When I first began this endeavor into a college life far away from my hometown, I had the belief that I could let go of my old loneliness and have a new start, one where I could call myself “fiercely independent” and mean it, where it didn’t matter if I had friends or a significant other or anyone else in my life for that matter. But the truth of it is ineluctable: I am stuck in my perpetual state of alone, and I am not going to be able to cope with it. Sure, I can ignore it long enough and convince myself that I am okay with being alone. I can go out and eat at restaurants or see theatre shows by myself without having to worry about being canceled on at the last minute. I get a chance to think philosophically and write in my journal. I’ve learned to become extremely productive when I am alone. I can work on massive projects like this one here out of creative insanity. It’s a good way to unwind after being swarmed by people for so long. But I think the problem is I’ve spent my whole life alone and sad, so trying to enjoy the more cheerful side of the spectrum is difficult. I was an only child who rarely talked at school, in a family filled with adults who never fully understood me because of a language barrier. I had no one to turn to if something was bothering me, so I kept it all inside. Whenever trouble came up, it was assumed that I could handle it myself. It’s not that I was filled with woe as a child, there were lots of times I felt happy. It’s just that I found myself left out by my peers a lot. I felt like an outsider, as if everyone else had some secret guidebook to socializing that I never got, filled with cute tips like how to subtly turn your back to people you want to keep out of your circle of friends, or when to interject an anecdote into a conversation. I had an odd fascination with these “cool kids,” and how they did it so effortlessly, especially as I got older. I never had the complete formula, so I had to experiment for myself. What resulted from these trials was someone who thought making friends could be done with garnering attention by being quirky and adorable: I made a lot of jokes. I made random statements seemingly out of nowhere. I made banter that was one step away from borderline flirting. I annoyed castmates with completely memorized scripts. I ran and skipped and jumped around for no reason. I developed a reputation for standing on chairs, and taking people’s hats and wearing them. The good thing is that I became an extremely likeable person, rarely hated. The bad thing is it also alienated me from everyone else, because people tend to associate with those who are like-minded, and I was not one of them. It led me to the belief that there was something inherently wrong with me, and that’s why I was alone. I was too weird and too shy to click with anyone. I couldn’t keep up conversations. I was apparently intimidating. I rarely opened up to people. I cared too deeply, and clung on too tightly to people I did find. And maybe I did push them away because of that. Maybe it was my fault that I relegated myself down to “walking set of ears.” Don’t get me wrong, I love listening to people, but it’s something different when I try to talk and get instantly shut down in favor of whatever is going on in their mind. They make me feel like some secondary character in another person’s movie, and I’ve spent way too long feeling like a secondary character. So I get away from people again, maybe go see a show, or write in my journal, and I’ll feel good about being alone. Then I’m reminded by society that being alone is supposed to absolutely suck. Nearly everything nowadays is defined by who you hang out with, and what your relationship status is. Social media is flooded with pictures of couples, or posts complaining about being single, and it has to be your goal to be someone else’s #mcm or #wcw. So many bios either say “Single” with an opened lock emoji, or some indication that they’re dating someone, whether it be hearts and a name or a date from a few months ago, because we’re all so anxiously waiting for that special one year anniversary, how cute! It sickens me, all these gross sentimentalities and cliches. I hate cliches, like the common story trope where someone changes from being super shy and alone and sad to being super bold and popular and happy. People seem to think that kind of transformation can happen to me, so they’ll do outlandish things in the hopes that I’ll join the ranks of them. In eighth grade, my friends tried to set me up with some other quiet guy. People have tried to get me to come out of my shell. Others have dragged me along on adventures that were clearly meant for two people and not three. I am 80% sure that the main reason I had a date to my senior prom was because I told him I went alone the year before. I had a friend swear she would see the day I got a boyfriend, and I’ve had countless others share similar sentiments, notions to which I would either obnoxiously laugh at or jokingly say “ew” to. It’s enough to get people off my back about pressuring me into a relationship that I think I’m not interested in. Then I see people holding hands and looking at each other with such pure admiration, and I know it’s just a facade. I’m dismissing the idea of me in a relationship to fend off the feelings that I’m very lonely and I can’t ever find something like what everybody else has. Why would I ever find something like that? All the guys I had a crush on ended up choosing someone else, because they were prettier or smarter or all around better and they got to him first, and I was always the second choice, as if it was some consolation that I almost got him. I don’t know what else I can do. All I have are bad jokes about farmers losing tractors, origami roses, and ten-page letters. I can only hope it will be enough one day. But then again, it’s also true that I don’t want something like that yet. My heartbreak from the almost-but-not-quite relationships still plague me, no matter how much I try to deny it to my former friends. I don’t want to go through another cycle of falling for someone I really get along with in February, only to lose them by the following May. It’s not just with romance, either, it’s also with friends. I’ve had seven best friends in my lifetime, and all of them have moved away and replaced me. I don’t know if my heart can take it anymore. Maybe that’s why I pull away so often and say I’d rather be alone, to avoid a connection with someone who’s just going to leave anyway. So instead, I find legitimate ways to be happy alone. I’ll see more shows (because I am a huge theatre nerd, if it wasn’t clear enough). I’ll walk around the city for hours. I’ll make cookies. I’ll write in my journal some more. I’ll truly enjoy having only me for company. That’s what I had thought going into this, but now I know it’s a bit more complicated than that. I like being alone just as much as I don’t like being alone. I need company just as much as I don’t need it. Being alone isn’t so bad, and maybe I can find someone who will stay. I hold out hope that I will be happy whether I am completely alone or surrounded by people, and as long as I end up happy, what difference does it make?
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