On being completely alone

& risking it all

It’s 7 p.m.—I’ve nearly made it through the day. The feeling returned around noon, and I’ve tried everything to make it go away. I cleaned the whole house, did my laundry, took out the trash and recycling, went out to get myself an iced coffee, journaled, read a chapter of The Artist’s Way, watched Real Housewives of Salt Lake City, fed the cats, played guitar, cooked some quinoa and washed all the dishes, called my mom, called my friends, journaled again.

Still, the gnawing, hollow feeling remains. It always starts in my chest; next, I feel my shoulders tighten as a familiar, heavy dread settles squarely upon them. I know I am trapped. Ah, yes, loneliness. Welcome back, my friend.

It’s time to pull out the Hail Mary, aka going for a walk without my phone but with my headphones on so that I can talk aloud to myself and pretend I’m on the phone with someone (in order to appear less insane). The trick never fails; if only momentarily, I am able to ground myself by engaging my senses and focusing on the present.

Every time I step out, I’m reminded that I live in a town with a population of less than 8,000 people; everywhere is quiet all the time. For the most part, I find it peaceful, but tonight I am painfully aware of how alone I am.

It really is a lovely evening: the grass is getting greener each day, and summer is drawing closer. The sun is descending scenically over the mountains, like some kind of National Geographic b-roll shot. This would be the perfect evening stroll to share with a friend or partner, chatting as we move in stride. But there’s no one around to share this moment with. I don’t even have my phone with me to capture a photo.

This is what I knew I was risking by moving out here. I knew there was a possibility I would spend days and nights alone, and maybe I’d have trouble meeting people. I was right to be anxious about that, because here I am staring loneliness in the face, holding its hand. This feeling is pretty fucking atrocious, and I feel it in my core, but I know it cannot kill me. I know that I’ve felt it before, and I’ve gotten through it each time. I will get through it again.

That doesn’t make it hurt less, but it is the tiniest piece of solace.

Loneliness is always lurking, ready to strike. Fear of it has kept me from taking risks in the past, like moving somewhere new, or leaving a relationship I knew had run its course. And yet, I’m never really safe from it. None of us are, even when we’ve worked so hard to build fortresses of security and community.

Thinking back to The Artist’s Way (one of my all-time favorite books, btw), I’m able to see this experience as part of my creative recovery. In the book, author Julia Cameron explains that we all have creative blocks, or vices, that distract us from doing the real work. Food, sex, phones, drugs, other people, etc., basically anything that sucks time away from us. These things give us comfort, numb our minds, and feel safe and reliable. In excess, however, they take away from our ability to think critically, deeply, and intuitively.

As a human with free will, pursuing an artist career is one of the most terrifying choices I’ve ever made. It’s extremely tempting to use my creative blocks to self-sabotage when I get too close to the life I desire. Staying stuck is easier than taking a risk and failing, or worse—realizing the dream I had for myself isn’t as sweet in reality as it was in my head.

Nevertheless, I walk, I enjoy the sunset by myself, and I know that I’d rather be here, lonely but pursuing what I love, than home, yearning for something greater. I chose to be here, and I do not regret it, even in my melancholic state, even when I do not know what will happen in the long run.

…

Everything’s gonna be okay. To quote the poet Addison Rae, “guess I gotta accept the pain.”

(Sorry I just felt like I had to end this on an unserious note)

Thank you for reading <3