I’ve always found the world rather loud. Even in its quiet moments, there’s always a hum, or low groan. I’ve spent much of my life alone, first as a latch key kid who have few friends, then as a young mother in an unknown state who’s partner was gone for long stretches at a time at work. This “aloneness” was my choice usually partly because of the loudness of the world, partially because I take a long time to truly connect with people. I’ve never had many to talk to or confide in so my brain is always musing about itself, the world, other people I’ve seen in passing, so it’s never fully quiet.

I learned early on how to be alone rather adeptly. I like my own company. So when I form relationships beyond that, I’m looking for deep connection because if I am going to work on pulling myself out of my own mind, I need it to be deep. Relating to people on a whole is difficult.

I spent most of my time people watching, wondering why it is that people react the way they do, make the choices they make, connect (or don’t) the way they do. It’s a swirling vortex of mazes and labyrinths. Often I spend so much time there, I forget that there is a whole person, and world, I haven’t even truly met yet because my mind has created a whole space in there for the bits and pieces, the little nuances it’s pieced together of them, a whole world beyond I don’t even recognize that I am a part of.

Most of the time it’s easier for me to travel this plane alone or with only the help of my partner. I learned deeply and viscerally that when I have asked for help outside of my nuclear family, when I haven’t known how to proceed it’s often met with shame, with a tearing apart that seems to leave a much more gaping wound than before. So I retreat. I deal with it on my own. I don’t ask for help. And that has created leaks everywhere that I am not sure how to plug anymore.

And while I’m good at being alone, sometimes it gets rather lonely.