Three Years Alone

In May of 2001 I moved to Germany. I had no plan other than to wing it, to fly by the seat of my pants or as my dad might say, to let my dick flap in the wind. I deliberately avoided planning as an exercise to do exactly the opposite of what I normally did. In fact, before I suddenly decided to move some 6000 miles from home, my plans were so thorough I had the next 10 years pretty much etched in stone. I was going to earn a Ph.D. in experimental psychology from Dartmouth by the age of 27, get married shortly thereafter and then have kids starting in my early thirties. But I threw all of my plans in the trash because of a powerful variable I hadn't considered; two years previously I had fallen in love for the first time. It took a while to sink in, but I changed my mind. The emotions I experienced in heartbreak derailed my brain from the pure logic to which it had become accustomed. Having spent most of my life in the microcosm of education, I began realizing I had too much book experience and I lacked significantly in world experience. I needed to take more chances. I needed to put myself in harm's way. Moving to Germany without a plan was a perfect course of action.

Self-reflection brought me to this important decision. I knew what I needed. I needed more heartbreak.

Today, more than a decade later I find myself reflecting on the milestones, the markers of great change and the occasional wreckage that brought upon me scars of humility. My move to Germany fell apart; the authorities there denied my application for residency and asked me to leave by a certain date or I'd be arrested and never allowed to enter the country again. I fell in love four more times in the in the years after and suffered the weight of three more broken hearts. I was hit by cars five times while riding my bike and for some reason, despite my deplorable track record, I'm still riding all the time. I had brain surgery, which violently shook from me what conceit I had at the time and turned it into some measure of unflinching courage. I fought tyrannical corporate monsters and met some successes and failures there. I carried a few family members to their graves, spread the ashes of my best friend from high school into a waterfall, and subsequently (as the cycle of life goes) watched all of my brothers bring children into the world.

See that puff of dust?
The one just above the rocks?
That's my friend, Darren, from high school.
R.I.P.

This rap sheet of trials and tearjerkers, good and bad, is probably not that different from most folks. I have not suffered more than most people. However, my list of humbling moments provided me an awareness of people who have not suffered that much. And if, after reading my list, you find yourself thinking how remarkable it is that I have been through so much shit, then you ought put yourself in harm's way . . . because, really, my list isn't that bad at all. Compared to some people's challenges I probably seem like I have diamonds for tears and rainbows shining out of my ass. Make no mistake, I am grateful for my life - ya know, for the breathing, for my ten fingers and ten toes, for my functional eyeballs, for higher cognition, for the chance to improve myself . . . duh, for all that I have.

So, I have taken some time today to think about my last decade and consider the weight and whimsy it has brought. Specifically, I want to touch on a particular topic I've ignored for some time.

Being alone and loneliness.

Consider for a few moments what it means to be alone. And I ask for aloneness to not be confused with loneliness, for they are fundamentally different, the latter an element of despondency and the former an element of self-strength. As many of you, I have experienced both, but no time was more poignant for these elements than in the years leading up to 2002.

The actual building # of my apt. in Cologne.
My address was 147 Oskar-Jäger Straße.

I recall December 31st, 2001. I was living in Cologne, Germany in a student apartment building, sharing a living space with eight other young people. All of them were gone. All of them had plans to be with friends or family on New Year's Eve. I was completely alone. I had no real friends in Germany. For whatever reason I struggled a great deal to find people with whom I could really connect. It was probably a language or culture barrier thing. Or maybe I didn't try hard enough.

Anyway, for as long as I live I will not forget the quiet of that New Year's Eve. From the time I woke up to moment I went to bed I didn't utter a single word. It seemed the entire city had emptied into the far-away arms of friends and I was stuck in a concrete box with a thin carpet and few blankets. Midnight came and went with no fan-fare, no countdown, no screaming and hollering, no drinking, no fireworks, no kiss from a pretty gal. This may sound depressing, but I've done this a handful of times and with every holiday, including my birthday. It can be quite liberating and empowering. If you've never spent a holiday or birthday by yourself, I urgently recommend it . . . try it at least once.

Unbeknownst to me, that January, I was about eight months shy of a three year stint of being alone. Let me explain this in a bit more detail in case it isn't clear. I was alone for three years in my mid-twenties. I had no relationships. I didn't date anyone in any capacity, save for making out with a few gals. I didn't even have sex - for three years. I'm not sure if this is unusual for people. It seems as though it might be, considering much of what I've seen over the years in folks has been serial dating and a constant, dirty wash of co-dependency. What I do know for sure, however, is that I don't make good friends with people who exhibit such tendencies; they just don't understand the immense value of self-reflection and aloneness.

I'm very thankful for the three years I spent alone. I learned many valuable lessons you can't achieve easily. Mainly, and I'm gonna hammer this home again, I learned how to be alone and how to self-reflect. At the end of those three years I was a pro at these skills. It seemed my best friends were the four walls of my room. Being alone didn't bother me at all. I had become an unbreakable pillar. I went through my days holding myself up, not needing much from others, not needing affection, not needing conversation, not needing to look into someone's eyes. I was emotionally independent - as much as one can be I suppose.

But this self-strength and beautiful time for self-reflection didn't last. It can only go on for so long. People can only take so much alone time. I hit a wall that winter in Cologne. My aloneness turned into loneliness.

So, I took action. Being the pillar I was I set myself to a strict regimen of exercise, eating chocolate and masturbation to increase the dopamine levels in my brain. I was very scientific about my loneliness and it worked for a while, but in the end . . . I needed human connection. Eventually, the regimen didn't pick up the slack and I often found myself randomly collapsing to the floor crying. I cried in every corner of my room . . . several times. I sweated out nights of loneliness, back-to-back, discovering a new part of myself. Loneliness became some kind of a dark entity, a personified immortal being whose job it was to choke out of me what little cheer I possessed. Since that time I've written Loneliness in some of my stories as an actual character and, for whatever reason, Loneliness is a woman. Not sure if that means anything, but it probably does.

A couple weeks after that New Year's Eve I visited my dear cousin, Sabine, who lived about an hour from Cologne. When we hugged I realized it had been three months since anyone had hugged me. Think about that for a moment. Three months without a simple hug! How many of us could do that? Some of you have probably never gone that long without a hug. Maybe some of you have gone longer than three months. Regardless, I don't recommend it. I don't care what value one might glean from such deprivation . . . I still don't recommend it.

A few days later I found out my application for residency was denied. I sold everything I owned, pooled my money together and bought a plane ticket home. When I had returned I had fifty bucks in my bank account and a few boxes of belongings at my father's place. I got a job as a bike messenger in Seattle and when I had enough money I moved into the city. I still didn't know anybody in town and it wasn't until I quit that job and began working at a book store that I started making solid friends.

That was a decade ago. <Sigh> I've done a colossal amount of work in ten years. Some of it was ridiculous. Some of it was eloquent.

Today, I spent the entire day alone just like that New Year's Eve some ten years ago. I haven't uttered a single word and the quiet was so quiet I could hear it ringing. If you've never heard the "ringing" of silence, then I suggest you try being quiet for once in your life. It's an odd "sound" to experience and you might give yourself a better opportunity to think. Throughout the day, the strength of those three years alone in my mid-twenties jumped into my head. I remembered the aloneness and loneliness with epic clarity; the reminders were like a sharp knives, carving out the scars I need to reconcile the trespasses of this year. With these recollections I felt lifted up and broken down, sometimes in the same breath.

Over the years I've had an army of scars carved into me, but no scar is more beautiful than the one I cut into myself from spending three years alone.

Part of my library once upon a time. My brain . . . now.