How to be lonely
And...unrelated...do you wanna hang out?
How to be Lonely: A Quickstart Guide
Step 1: Go to grad school for an imploding field of work; secure a job where you’re at least 30 years younger than all of your coworkers. Ensure you’re under paid and commodify your hobbies. Eliminate leisure time. Burn out.
Step 2: Live through unprecedented times. Keep your loved ones safe by not going near them for a very long time. During this time, proceed to step 3.
Step 3: Move to a new state where you don’t know anyone. Secure remote work. Do not convert to the dominant religion or take up extreme outdoor sports. Put one person in the impossible position of fulfilling all your socialization needs.
I fessed up the other week that my life in Salt Lake City has been a lonely one. Cities, like people, have personalities and sometimes you just don’t click. Sometimes you barely tolerate each other. I’ve felt like a transplanted organ here, being rejected by my new host, but I also know that I’m at least partially (mostly?) responsible for this. I failed to make friends in our 2.5 years here and over the past six months I also stopped trying. I did try for the first two years — yoga, book clubs, Bumble BFF (ugh) — but Covid complicated my early efforts and when we decided to move again I gave up.
I’m a pretty solitary creature by default and sometimes I feel like I did all my socializing in my 20s. Like between partying and school and balancing multiple jobs (jobs that often required I give a lot of myself to those around me), I used it all up. I was deep in burnout territory when the pandemic hit — crying in my car on the way too and from work, dreading social events that should’ve been fun — which is lonely in its own way. Coming out of those initial pandemic shutdowns, I knew things had to change and since then I’ve slowly clawed my way out of the burnout ash heap.
I’ve been feeling happier, more spacious, more balanced, more patient, more gracious, more creative than I have in a long time. So a couple months ago when I was going about my morning routine and Ben picked up on something and asked if I was ok and I started crying, we were both a bit surprised. Turns out I’m lonely.
I think this can be a lonely stage of life, even without burnout or an isolating pandemic or moving to a state where you don’t know anyone or even (loath as I am to admit it) remote work. People are settled into their routines and obligations and friend groups, they’re starting families, they have their own problems, they aren’t necessarily looking to add a new element.
Making friends as and adult is really hard. There’s been a lot of discussion on why this is: Churches and social clubs aren’t the staple they once were; We live our lives increasingly online and disconnected to the physical world (and people) around us; We’ve lost the art of simply hanging out and are constantly monetizing or performing our lives; There’s less communal support for young families; The changing landscape of our cities and neighborhoods and suburbs have made casual social encounters harder. This is all on top of the existential dread many of us are carrying around about climate change or gun violence or Covid.
I’m a slow burn person. I have a hard time “putting myself out there” (barf). I like to be around other people but not at the center. I like to be included but not the focus. As stir crazy as I got living in Milwaukee, that was part of what I now realize I loved about it. Everywhere I went I had the chance of accidentally running into someone I knew. Family dinner was always a 10-minute drive away. I had history with every inch of my city. I don’t have that now and for a while it was kind of a nice break, but I’m really missing that web of community, pride, and belonging.
One lesson I’ve learned again and again is that sometimes just naming a problem helps you get a handle on it. Sometimes you just need to identify what you’re feeling and that’s enough to figure out how to move forward. So that’s the problem: loneliness. And here are some ideas I’ve been mulling over for what to do about it.
I need to put in more effort.
I can’t wrap myself the trappings of introversion and then be sad I’m not getting regular social invites. I’m looking into some workshops and art classes and volunteering. I need to get involved in a project and get out of the house for more than my regular solo activities. I don’t expect to make any lasting friendships in our last few months here but, if nothing else, it’ll be good practice for being a human in the world again.
Remember that I’m not unloved and I’m not alone in the world.
I have people, it’s just that (aside from Ben) they’re not in my immediate radius. A hug is better than a call, but a call is better than just sitting under my own personal storm cloud. There’s a certain magic to being in a room with someone you love (maybe it’s science more than magic: mirror neurons, their smell, the vibration of their voice, the impact of it all on our nervous system) but there’s also magic in being able to tap a few buttons and suddenly hear someone’s voice, hold their face in the palm of your hand from thousands of miles away (again, probably science more than magic, but you get the point).
Ask for attention.
One thing you eventually learn in a longterm relationship is that the other person can’t read your mind and intuit your every need, no matter how close you are or how much time you spend with each other. Sometimes I have to force myself, through gritted teeth, to just tell Ben when I need attention or affection (difficult for those of us with a vulnerability allergy). And it turns out asking for what you need makes you feel better. Who knew.
Take care of the basics.
Food, hygiene, exercise. When I tend to the basics, it’s easier for me to get a handle on my self-pitying tendencies and to see more clearly when something’s in my control to change vs not. Taking care of my physical body reminds me how good it feels to sweat and eat and relax. And I know you can’t meditate your way out of serious hardship, but a regular meditation practice helps me get back to a place where I can feel my own insignificance as a blessing instead of a tragedy. A regular gratitude practice helps me remember that all of this is a gift, one that I’m lucky to experience at all. And I have a lot to be grateful for: friends and family to visit, a vibrant place to call home, steady work, a ridiculous dog, a husband who loves and supports me.
Keep being a good friend to myself.
I like myself and I like hanging out with me, I worked hard for that. In the months before I quit drinking I had a little mantra I would repeat to myself, trying to regain my composure in the midst of a hangover, head in the toilet or sitting on the floor of the shower: I’m on your side.
The days I needed it were the days I couldn’t stand myself, when I felt most estranged from my body, my brain busy muddying the waters. It was more of a plea, then, a promise I knew I wasn’t making good on yet (and I leaned heavily on that word — yet). Little by little I convinced myself though and one day I looked up and I was in a new place, with new ways of being in the world, and it was true. I’ve found a good companion in myself and I shouldn’t take that for granted.
This week’s song on repeat
Never not listening to The Cure, tbh. (Entire playlist here.)
Again and again and again and again and again
