I still remember the relief I felt when I took the Myers Briggs test as a 21 year old and finally realized I was an introvert. My love of solitude, puttering and thinking (and thinking and thinking some more) made sense. In fact, it was even a legitimate way of being.
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At last I understood why parties, even with sparkling conversation and people I love, tend to leave me fragile and drained. I stopped worrying about not having a ton of friends and started cherishing the deep friendships I’d developed over the years. I realized that the tendency of my dad, my brother and myself to retreat to our own spaces wasn’t a sign of dysfunction, but the natural pattern of a houseful of introverts. I also learned to feel kind of bad for my extroverted mother who had to live with all of us.
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Over time, the relief gave way to some new worries though. How would I ever handle being a mom, with the complete lack of privacy and space that comes with it? What if I fell in love with a party person who lived for going out and meeting new people? Would I ever be an effective manager when I knew my own stress triggers caused me to retreat into myself rather than reaching out to my team?
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As the years have passed, I’ve answered most of those questions and found my own equilibrium with them. But lately, a new feeling has slipped through the waters of my interior life, flashing bright and cutting hard before disappearing once again into the depths. It has taken me a long time to identify the feeling and give it a name. It is an ongoing process to face the feeling, now that I’ve named it.
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Because this dyed-in-the-wool introvert is finally owning up to her loneliness.
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Far from the soothing comfort of a long afternoon of solitude, loneliness is an itchy, tight emotion, leaving me restless and searching.
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Along with loneliness comes harsh judgement of my life and my choices. I have a belief that I’m to blame for loneliness.
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Solitude is spacious, open to possibility. Loneliness is lost, as though somewhere along the line I made a wrong turn.
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Solitude feels whole. Loneliness is an ache for something you can’t have – or aren’t even sure exists.
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I think one of the reasons I had trouble recognizing it for so long was that I haven’t really experienced it since my youth.
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Growing up the kind of person I am in the kind of town I did wasn’t easy. Of course most people’s childhoods (especially adolescence) are full of emotional bumps and bruises, but I was desperately lonely, even with my friends. I longed for people who would accept me for who I was, who would challenge me to grow, who would delight in the real, unfettered me.
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Happily, I found some of those people in college and their support over the years has enriched my life immeasurably. While I did not find someone to marry (party monster or otherwise) and I did not become a mother, I created my own family of sorts, and loneliness peeked from the shadows of my subconscious but rarely.
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My ad hoc family, however, has moved on without me. Caught up with the responsibilities of their own, “real” families, my role is diminished. I have many acquaintances, but few good friends who I can rely on. Once again, I’m contorting myself to fit into a way of life that I think I should lead, so as not to become entirely forgotten and invisible.
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Loneliness has roared out of the shadows and taken up jealous residence around my heart. It makes me hesitant and fearful to make a mistake. It keeps me wondering about what might have been instead of focusing on what is. It makes me feel like I’m not enough, and never will be.
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The solitary and quiet, creative life that I’ve so carefully constructed feels like a shelf where I’ve been placed and forgotten. I toss words like “spinster” and “maiden aunt” around with defiant aplomb, but I worry about being old with no one to care about me (let alone care for me).
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It’s not a happy feeling.
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If my mindfulness practice has taught me anything, it is that to face a feeling head on while not getting hooked into the stories you want to tell about it is the way to go. So loneliness and I are sitting next to each other, trading uneasy sidelong glances.
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I’m taking pains to notice when alone feels still and serene and when it feels abandoned.
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I’m listening to the judging voices, observing what they have to say without arguing back or wincing in shame.
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I’m telling myself that loneliness is just a human emotion, not necessarily bad or good. I remind myself that if I never felt it at all, I’d probably be a full-on psychopath rather than an occasionally-ornery introvert.
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I’m asking loneliness if it has something to teach me.
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What makes it different is that there’s no running away from it this time. There will be no move to college to allow me to redefine myself. Prince Charming is a no-show. (And I’ve had enough relationships to know that being with someone is no protection from loneliness either.) Instead, I will sit with it. I will listen, but I won’t necessarily believe everything it says. I will let it rage and see what happens once it spends itself like a petulant toddler.
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What’s on the other side of loneliness?
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I’m determined to find out.
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Oh, I love this. You and I have a lot in common, my friend. “I worry about being old with no one to care about me (let alone care for me).” My mind has been occupied with this thought for two years now – and I’m married. There are also times when I sit, with my animals by my side, and wonder if there would be anyone, anyone at all, I could call on to come to my aid if I needed help. Sadly, the list is all too brief and uncertain. You’re an amazingly eloquent writer and I love the visuals you’ve created. I also love that you’re not sitting in resistance, but rather with an open heart and mind, knowing somehow, that loneliness is not all that’s left for you in this life. If you were here beside me, I would give you a big squishy hug – from one introvert to another.
Blessings,
Carolynn
Thanks so much Carolynn. It’s been really helpful to realize I’m not alone in this. (Pause to appreciate the irony in that sentence.) Hugs back to you!