There was a time in my life when being alone was a scarce occurrence. After being married and having two young children, I craved the silence that occurs after everyone is finally asleep at night. Then it changed. It all changed. 

I realize for the first few months after Jesse and Bella died, that I was rarely ever alone.  And when I went out to do things, I never was.  I always had a cornerstone, a defense wall of protection from the world. I forget at this point the first thing I did alone, but remember that I noted the occasion with a “huh, this is the first time I have done something alone.”

I have learned this art well, much like the painter who practices certain strokes, a musician practicing a new song, etc. I guess I had choices. It probably helps that I am stubborn as hell. I have always had the personality that if I can’t do something it pisses me off and I force myself to do it whether I want to or not. This is also the same stubborn behavior that I believe has kept me alive this long.

Some things have become easier.  Basic things. I realize now that there is an anxiety that is usually there.  No matter if it is running to the grocery store, driving to work, things that never bugged me before. I had a choice. Go out and do the few things that give me joy, even if it’s alone, or become a hermit. Believe me, the hermit thing is an attractive thing most days. I forced myself. I still do.  Sometimes it is like trying to yank a tooth out that isn’t ready. Sometimes I needed to take the anxiety medication to help, sometimes I did not. I remember the first time I was able to manage a Timbers game alone without that medication, I celebrated. I have of course learned the stadium inside and out and have managed to avoid a complete meltdown, though it has been close several times.

I vacillate now between wanting to do things alone and being sick of it. I have hesitated writing about this, which if you know me, is surprising, because I usually do not hesitate sharing my experience and opinion. But for some reason, broaching the subject of dating after what has happened in my life, has been something I have not been vocal about. I did meet someone, on the oddest of days, which I thought was a sign.  Of course it ended being one of the most complicated things ever, long distance being one of the many challenges. I grew to care so deeply for this person for so many reasons. You see, I am a public figure of sorts, and not in a good way. Google yourself.  Go ahead, I will wait. Okay, done?  Not much there usually. Well, when you Google me, the first thing that comes up is my acupuncture practice.  Then everything else. The news all around what happened, every nook and cranny of it. Me speaking at the city council meeting not long after. It is overwhelming, depressing, and inundating. So, when I share my name with someone who I am interested in getting to know more, whether a friend or other, in this day and age, they will see it all. And if I have not shared what happened to me, which I do not right away, well then, that is an unpleasant surprise for them.  For the longest time, I thought of myself as damaged goods. That is another blog for another day. But I thought nobody could possibly love me again, could handle my shit, baggage, etc. It was too much for me, how could someone else deal with it. And then that person came into my life so unexpectedly. I remember when we were talking I think it was the third time together, dancing around this elephant in the room, I was prepared to share what happened, he looked at me and said, “what if I already know?” I may have kissed him then. He in so many words said your stuff is your stuff, not mine.  Not that he was insensitive, quite the opposite. What ended up happening was that through that experience, I learned that I did indeed want to have a relationship again, and that I was not damaged goods, that I had a lot to offer, and was capable of doing so. For that gift, I am forever grateful. With opening ones heart though, you have the potential of being hurt again. There’s that. And it sucks. I try to reason with myself, and say, hey, I mean they can’t hurt you more than Jesse did, right? No, of course not, but anyone who has been in a relationship that did not work out, has their heart hurt. It opened up a whole lot of things that I needed to look at and learn about having had the experience that I did (i.e. Jesse really fucked me up) healing that needed and still needs to happen. I imagine that will be a lifelong thing and thank god for therapy and lots of self awareness and reflection.

We humans are pack animals, and more often than not, are not meant to be solitary beings. As strong as I am, as capable, as much as I am able and willing to do things alone, I don’t love it. I miss that partnership, that someone to partake in this crazy thing called life. I miss having someone to share taking in the sights and sounds, to laugh at stupidity, to cry with when you hear music or see something that moves you, and have that arm put around you when it happens. That person that you hear a bad joke and can’t wait to tell and them laugh at your dorkiness. Or learning something new that you want to share. Binge watch a season of something with over a week. This whole fucking human experience that happens around us, I miss the co-pilot within it all. It is scary though. I am not my story and experience, but it is part of me, and someone needs to be strong enough to be ok with that. They need to be ok with the fact that I hum and live differently than the average person, that I appreciate life in a more passionate and intense way.  That I do not have any time for bullshit or the games that people like to play in this day and age. That I have dedicated my life to talking about suicide prevention, decreasing stigma around mental health, getting in front of people and sharing my story, and experiences in order to help others. I want that person to be my biggest supporter.  I want that person to recognize my stuff is my stuff, but to be there to hold me up when a wave of grief hits me, hold my hand without me having to ask when a police/ambulance goes by with sirens on, holds me tight when I see a little girl that looks like Bells. I know this is a tall order. I want to hope that it is possible. Hope, I am finding, causes quite a juxtaposition in my brain though.

Again, I can do it alone. Really. The past two and a half years have proven that point.  I guess I get to recognize the progress that I don’t want to anymore.