solitaire

on the chaos of being alone and the peace of learning you're not

A few weeks ago: I’m standing on the G train, going through my email on the way to Clinton Hill.

At the top of my inbox: New jobs available at Bertelsmann and its Subdivisions. We have new job openings that match the set search criteria in your job newsletter.

I used to: pore over these, looking for any I might be a good fit for, mentally calculating how many hours it would take me hit ‘submit’ on the application in hopes I’d be earlier than the 300 other hopefuls.

But this time: I scroll to the bottom and hit “unsubscribe.” Funny how you can want something so bad and then just — not, anymore.

Now: I’m in Virginia, in my old house. It’s for sale. I left New York with all of my stuff crammed into the back of Philip’s Jetta (thank you <3). I’m packing again.

This is: not what I thought my life would like like at this point.

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Living in New York was dropping Mentos in a bottle of Coke that lived in my chest.

Sometimes a building, stifling feeling, itchy. The loudness. The fear, and with it, often the shame, of seeing someone asleep on the street and walking past them. The prices!! Good God, the prices. And the fact that there are so many people. The lack of stars, of true, wide space.

comedic relief

Sometimes a sweet, joyous fizz. Cooking spicy lentil soup at Wells and Ray’s apartment with their leftover veggies. Sleeping over at Lydia and Jo’s before an early day at work, cracking up on the couch. Seeing shows with Joaquin, drinks on the street with Susana, Cooper and jazz. Friends in general, dogs and babies on subways, the subway in general. The sheer, overwhelming number of coffee shops and bookstores and general stores and delis and bodegas. The cold whip of wind on the roof of the Whitney. Weird art. The fact that there are so many people living in such a small space. Bagels. Sitting on folding chairs and watching my friends sing, watching them act, watching them pursue the things they love with a fierce energy. Things bubbling up out of my heart.

There are probably people who’ve written better essays about loving and hating New York. Already I miss it, already I don’t.

mentos

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I think there is something kind of attractive, even weirdly romantic, about being alone. Playing solitaire in the park, going on long walks, spending a few hours falling down a rabbit hole of research or reading. I associate this kind of ‘alone time’ with stability, intelligence, surety.

I used to be good at being alone. This is not to say I was intelligent and stable, but I was comfortable whiling away hours reading, running errands, writing. Increasingly, in New York, I was not. My job(s) were mostly solitary, my time with friends was erratic. My roommates were strangers. I was not good at it, being alone.

I think part of it is that it’s hard to go about your day in such a huge, bustling place and have nobody to share it with. I sometimes felt invisible walking around the sidewalks, like if I sat down on a bench someone might come by and sit on top of me. Like I had zero actual weight in the world. I would be weaving in and out of crowds in Union Square and be struck by the sudden realization that there was literally nobody who knew where I was, what I was doing.

It was nice, and it was also kind of awful.

Because I like to talk, and listen, and make jokes, and laugh at other people’s jokes. I like to point at something cool and say “hey, look at that!” and have someone else go “oh, cool!” I like eating with other people, and cooking with them. I like sharing music. I like gossiping with friends. I like coming home to someone and talking about my day. Waking up and listening to someone’s crazy dream, even though everyone knows listening to other people’s dreams are annoying as hell.

In the city — the most densely populated city in the world! — it was ironic how desperate I was for that sort of connection. Sometimes I was better at seeking it out, and “dinner with Sus” would shine like a beacon on my calendar. Other times I was worse at reaching out, and I’d go three or four days speaking only to my mother on the phone or the cashier at the grocery store.

It feels silly and obvious to say it, but man! We, humans, we are meant to be around each other! To laugh and point at cute dogs and maybe be a little mean to each other but then forget about it. Being alone, quite frankly, sucks.

My best friends from college joke about living together in a commune one day. I think we’re on to something.

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You know how when you’re a kid you feel invincible? And then later, like you are the only person to ever experience something? It’s, like most things, a real psychological phenomenon called the personal fable. It happens, like most things, because your brain hasn’t developed all the way yet.

I have never felt that invincible. I was, as far as I remember, a risk-averse child. I did not like climbing on high things, going fast on scooters, talking to strangers who could murder me, or trampoline parks (because the instructional warning video they use to scare you into behaving well worked too well on me).

But right now, there are days when I am certain I am the only person alive to experience such overwhelming, big feelings, such chaos in my life, despite the fact that literally everyone says that your early 20s are a crazy time.

Maybe that’s where the invincibility comes in. I did not expect that these years would feel so tumultuous for me. Because here I am, shocked that life feels so unstable and subject to change, shocked that nothing is happening the way I thought it would, shocked that I am not the same person I was ten or five or even two years ago.

Surely everyone else has it figured out, surely nobody else feels like they’re pivoting constantly, rearranging constantly, on some wonky rollercoaster path.

I’ve gotten into a habit of asking people how they got to where they are now. I am always surprised and soothed by their answers.

The doorman at my old boss’s building is taking night classes to be a software engineer, and used to sell drugs. I read a memoir about an ex-journalist who worked in TV and then decided to be a therapist, and is now very successful. Some guy I did high school theatre with produced his own play and is now attempting to earn a spot in a banana-eating contest.

What I’m trying to ay is that I don’t think anyone has it figured out. Nobody knows what it’s like to be you, but probably many people can come pretty close to understanding the fear, the uncertainty.

You aren’t that special.

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Lydia told me about her “frontal-lobe-development realization” that everything will always be changing, all the time. Won’t stop when you turn thirty, forty, fifty. So why spend all this time stressing about change now? Why not just buckle up and enjoy the ride?

This part of the ride is involving a lot of packing tape. I have a roll I bought in a FedEx in New York that sticks to everything but the actual cardboard box I need it to. There are little crumpled-up balls of tape everywhere in my room. The packing is making me sort of dizzy. I’m talking to myself.

In two days I’ll live in a new place.

I have to buy new shampoo, because I finally used up the stuff I bought from Costco nearly a year and a half ago, and I’m overwhelmed by how much shampoo there is to choose from.

In two days I’ll have a new job.

I have to get rid of more t-shirts. I’ve accumulated so many t-shirts from being in college clubs, and they all mean a lot to me, but one person cannot possibly own so many t-shirts. Right?

In two days there will be more chaos, and uncertainty.

I have to cancel my old health insurance and (re)register to vote in Virginia and maybe pay $500 worth of outstanding taxes and transfer my EZ pass information and get gas and get my car inspected and do all of the other things that make up a life.

still eating fro-yo in virginia, worry not!