On Being Lonely versus Being Alone

One is an adjective, and one is a verb, so there's the first difference. But we all know the other difference, too: one is an unpleasant feeling, one is a neutral fact.

Being an autistic, queer writer/artist, it probably comes as no surprise that I have been both, a lot, in my life. I speak a different language. Neither mine nor the neurotypical one is better than the other, but a lot gets lost in translation. I have never understood how to interface with most people, though it has gotten a little easier with every passing year. My confidence also grows each year, in feeling secure that I can be myself and just let be what will be. So I don't think my alone-ness is what it once was. And then every so often, I meet someone with whom interactions feel as intuitive as breathing. Those are magical moments that I cherish.

I am writing this blog from my new apartment, and I am alone. But I am not lonely. And that is not something I have been able to say in a long, long time. I feel nervous saying I have "healed" my lonliness, because I don't think healing is necessarily a one-and-done linear thing. I think life is a series of breaking and healing. I think the more times we watch ourselves recover, the stronger we understand ourselves to be, and in that, there could be a subsequent hastening of the "healing" process, but healing looks different, in every situation, and every person, and only the individual themselves should get to define/determine when they are healed to an extent that would warrant that word, or a similar one.

I am not lonely. I am not lonely, after having been achingly lonely for as long as I remember. Even before I was lonely, I thought my life would look different by now. By about the time I decided that I would be brave enough to marry a woman even if it upset my family, marriage equality became a thing in this country. From then on, I let myself daydream about what my life could maybe look like. Every year or so, the location and details would change, as I did, but what always remained the same was the feeling of warmth at the thought of doing this life thing together with my wife.

In my mid-20s, when I began using dating apps, and saving screenshots of wedding dresses and venues, I was sure that my happily ever after was just around the corner. So many of my peers were finding theirs, after all. By 30, my hope was starting to dwindle. But at least I was finally out to my family. I continued writing all the romantic stories, listening to all the romantic songs, letting myself do all the romantic daydreams. I had my heart broken many small times, and a couple of soul-altering ones. I knew I was worthy, I just couldn't figure out why no one else thought so. I felt angry and sad about that for a long time, until one day, I didn't, because I started thinking of all the artists and writers who weren't appreciated during their lifetimes. If people couldn't recognize the brilliance of Vincent Van Gogh during his most creative and prolific years, perhaps I could accept that no one wanted to get to know me.

Very long story short, here I am, almost halfway through my 3rd decade, alone. I moved, alone again, which is something I swore I wouldn't do again. And you know what? I'm okay. For the first time in a long time, possibly ever, I am okay. In fact, I rather relish my own company so much that I find it hard to believe I could find someone who loves and appreciates me as much as I do, and I'm not sure I have any interest in trying any more. That decision comes from a place of peace though.

I think about the deep hunger I had for companioship, and it's not that it's gone, it's just no longer painful. I don't exactly know why, though part of it is that I spent the last 4 years grieving it. And at last, I came to the end of the grief I thought was infinite. I thought that it was natural for a person so full of love and passion to forever ache without a life partner. But it seems that the grief was as much from unmet expectation than it was from the actual being alone. And as I allowed myself to unashamedly grieve that unmet expectation, I became okay.

I don't want it to sound like I'm apathetic, stoic, or special. I'm not. I still daydream about what my wedding might be like, would I were to have one. I still imagine what it would feel like to do all the big and little things I have always wanted to do with a girlfriend, a wife, a partner. I think about what it would feel like to come home to someone, wake up to someone. But I can think about these things from a neutral, curious place now, rather than a pain-filled one. Maybe this is a strange revelation for most, but for me, someone who has viscerally longed for these things since before I could put words to them, letting go of this dream feels significant.

I guess it's just like letting go of other desires I have had over the years. The acceptance of what is. I'll be the first person to say that this acceptance was brutal and ugly and intense. Again, I'm no guru. I came to this place quite literally kicking and screaming. But here I am. You grieve as much as you need to and longer than people think is necessary, and only if you can let yourself do that, will you slip gracefully into acceptance, and after that, you know that no matter what, your life will be beautiful. Is beautiful.