When I first lived alone, I was freshly 19, or not even. I was working as a waitress on Long Island, my summer of smelling like caramelized onions, the Arctic Monkeys CD the English One made me the backdrop of my life. I existed in my black pants and blue collared shirt uniform. I memorized our menu. I sat at the bar and made myself linguistics puzzles, finding the Proto-Indo-European word that was the basis for cognates in the Latin languages I knew…
I was alone. I spent so much time relishing it, driving down to the beach to wander in the heavy humidity of dusk on Long Island in the summertime, wandering the empty house that was all mine, making myself dinner and eating it at the counter in front of the Food Network or out on the patio. For reasons of my own making, I was alone that summer, but it was my first time being alone, and I loved it.
I’m alone again.
I’ve felt alone since then: moving into my first apartment in Paris, living in Mallorca for those few weeks last summer, even working in Paziols the first summer I went, where the only kids were the four who would become counselors, and Alex and Anne-Marie were always on some trek somewhere. I felt alone then, but I am alone now. There’s a difference.
I make fun of my sister for emulating Hollywood stereotypes, but in the weeks leading up to my decision to become a full-time writer, I was romanticizing the life of Hank Moody, star character of the Showtime series Californication. I wanted to be him, wanted to lead his glamorous life, where he had no obligations save turn out a masterpiece every few years. What I didn’t realize is how much I would crave human contact, how hard it would be for me to sit in the apartment day after day, forcing myself out on walks to get lost in the people that make up the city of Paris and hoping that I could trick myself into believing that I’m not alone.
I’m going to be 22 in two days–I guess this is what you’d call a quarter-life crisis. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know why I’ve done any of the things that I’ve already done. I don’t know what to do next. I crave the ease of dorm life, of boarding school, of the collège in Cannes. I’ve had dreams two nights-running of drinking on the Great Lawn at Andover. I romanticize my life living on the beach in Cannes, living on the beach in the summers on Long Island.
When I was growing up, one member of a family of six, I felt convinced that I was made to be alone, to live alone. Now that I have what I’ve always wanted, I’m just not so sure.
First of all, it takes a lot of guts to expat yourself to a foreign city, so kudos to you! Second, whenever I fall into a similar state of mind, I half console myself/half realize that all our possessions and relationships are, if not ephemeral, then temporary in the grand scheme of things; and that the only way to be at peace with oneself in this world is to feel connected to one’s past, present, and future selves through the redeeming act of artistic creation. On the other hand, I start thinking of Kierkegaard’s idea that, without an absolute on which to anchor itself, the self falls into existential despair. Lastly, I’m reminded of the times older, wiser people have told me that they’ve grown lonelier with age, which scares me sometimes. On a related note, have you read Proust? I’ve found he’s great for taking stock of loneliness.
Also, I mean not just loneliness but the experience of aloneness. I think it’s the second that you’re describing here, right?