Mundanity for the Lonely Romantics

For those who romanticize their aloneness for fear of feeling lonely.

So, where are you now? Well, you set a reminder for your Lexapro in the morning again. This time, you go to the party, the concert, alone. You try not to need someone when you go to the coffee shop. You try not to need someone.

In high school, I would assign what I called a “safe person” in every class. I was incredibly anti-social, with not too many friends, and especially not in every class. So in these classes where I didn’t know or didn’t like most people, I’d choose someone to sit next to every period, someone who I considered to be “safe”. They didn’t always have to be my friend, but they were always nice enough.

I found myself carrying the idea of the safe person with me throughout my life. I’d search for someone everywhere to plant myself next to, in any public place or social setting. Of course there were moments I enjoyed my alone time, but this would come in phases. I’d go months wanting nothing but solitude, and then many more months desperate to always have a safe person next to me.

Like many things, this false idea of safety was an attempt at romanticizing my loneliness. There’s a difference between romanticizing solitude and romanticizing loneliness. One is a healthy embrace; the other is denial.

When living in Italy, all transportation was by tram. I rode once alone on a particularly rainy day, or maybe it was snow, feeling incredibly dissociated and sad, although I don’t remember exactly why. I remember I was in a continuous depressive episode at the time, but no details as to why this specific day was so gloomy. The seat directly across from me facing my direction was empty. People hopped on and off as I rode the twenty- to thirty-minute trek through town. 

“Posso sedermi qui?” a passenger said to me. I’d temporarily picked up on some (AKA very little) Italian in the three months I’d been there, but my dissociation got the best of me this day and I didn’t understand what she was saying. I wasn’t wearing my glasses as I’d taken them off momentarily, my little trick for disconnecting from the world when the world becomes too much, and squinted up at her.

I wish my memory served me better so I could tell you exactly what she was wearing, but all I remember is that she was decked in bright colors, eccentrically dressed with various layers, and I have a strong impression that she wore a bright pink hat, although I can’t remember if it was a beret or a beanie. Her hair was bleached blonde, nearly platinum, and her lips and cheeks were a bright, rosy red, from the combination of both cold weather and makeup. Despite not understanding her exact words in the moment, I noticed her finger pointing at the seat and nodded.

She plopped down across from me with a content sigh and we both gazed out the window, lost in our own worlds for a bit. Although I didn’t have my glasses, I could feel her glancing at me every now and then. Eventually, she spoke up.

“You don’t speak Italian, do you?” she said in English, her Tuscan accent thick. 

I cringed a bit, embarrassed, and pinched my fingers closely. “Un po’,” I admitted shyly.

She laughed kindly. “Don’t worry, I speak English. Are you a student here?”

We began to talk. Or it was more of her talking while I listened, but I didn’t mind at all. She went on a tangent about how her roommate talked too loudly, and this girl who stole her clothes from the community laundry room, and I became invested in this girl, and her ever-normal life, speaking on things that I’d experienced firsthand numerous times, but when I heard it from her, it became fascinating. Her facial expressions and the way she moved her hands, her pauses to garner my reactions, the light in her eyes and the tender-heartedness in her tone.

I could tell that this girl was well-loved, and I wanted to know her to love her too. But I was leaving Florence the next day, and her stop was approaching. As the tram began to slow and she gathered her things, I thought of asking her name, but I didn’t and she was gone before I could think of it again. A part of me just wanted to let the moment be the moment, and another part of me still wishes I knew her Instagram so I can find her when I visit Florence again.

I write this because I still think of her and her kindness, and it’s a comforting reminder that there is someone I have crossed paths with that is loving and is being loved at this moment. I don’t know if she thinks of me at all—in that moment, she was so memorable and I was so sad. If only I was at my best self when I met her. If only I’d met her sooner. Maybe then I would have asked for her name, or her number, or I’d have joined her wherever she was going. Did I want to join her because she reminded me of my old self? Because I wanted to love her too? Or just because I was lonely?

I couldn’t tell. And maybe that’s why I didn’t ask her name. Maybe I really did want company for the right intentions, not just out of loneliness. But because I couldn’t be sure, it was best to be alone again, at least for the moment. She seemed like the right company for me, but maybe I was the wrong company for her.

Why couldn’t I be the right company, no matter how much I wanted to be? Because I was drowning and I did not want to be responsible for pulling myself to shore. I knew it would be wrong to put that on a person. But I did, didn’t I? That’s what my “safe person” was. And you have, haven’t you? You want to be loved so badly that you’ll disregard yourself for the sake of company.

This girl on the train became my safe person for the fifteen minutes that she was there. And I didn’t even know her. Sometimes, I can be guilty of romanticizing the idea of friendships and relationships more than actual friendships and relationships. I’m sure you’ve been guilty of that too. Community is a beautiful, beautiful thing and I think it’s of the utmost importance to find like-minded individuals who will hold your hand. But are you holding their hand because you love them or just because you’re lonely? And the most important question of all: Can you tell the difference?

I couldn’t tell, for a brief time. I felt genuinely incapable of going out by myself. I always wanted to have someone with me. My love for people had developed into a fear of being alone. And that’s how I knew I needed to hold my own hand for a while—because its shape felt unfamiliar, foreign, from how long I’d pushed myself aside.

So what do you do in the meantime? In the in-betweens of this loneliness, when your own company feels like an uncomfortable silence?

You make plans for yourself. Go to that coffee shop you’ve been wanting to try, with yourself as company. Plan that day trip you’ve been wanting to plan, and just go as soon as you have the time. Experience things you’ve been wanting to experience without waiting for someone to come with you.

Get to know yourself again. What’s your favorite color right now? Your favorite food? Your current fashion sense? Rediscover your personality. Sometimes when we go long periods without dating ourselves, we forget who we are entirely. Now is the time to remember that.

Romanticize the every day. Every moment. When you make your coffee or tea, make it slowly. Wake up early enough to drink it slowly in your kitchen, or in your room, looking out the window, meditating on the day ahead. When you do your laundry, fold your clothes thoughtfully, while wearing your headphones and playing your favorite songs. Go for a walk and be present for every moment of it. Look at all the trees you’ve seen before and try to notice something about it.

Romanticize the mundane. The girl on the train told me about the simplest frustrations of her life, and it sounded fantastical to me. Tell your life to yourself the same way, every day. You are endlessly interesting to someone else; try to see yourself through that lens as well.

It’s okay to have a safe person. God knows I have many, all of which I’m incredibly grateful for. But your number one safe person must be yourself. To romanticize your solitude, there first needs to be something romantic about it. Become your own lover. Be empowered in your aloneness.

So, again—where are you now? You can’t remember if you took your Lexapro this morning, but you know you’ll remember tomorrow. This time, you’re going to the party, the concert, alone. But you want, not need, to meet someone there. This time, not for the sake of being loved, but to love.

Oh boy, was this a hard newsletter to figure out how to put into words. I hope I’ve managed to make my jumbled thoughts make sense. If you’ve found yourself understanding and relating, I hope you’ll feel inclined to share my musings (it makes all the difference in the world to me and I’ll send you many virtual kisses).

I’ve made a lovely Pinterest board and a playlist to accompany you and provide inspiration on the self-dates I hope you’re all planning to have soon.

Thank you for taking the time to read. Hug your safe people and tell them how grateful you are for them.

I hope the remainder of this month treats you kindly.

xoxo,

paula <3