May I Suggest #10: I prefer being alone. Is that a problem?
Be a stranger and a friend to yourself
*I’ll be doing a lightning round of advice Q&As during a couple of Facebook Lives during the next few weeks! If you have a quick question or just want to ask me anything, send it here!*
For now...
The question:
I love being alone. I am so comfortable alone that I tend to say no to most nights out because the thought of spending money and being out with people I don’t know seems like a drag compared to a night in with my TV or book or knitting or anything else you can think of. I know you have often traveled alone and seem to be someone who enjoys solitude, how do you reconcile your actual feelings with the way your peers feel / the way you think you’re “supposed” to feel?
The suggestion:
Quick history lesson: For the first 150,000 years or so of human existence, it was all about survival. Humans lived with each other in communities, doing their gathering and their hunting together just to stay afloat and procreate and avoid getting swallowed in one gulp by obscenely large creatures.
Then, 50,000 years ago, folks started getting the hang of survival. They could move on to more interesting subjects other than not getting eaten.
This time is called the Upper Paleolithic Period, which is when humans took an interest in things unseen. They started wondering. They started appreciating. They started asking. They started storytelling. They got into believing. They began art-creating, and myth-making, and journey-taking.
No longer was the human experience all about just making it through another day, but rather MAKING our days into something meaningful.
A byproduct of this meaning-making revolution is that some people began living in solitude. This was brand new for humans: it was far safer to live in tribes, and safety was everything if you were a prehistoric being.
Certain people called shamans, thought to have special healing and animal-communicating powers, started living alone on the margins of the community. Their solitude was sanctified, as it was generally believed that the margins are where earth and heaven collided: the veil between the known and unknown, seen and unseen, certain and mysterious.
From then on, solitude was functional: it served a sacred purpose. Many civilizations would see solitude as necessary: an important ritual for transitions, such as the walkabout or vision quest.
In many world religions, the great prophets receive divine messages in deep solitude: often on a mountain or in the desert. The word "holy" shares its origin with set apart, implying that removing ourselves (from others, from society) is a special, profound experience.
Even fairy tales perpetuated this idea that solitude has magical properties: Think about wise old wizards or powerful witches who live alone in forest huts (and only occasionally eat children).
Then...something happened. We started seeing solitude as a weird thing, a wrong thing, a problem to be fixed, devoid of any benefits. Even for people who choose to be alone, we conflate solitude with loneliness: not a choice, but an affliction. A very pathetic one, at that.
Of course, we still romanticize the loner artist (especially men) and we idealize independence over inter-dependence, but for the most part, we don't know what to do with people who like to be alone. People like you. People like me.
A little Mari chatting with her friend, the sky
For the first two decades of my life and beyond, I was a major loner. I really liked my company, and I saw no reason to force myself outside of it. Of course I got lonely; everyone gets lonely (in my experience, especially with others!) but for the most part I just didn't get other people and they didn't seem to get me. No matter, I loved spending afternoons at the movies by myself, journaling for hours in ice cream shops, cooking when my roommates were out, and traveling solo.
This isn't quite my story anymore. Perhaps I did life in reverse: gathering many lessons in young adulthood that many of my peers are just starting to learn now, whereas I'm only now figuring out how to be comfortable in the world as a social creature.
At some point, I began taking interest in the world that most people learned about while I was busy staring out the window contemplating why we're all here. My interests shifted. I went out dancing. I learned to let myself be a little ridiculous. I listened to music other than Billie Holiday. I studied how to put on makeup. And I started spending time with other people.
But I see that intense time of solitude as my creative incubation, even my necessary initiation into the creative, question-asking life. I don't see anything wrong with it. There is a sacredness to being alone, and certainly a sacredness to being single. It only gets pathetic when we reject its invitation, only half-accepting because we feel like we should be doing something else.
A 23-year-old Mari in her chair (and life) built for one
There are gifts to be found in solitude. There are gifts to be found in socializing. But neither will reveal themselves if we're not fully present to the experience.
So, may I suggest: Reclaim the magic of solitude. Remember how your ancestors might view you as magical simply because you keep to yourself. You have no reason to over-explain.
But may I further suggest: Be a stranger to yourself.
If I could offer any caution against spending most of your time alone, I would remind you that you are an ever-evolving individual. Right now it sounds like you are a wonderful friend to yourself. But don't forget to be a stranger, too.
What I mean is: Sometimes people, especially artists, cling to an identity so hard that they forget to grow. You may find yourself curious about a certain party, or dare I say even a wild night out, only to shake your head and conclude, "That's not me. I prefer being alone."
Maybe, some day, it is you! Maybe you love your own company, and you might be more social in a different season of life. Maybe you'll surprise yourself with what gets more and less appealing as time goes on. That doesn't mean you're any less you; it actually might mean you're more you!
I got the phrase "the freedom to be a stranger to yourself" from the poet Jenny Xie, who reads Frank O'Hara's wonderful poem My Heart in this video.
A favorite line is:
And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!," all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I?
May we all respond such a way to any aficionado of our mess who claims we are not being like ourselves.
I would not be who I am today without a long period of solitude that I (mostly) enjoyed, and completely credit for my ability to self-express as freely as I do.
But: I've made many phenomenal friends the past few years who have sculpted my personality just as masterfully as my time alone. I truly could have been happy keeping to myself all my life, but at this point, I'm glad I didn't.
Tap into the ancient shamanic magic of being alone, while staying open to the strange possibility of preferring human company at some other point. I hope both experiences fill you to the brim with inner treasures.
P.S. If you'd like to hear me talk more about loneliness, I'm doing a book event tomorrow for The Lonely Stories with Natalie Eve Garrett, where we'll be talking about loneliness and mental health, loneliness as a personality trait, and how to sit with being alone. Save your spot!
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