I’m a walking paradox. I frequently long for social interaction, but when I receive it, I want solitude. It’s like my mind decides it’s hungry, and then halfway through eating a steak, I realize I want a salad. I’ve never really wanted a salad, but that’s the point. I don’t want to always want to be alone. I enjoy talking to people, sharing thoughts on their viewpoints of things.
Always wanting solitude is a double-edged sword. I’m my most productive and creative when I’m alone. There’re no interruptions to distract me, I don’t have anyone breathing down my back, and I can be who I am. I don’t feel self-conscious about how I look or keep a constant face up. I’m not depressed, don’t let me fool you. I just have that resting-bitch-face syndrome. I don’t frown very often, my neutral expression just earns me a lot of inquiry about my emotions. That’s a no-no subject for me in face-to-face conversations.
On the other hand, it can become a downward spiral. The moment I sense disapproval for my preference to not have people around me all the time, I want to remove myself even more from people. It’s like poking a snail in the eye. But do you want to know what salt does to me?
I’ve gone weeks without a legitimate conversation with people. I mean waking up, taking the bus to school, heading straight to class, listening and taking notes, leaving school, and heading home. By the time I was over my bout of introversion, my friends had moved on. There was no way to contact them how I used to. They had different classes than me, and I lived alone in a studio apartment. They worked, and I didn’t. We were no longer close enough for me to get a couple of hours to hang out with them without plenty of planning.
That was heavenly for me. I enjoyed the peace and quiet, and my newfound freedom to not worry if anyone was looking. But when it was over, it hit me like a freight train. Despite having lived in Merced for 3 years, I felt like I had no support. Who would help me? My brother, Max? He couldn’t help to complain whenever he picked me up from the airport or train station when I visited him. Even though I paid for my own plane/train tickets and would end up paying for his gas on the 45 minute ride back to his house.
I enjoyed the 9 hours getting there exponentially more than the 45 minutes I was in a confined space with him. I was already wanting to call it a weekend and head home. To my real home. A home half the state away from the closest relative and with no car, friends, or feeling of support.
I both thrived and suffered in high school. I was a social butterfly at school, and by senior year, I had developed a network of surface friends to keep me busy during classes or breaks. But I suffered because I had no deep relationships. I don’t mean a boyfriend, I mean someone, anyone I could trust to keep my stories to themselves. And that was when I realized I felt alone in a crowded room. It didn’t matter how many other kids I befriended, because I knew before I graduated that I wouldn’t be keeping those relationships up past high school. I wanted to move away. At least then I could start fresh, on my terms.
When I moved away to college, I was overwhelmed by how much free time I had. I was so used to hearing my name being called to do things I didn’t feel were my responsibility to take care of. I didn’t have to spend 10 hours away from the comfort of my room anymore. So, I didn’t. And that’s when I started suffering from it.
I was sharing my room with two other girls, and they were great roommates. They respected my need for privacy, and we all got along. That was wonderful, but my bout of solitude in my third year of college, when I lived in my studio, it was just another high school revelation for me.
And so, I think that’s why Alex the Magician was the light at the end of the tunnel. He was the only one I needed to know was there. Everyone else was a surface-level friend. They dropped me when it became too troublesome to maintain a connection. I had no one asking after my health, no one checked in on me. Those weeks I spent alone? I could have killed myself, or died, or moved across the country, and no one at the time would have known about it.
That’s the downward spiral, because I couldn’t find them when I needed them. What is there to look forward to when no one knows you’re there? I wasn’t suicidal, and I wasn’t looking for attention in that way. I never told anyone I was lonely, and my mistake was never giving anyone the chance to keep in contact with me. Relationships are two-way streets. My friends gave up on me, and I gave up on them. I could have told someone what I went through, how everyday felt dull because I couldn’t find anyone other than a professional to confide in.
That was the lowest point in my life. I felt like I had no friends, no family, no emotional support. Even though there were people to talk to, and meet, and get to know.
Solitude, for me, is a gift for creativity and expression, but as cliche as it sounds, too much of a good thing can become a bad thing.
Hannah-radical 