On solitude

What I've learned about being alone

Sunset views at Colonial Lake in Charleston, South Carolina.

Mom, don’t worry. I know I write about sad things sometimes, but I promise I’m happy.

I spent last night in my car. This time, which was the second, I was far more excited. I’m not entirely sure why. Perhaps since I was working until after sunset, my body was more than ready for some z’s and preferred to keel over right where I was. I suppose, too, there’s a comfort about sleeping in your own self-made setup . . . It’s like making a fort when you’re a kid.

I slept much better than I did the first night because the air was cooler. It didn’t cool, however, until after I labored myself to sleep. That’s what it felt like in the heat—like I labored to sleep. Falling asleep without AC is no task for the weak-hearted, especially on a Southern summer night.

I was outside all evening and sundown, and so my eyes, for what must have been the first time in years, though I didn’t realize this fact at the time, were exposed only to natural light through the end of my day. As the sun fell, I felt my body synchronously readying itself for bed.

But then, I realized I hadn't brushed my teeth.

After deliberating whether I should sleep without clearing the day’s grime from my pearly whites, I proceeded with my toothbrush into the nearest building in search of a bathroom. This was a mistake.

Because when I walked through the entrance, a tsunami of artificial light smacked across the face. I couldn’t help but wonder if this is what it’d feel like to be abducted into an alien spaceship. My sight became partially blurred, like how when you wake up in the middle of the night to pee and turn the lights on, and I knew instantly I had inadvertently delayed my snooze for at least another hour.

While I was tired and damn near ready to pass out before I went to brush, I could hardly get myself to close my eyes when I returned from my venture.

I suspect it was this, more than the heat, that made my attempt at sleep so laborious.

I can’t help but wonder now after experiencing this first hand how abnormal our routines are . . . How disruptive our lightbulbs have become.

With each passing year, yet another groundbreaking innovation becomes an abused comfort. Our relationship to light is so different from the one our pre-Edison ancestors had to it. We surely take photons for granted.

Light must have been a near-religious thing to societies past. But we never give this technology a second thought, let alone a first. We don’t worship that which gives life; we force it to abide by our wants. We—the worshipers of Netflix—have lost touch with this ancient relationship.

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I occasionally fall into moods of hating people. I’m sort of in one right now. It is partly the reason I slept in my car.

I get like this when I’m on a conquest to succeed at something and feel I could be inching myself forward each second of the day and that, therefore, any time spent not doing so would be time not well utilized.

When I say “hate,” I am being facetious. What I really mean is that I feel the need to be off on my own because I have something to do, and I can only do everything I need to do if I minimize my distractions.

This is not how I will live all my life, but for periods, it is a path I must walk. I prefer, actually, to have relationships, as any human does, and it’s true that even on my most busy days, I still socialize. But the majority of my time in these periods is spent alone. And the truth is, in the nicest way possible, most people are anchors since very few ever challenge themselves enough to be an uplifting force.

It is hard to be good.

If I’m being honest, a part of me also craves this solitude. I love being out in the world on my own. Going all in on the grind. The more I squeeze out each ounce of vitality I have to give, the more protected I am from any sort of woes.

I think people need to do this stuff more often—to learn to believe in themselves and love themselves and live so vigorously that they create a life in which they’re self-employed each second of the day, thereby immunizing themselves from the clasps of loneliness.

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There is something deeper here, though. Because part of me, a younger part of me, feels let down by others. And so, I’ve come to believe I’d be vulnerable if I ever gave too much of myself away to others . . . I don’t feel safe putting my eggs in any one basket and consequently feel the need to become entirely self-sufficient.

So I’ve been told, this is an “unhealthy coping mechanism.” But what the hell else am I supposed to do? Keep grabbing hold of the electric fence? Wouldn’t it be worse if I were, like most others, incapable of solitude?

I’ve contended for many years now with a sort of isolation, and while it used to incite loneliness within—or, really, draw it out—it now feels like I’ve purged myself of all that negativity and may no longer get so dragged down by these circumstances, regardless of how alone I am. I think it’d be unappreciative for me not to cherish this for a little bit. Better yet, it’s quite a handy skill, and I’d be a fool not to make use of it.

I thought about this yesterday, actually, on the walk through the park into the building to brush my teeth. I am a 24-year-old man sleeping in my car, walking into a Walgreens to brush my teeth at 10:30 pm on a Thursday, and not only do I not feel bad, but I feel invigorated! Aside from the strangeness of it—and please forgive me because I know it’s not the most settling thought—I’d say it’s a situation most would be discouraged by.