK on my own is constant. Save for a few patient therapists and a handful of very patient friends who’ve helped along the way, I’ve spent a good portion of my life figuring things out on my own.
Image Description: Self-portrait of the writer in her apartment, looking out the window with arms akimbo. A record player and speaker are in the foreground, and the foot of a bed, striped rug, and plants next to the window.
Currently, I live alone. Besides a few short-lived mostly-disappointing romantic encounters, I’ve been single for two years, and prior to this long stint of singledom I suffered a devastating heartbreak.
That all being said, and shocking absolutely no one, I’ve struggled with feelings of loneliness and isolation for a big portion of my life. It doesn’t always feel as simple as being lonely though; often it feels like I’m suffering alone.
Image Description: Self-portrait of the writer in her apartment, standing sideways and looking out the window. She stands in a contrapposto pose with on arm on her hip and the other on the window sill. A record player and speaker are in the foreground, and the foot of a bed, striped rug, and plants next to the window.
Right now everything is overwhelmingly upsetting and exhausting. I’m so tired. Shit, what I wouldn’t give to have someone here to help carry groceries, take a turn cooking yet another recipe starring beans, or hand me a cup of coffee I didn’t have to make. What I wouldn’t give to have someone scoop me up when I’m suddenly sobbing. Existing alone and being fully responsible for my own survival is hard enough outside of a pandemic. I’d love a break. I’d love a hug. And yet somehow I feel increasingly less lonely. Why do I feel this way during (what I’ve decided to call) “quarantimes”?
My guess? Shared heartbreak. Our experiences are uniquely our own and I’m certainly not equating my suffering with the loss so many others are experiencing, but simply put: We’re all facing the same invisible monster. All the worries, fears and changes derive from the same root and we’re suffering and navigating these incredible circumstances together.
Sure, my timing finding a teletherapist couldn’t have been more perfect––or coincidental. Being the most resilient version of myself and connecting with friends in ways that feel more intentional certainly helps. But ultimately it’s the solidarity and mutual understanding alleviating my feelings of isolation.
I don’t celebrate all this pain and suffering. I simply appreciate that for once I’m not figuring this out alone.
