After a post-shift breakfast with coworkers, I was all bundled up and ready to bike around before heading home. I had been cruising around, taking pictures of lower Manhattan, since the early morning sky had such a pretty light. It was fucking cold, and after I realized I had been riding for about an hour, I decided to head back to Brooklyn. I was biking through the City Hall grounds and the sun was rising. All of the buildings were awash with it's gold, and as I was approaching the intersection across from the Brooklyn Bridge bike path entrance, I found myself completely overwhelmed. Not from the beauty of it, not from the freezing wind blasting my face, not from a tired booty from five days of crazy butt workouts. Not even from the stupendous view that is New York City. No, it came from me realizing I was completely and unadulterated-ly IN the moment. It was like every sense was operating on high. I've never felt and seen and heard and smelled with such clarity and at such a heightened level, at the same time. It was CRAZY. I imagine it's what a drug high must feel like, and if it is, I totally get why people get addicted. It's scary, intense, and incredible, all at once. Now, I don't know if because I grew up in a fast-paced city, or because I get caught up in my own deep thoughts, or because I daydream often, that I don't ever find myself FULLY in the moment. Maybe it's because I'm on the grind, or because I have security issues, but...I can name only a handful of times when it's happened. And those few times, I had to consciously work and concentrate to be in the moment. This time...was the opposite. So it happened, right, and then when I realized it was happening, I almost burst into tears. Listen, I get emotional sometimes, but this wasn't out of sadness or anger or even happiness. It was just such an amazing and beautiful thing. I was breathing and seeing and feeling and knowing, in every cell of my body and every thought in my brain, that I was utterly in the world, and it was all around me. It kind of blew me away. I felt both tiny and huge at the same time. I was inhaling that cold morning air and actually realizing I was doing it. I was seeing the heart-achingly gorgeous view in front me and fully understanding I was seeing it. This time I didn't have to make myself appreciate all this, and force myself to notice things. The only thinking I had to do was to realize it was happening, and to embrace it. It's a hard thing, to let myself go like that. I hold, and have held, onto so much fear in my life that it doesn't surprise me that moments like this don't come my way all that often. As I mentally talked myself through it, to keep letting go and just let myself be invoked by the feeling, it became almost too much. I had to take a moment and breathe, but then I let myself go with it. I let that feeling kind of spread out and fill me up inside, and smiled like a motherfucker when I hit that bridge. I was NOT smiling much as I huffed and puffed in the final leg of my ride home, 45 minutes later (the last half mile to my crib is all solid, steep uphill) but even so. I kept thinking about that moment and how high I felt in it. I was remembering all the beautiful things I saw and photographed that morning, how I had savored the incredible visual and architectural feast that is Manhattan. And that led me to start thinking about how so many of us want to have experiences like that- but to experience and share them with someone they love.
I dunno man, the last thing on my mind during any of that was, "Awww, this is SO GORGEOUS but I'm SO ALONE. Sigh. If only someone was here to enjoy it with me..." First of all: fuuuuck that. Second of all: let me tell you, being that happy with being by myself is a real testament to how far I've come. In the past, being on my own, seeing sights alone, shopping alone, would've made me feel like a fucking loser. When I think back on all the times I did things on my own growing up, without friends, without family, (which was basically always) it would make me feel really sad. It made me feel like I didn't have anyone, in any sense of the word. I can't say I'm an introvert, but I'm maybe a little too awkward to be a real extrovert. So while I didn't mind doing things alone, what always bothered me was how shitty I'd feel during and after. I didn't like that feeling, but instead of taking steps to fix it (I was young so didn't really know how to do that yet), I suppressed everything. I've finally owned up and addressed these things in recent weeks, and I thought I was doing all right dealing with them. But I didn't realize just how many strides I've made. Today, being by myself and feeling the world and everything in it, I didn't feel the least bit sad that I was hanging out with just me. I certainly didn't feel like I was missing out on / lacking something by not having someone there. It was cool, unexpected, and super encouraging to see, and really be aware, that in real life I've moved past that issue.
Then I started thinking about why people fear being alone. Do they really want someone to share things with, live a life with, or as humans are we just terrified of being on our own? Why is that such a bad thing? What's really soooo much better about having a partner, a mate, a boyfriend/girlfriend/whatever the fuck it is, than just being with you and you? Is it that most of us never reach a point where we ask ourselves these questions? Do we fear the answers? Are most of us even capable enough to start a journey of figuring ourselves out? Maybe that's why we are so driven to have a partner- for some people, relationships are a way to hide from themselves, their issues. (I did that plenty, but with sex. Oh my god, so fun. But at a price.) Or maybe we constantly seek a partner because we substitute that love in place of the love we lack for ourselves. Or we chase partnerships and the idea of relationships and love because being with someone comes to us more naturally- whether because it's our human instinct, or because it's beat into our brains through film and storybooks. I mean, I guess I'm wondering all these things because for me, once I recognized I had issues...yo, I wanted to deal with them. The last thing I thought of as a solution was a freaking boyfriend. It's been years of this self-work, mind you. It wasn't easy, and it was scary as hell, and oftentimes I begrudgingly made myself keep digging, keep asking, keep working. But ultimately, don't we all want to improve, exceed our own expectations of ourselves? Did we let the idea of romantic love take the place of that? Do we now think the only way we can grow, be the best versions of ourselves, experience life at a heightened level, is by being in love? Look, I've been in love before, I recognize how powerful it can be. But at the same time, even at my happiest moments with a man I loved, who loved me, I can't say it ever came even close to feeling how high, euphoric, and electric I felt this morning. Love is great, totally has it's merits, but it's such a diluted carbon-copy of today's experience. I've often thought love is really a drug; you feel happy and float-y and drunk; you see the world through a beautiful filter. But that's just it- a filter. I don't think love makes us more aware and more in touch with life and reality; I think it makes us walk and stumble through the world as if in a trance. You're in this kind of bubble, and it's a beautiful fucking bubble, but I don't feel like I see clearer or live fuller when I'm in love. It's more like my system has been shot up with "man magic". I'm high, but the only reason life looks and feels beautiful is because I've been altered by love's effects. Maybe that's why breakups are so hard- they're a crash. An emotional AND physical crash. All of the sudden, that pretty haze has lifted and reality sharpens once again.
Could that also why we crave "having someone?" To chase that high? Or do most of us first experience it at too young an age to know it's attainable on one's own? I know with my last heartbreak, during the relationship itself I felt great. I had finally been able to open myself to a man and let him in- and still be and maintain my true self throughout. If anything, I felt overcoming that personal struggle had strengthened me. After it ended, for weeks I lived in constant fear that that strength would disappear and I'd be weak again, since the only reason I felt it was due to this dude. Friends assured me that now that I had felt that invincibility, I wouldn't just lose it. Now that I knew what it was, I was more than able to keep it and have it, even without that man in my life anymore. I never liked the idea of a guy giving me or making me anything. So while that high may be why most people chase relationships, and "need" to be in one, it is the exact reason I avoid relationships and DON't want to be in one. I don't like relationships because it's too easy to become too dependent on them (again, like a drug. Says the non-drug user...) That's why I tend to kept a wall up- it prevents anyone from getting in / making me vulnerable, but it also prevents any guy from making me feel too good, emotionally. When it's not something I can make myself feel, or give to myself, tangible or otherwise, I'm wayyy wary of it and avoid it. But pain is really unavoidable, no matter how much we try to protect ourselves. Pain is really the only way to grow and become stronger, better versions of ourselves, by ourselves. Maybe that's also why people are afraid of being alone. Because in those moments, whether just a casual Tuesday or after a heartbreak, you're forced to see yourself, be with yourself, know and own yourself. Which can be pretty damn terrifying if you don't like yourself! But it's so important to not only know ourselves, but be utterly and brutally honest about who and what we are and want.
So why don't more people have journeys to discover all this, and just bounce from partner to partner? I'm not sure; I can only answer that for myself. But I can say, just like getting to the gym or going for a run, the hardest part is walking out the door. Once you hit that pavement, you just fly. And just like a rough, intense workout, there are going to be hard moments, moments you need to stop, take a breather, stop and try again later. Man, sometimes, you just won't want to do it. Because lets be real: pain and work and pushing ourselves can SUCK. But it's fucking worth it. The endorphin rush of a solid run has nothing on the euphoria you feel when you start to grow and know yourself. I hope to keep having moments like I did, paused before that gorgeous bridge today. I hope I continue to be able to give that gift to myself, to grow and let go of my fears and hang-ups. Maybe you don't need to give up sex for 100 days to get it, but whatever your obstacle(s) is (are), I can promise what's waiting on the other side is worth the work.
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