Homesick, Part 2: Loneliness and Needing

The reason why I found myself thinking of this pool incident is that I was stricken tonight by the remorse and acceptance of a certain characteristic of mine that is both a virtue and a vice: I like to be alone.

I feel like myself when I am alone, and it is painful to admit this. It’s because I can be quiet and still with my own thoughts. I am not misunderstood when I am by myself. I can sit in tranquility and pretend I am a queen, sitting still in my elegant, quiet moment of a throne. I can truly meditate, and my soul rests in the reverie. I feel the thickness, like the density of cheesecake or meringue composed of the substance of just thoughts. The silence is sweet to me—it is kind to me.

While I selfishly enjoy the times when I am allowed to see things only my way, I recognize in this love affair with loneliness the absence of many things I need. Although I fought for years to find my own independence and unique style, now I see that I need friends, family, and people in my life more than just myself. It’s why I got married to Sam, the epitome of kindness in my life. I recognized this need when I was little: I wanted a little sister, I wanted a bigger family. I wanted more love around me and more people to love. I am weak when I'm alone--I knew I needed it. In high school I didn’t want to go to college; I wanted to get married young and have lots of children, a happy family. But I went to college and it was a worthy journey, but it shook me up. [Remind me to write down this post in my head. It’s called “The Smarter You Get, the Meaner You Are.”]

As I grew up, I started doing a terrible thing as a result of my introvert/loner tendencies and the self-conscious (and selfish) mindset that I was different and “chosen” in a way: I set myself apart from others; i.e. I purposefully distanced myself from people.

The first time I distanced myself from my friends was when I agreed to skip fourth grade. And from there, I had to make new friends . . . and I was bad at it. I had to wait for people to make friends with me, not vice versa, and this has become a weak character trait of mine. Eventually, in high school, I decided I wanted to be Mormon, which would set me apart (and distance me in a new way) from many of my friends and family. This decision took me to BYU. I left behind my friends in Colorado, wanting to completely leave behind the old me and start a new life.

But then, with each year at BYU I did the same thing: I left behind my friends in search of a new life in a new year. And as a result, there are very few people who I feel truly know me, having lived with me for enough years to see more than a glimpse of my journey to self-discovery.

This is what made me homesick today for the first time. After individual encounters over the past two months with my three blood family members: Dad, Jack, and Janet, I realized that those three people are the ones who truly know me best because they have lived with me since I was born. We may be very, very different in many ways (me as Mormon being one of them), but as each of them recently observed and addressed my needs in seemingly small but profound ways, today I felt a deep sense of gratitude for those few people in the world who truly know me and see me as I am in a way that only comes with time. I am a daughter and a little sister, and sometimes I like to be just that.

Here, in Lake Oswego, I’m the new kid again, and I don’t know how to make new friends. I sit here just waiting for new friends to find me, and then I gripe about my loneliness. At BYU, after my junior year, I moved seven times within one year. I didn’t do it on purpose—circumstances necessitated the moves (maggots on the ceiling of that one basement apartment, for example). But behind those moves were sentiments of anger, misunderstanding, restlessness, and a search for happiness and acceptance. And with each move, I felt more and more lonely, leaving friends and acquaintances behind left and right. On to a new ward, a new scene, a new crowd, a new start, and a new me.

Or so I thought. But after seven moves (and four more recently in my married life), I learned that I simply cannot move away from myself.

I keep following myself around. And when I’m sick of myself, there is nowhere to go but inward.

Today I called my sister. We don’t talk very often. We’re very different, leading very different lifestyles, but she asked me questions and gave me advice and direction that no one but my family members has been able to give me so precisely--because no one else has lived with me and seen the ins and outs of my behavior for over fifteen years. (Sam, my dear husband, has definitely gotten to know me well in the past two years, and I am excited to continue discovering the depth of our relationship and understanding of each other after fifteen, twenty, and fifty years. I love that we are still newlyweds in the sense that we still have so much to learn about each other. I hope it is always this way—that we can continue seeing more in each other and enjoying that continual discovery over the years.)

I am also excited to develop my newer friendships into lifelong relationships—the kind that mean empathy and home. It’s what we all need so desperately in this otherwise empty world.

So as much effort as I made packing up and moving out at seventeen never to look back or return to the family and friends of my youth—

--I just wanted to say I’m sorry, and I need you, even just the memory of you. I’m blind to think I don’t because you are the only ones who know who I am, and who I was all along.