The Art of Being Alone

lessons from 10 weeks of solitude

PART ONE

WEEK ONE

I order $40 worth of sushi. I maintain a schedule independent of anyone else. I go to my mother’s house. 

I enjoy a holiday. I scrub every crevice of my apartment. I put items I no longer need on the curb. I buy a new dress. I see two friends. I wear a new kind of perfume.

I go to work. I perform my usual routines. I eat many slices of sourdough bread smothered in ricotta. I feel luxurious. I am not lonely.

I go to work. I read spam emails. I perform my usual routines. I notice a moth resting too far from my reach to kill. I make enough dinner for leftovers.

I go to work. I read pages out of many books. I play solitaire. I can’t remember if the holiday was several days ago or last week. I wish I could scream. I perform my usual routines. I have two drinks with friends. I teach them to play Pac-Man. I wander my apartment aimlessly.

I oversleep. I have spent over half my paycheck on basic living expenses. I try to reschedule a doctor’s appointment but there is nothing available until 2023. I notice the moth remains in its spot. I knock the gem loose from my favorite ring. I order Chinese food and watch a romantic movie. I refresh twitter. I bargain with myself to get up the first time I wake up the next morning.

I do not sleep in. I make an espresso. I want to punish myself for weighing one hundred and thirteen pounds. I am angry someone is mowing my lawn before 9. I walk two miles. I spend $2.75. I am broke. I finish a novel. I think this is my golden opportunity to truly figure out who I am on my own. I heat up a pan to prepare dumplings. I want to cry, but I can’t. The dumplings are cold still and too greasy. I am punishing myself. I do not finish them. I check on my Animal Crossing island. I am lonely. I do not drive today because my air conditioning is broken and gas is too expensive. I buy bus tickets to Montreal I can no longer afford. I am angry that there are people I know who make exorbitant amounts of money doing things that are not real. I lift weights. I imagine I am nineteen and staying at my father’s house. I wish I could be like the president and say I am thinking about doing something and not do it. I watch another romantic movie.

WEEK TWO

I exchange pleasantries. I work on a dance piece. I scrub most crevices of my apartment. I buy $70 worth of groceries. I get notifications from instagram that my friends have added to their stories. I do not watch them. I perform my usual routines. I notice that the moth is gone. I finish a nonfiction book. I try to catch up on instagram but it is all ads. I feel left behind. I promise to go to bed early, but I do not.

I wake up feeling spirited. I do yoga. I go to work with a to-do list in hand and cross off every task. I make another list. I read up on what books I should have read by now. I return home feeling good. I do pilates. I cook dinner for one. I install my air conditioning with my friend. I give him blueberries as a gift. I have a relaxing evening. I sleep deeply.

I do yoga again. I go to work with more lists. I finish them all. I pay my bills. I receive a promotion. Everyone receives a promotion. I leave work early. I buy a new novel and an eclair for $20. I am overly friendly to the man at the bookstore. This man has no idea who I am. I receive a new shirt in the mail. I resolve to leave my job. I make a glorified dating profile for new jobs. I wait to be chosen. I write. I cook dinner for one.

I keep myself busy with useless personal tasks. I memorize chapters out of Chinese Characters for Korean Readers printed by the University of Hawaii Press. I notice they opt for an outdated transliteration of “France.” I apply to more jobs. Yesterday feels like weeks ago. I ignore my coworkers. 

I oversleep and do not do yoga again. I listen to Thievery Corporation. I make the hundredth iteration of my resume. I am already rejected by three jobs I applied for. I print out my expensive bus tickets. I leave work early again. I can no longer bear to be there. I can no longer bear feeling useless. I force myself to run a mile and a half after work. I am too hot and feel nauseous. I post an essay to my blog. I eat half a bag of gluten free pasta with jarred red sauce. I feel my ancestors roll over in their graves. They berate me for the atrocities I commit with gluten free pasta and jarred sauce. Despite the lack of gluten, I am still bloated meeting my friends at our weekly trivia appointment. I am joined by two friends and one of their dates. I am struck by how much he reminds me of something I cannot describe. My friends announce to me that they are moving away. I am offered a free ride to Chicago. I am so overwhelmed by horrid and romantic thoughts that I cannot sleep. I miss hands that were violent against me. I wonder why everything must be so difficult all the time. I blame myself for the faults of others. I cannot perform any amount of mental gymnastics to train myself to think otherwise. I do not sleep well. I dream of my mother holding me so tightly I cannot breathe, I dream she scratches me so ferociously my skin dissolves beneath her fingers. She is trying to kill me.

I give up doing yoga before work for the day. I worry that I have checked out too far to check back in. I cannot bring myself to be productive at work. I illicitly leave early again. I get my lash extensions done. When it’s time to cash out, she asks me if I will be okay by myself. I am trying to order dinner on my phone while making a note of my next appointment and paying for the current one and I pause before I can say yes. I sound sadder than I meant to. I can tell she sees through me when she looks up. I have to rush back home so I can meet my friends for dinner. I do not stay for long because my friends biked to our location and want to bike home before they’re too tired to motivate themselves for the journey. I feel like I’ve wasted my time. 

I go to an arts festival where I will be performing. I eat overpriced pizza and get a tan. I dance. I make mistakes in the choreography. This stage is too small and too low to the ground and too hot. I wish more people came to see the performance. I help break down the stage. I get dinner and drinks with my friends. I think they must be my friends, because we have conversation and laugh at our jokes and enjoy each other’s company. I feel uneasy, as if the illusion might break at any moment. We walk home loudly, pulling pranks. I reminisce on a date where he rang the boarding school’s campus bell on a July night and we ran through side streets to hide from anyone who might catch us. I listen to the 1975 as I drive home. I think about a piece I read about losing your parents. I wonder who will care and show up to support me when my mother dies. I fear no one will care enough. It is not their job to care like a parent.

WEEK THREE

I do not know what day it is. I ache all over because I am no longer nineteen. Last week feels like months ago. 

I begrudgingly scrub my apartment. I buy a dress. It reminds me of Issey Miyake but it is from Target and $25. I buy scent-free French lotion that will hopefully help my dry skin. It does not help my razor burn but it does smell like vegetable oil. I buy overpriced groceries, including a large carton of strawberries. I feel justified because they are from a local farm and look better than the ones in the plastic container. I buy new flowers to replace old ones I struggled to keep alive. I water my plants. I order takeout for dinner. I wish I was living in the city I grew up knowing and not the sorry excuse for whatever this place is. My tacos are dry and unsatisfying. I eat them while I watch an SVU rerun I’ve seen before. I watch girl, interrupted.

I wake up naturally before 8:30. I make an espresso. I spend too much time on my phone. I go for a two mile walk. I do not let myself shop for anything. I make a concession and buy myself an iced black tea. I eat my overpriced strawberries. I think about whether or not proof of humanity matters to justify treating someone with human kindness.

I eat more vegan yogurt and overpriced strawberries. It is pleasing to me that the scale reads exactly 110.00. I begin to lose time. I bag up old clothes for donation. I reorganize my closet and neatly fold my clothes in my dresser. I am doing all those things I said I needed to do. I wonder how long my clothes will stay this way. I feel quite satisfied with how my closet looks because in a photograph it looks like I only have cool clothing. I send this photo to my friends and my mom to impress them. I know it will not stay this way. I make myself a boring dinner and eat it in front of the air conditioner. I see the new Top Gun movie with my friends. There are disgusting, rowdy teenagers seeing this movie. Two of them push each other’s tongues down their throats next to me for the entire movie. I run into someone I know from college and we joke about the disgusting teenagers. I drive back roads and admire the full moon. I have trouble sleeping. 

I can’t remember what day it is. I waste time watching television. I marvel that my overpriced strawberries are actually still good. I listen to Queen and Aerosmith and The Ramones and The Beastie Boys. There are things far beyond physical appearances that prove we belong to our mothers. My father calls me. I try to tell him how sorry for myself I feel. I don’t think he understands. I say outright that I am unhappy. I think he chooses to not understand. I am congratulated for being able to pull my adult life together despite inconceivable odds. I don’t know how to say that I did those things because I had to, because I did not have the luxury to do it differently. I do not want to dedicate time to imagining if things could have been done differently. I finally force myself to go on a run. Miraculously, I run into familiar faces. I pack for Montreal. I order my regular from the Chinese place up the block.  

I arrive in Montreal to minimal fanfare outside of a monsoon-level thunderstorm. I eat delicious pizza and meet new people. I grow fond of their way of living. 

I wake up at sunrise. I know already this sleep pattern is unsustainable. I am left behind to fend for myself. I eat Italian pastries. I read in a park. I don’t like the book I brought. The narrator is shallow and vapid and says stupid, privileged things. I go to a hair salon. I immediately regret my decision at the first scissor slice. I no longer feel attractive. The cut does not suit me. I eat enough steamed dumplings to nearly make me sick. It is raining again. I attend what could very loosely be dubbed a party. I do not bother forcing my way into conversation. I overhear others’ chatter and realize I have no interest in discussing Canadian politics. I am forced to sleep on the couch.

I go to brunch. I spend $100 on overpriced candles. I am upset with myself for doing so. I go about my day alone until I meet a new friend. We have tea together. I am grateful for her friendship. I get lost on the metro. I walk home from the wrong stop. I walk over eight miles. I eat enchiladas. I watch a British comedy show until I fall asleep.

WEEK FOUR

Again I wake up with the sunrise. I eat pastries for breakfast. I could not eat another pastry if I tried. I am so tired of pastries. I am asked about America as if I am some kind of curio. I do not belong here. I feel grotesquely American for saying that I enjoy driving places. The sun sets so much later here. I pack my things.

I am eager to be reunited with my shitty car. I will not miss the impenetrable metro with its lack of English. I arrive home nearly seven hours later. My brain has shut off. I am sweaty and starving. I eat salty, fried food like a reward for my hardship. I avoid sitting down and force myself to get groceries. I pick up my hairstylist’s plants, which she has entrusted to me while she is in Europe for the next ten weeks. I shower and scrub the transit and grime off of my body. I lament returning to work but I lack the vitriol I felt prior to leaving. I feel shockingly at peace. I try to style my hair. I feel unbelievably ugly. 

I attempt to compensate for the self-consciousness of my haircut by bothering with makeup. I somehow get to work two minutes early. I am impressed with my dedication. I catch up on my emails in less than an hour. My hairstylist calls me from France. We are catching up. She makes sure I know that she doesn’t mind if I accidentally kill her plants. She asks me how I am and I tell her I’m good. She asks me if I am always good. It is okay to be not good. I thought I felt good but maybe I was simply so tired I could not tell. I dip from work early because I am annoyed. I find it difficult to complete my usual routines. My friends invite me to grab a drink.

I brace myself for another work day of doing nothing. I apply for more jobs. I fall back into my routine of unbridled rage stewing in my office. My grandma has a medical emergency. I do not understand why my other family members do nothing to help. For some reason I am still surprised and disappointed that nothing can ever go smoothly. I want to hide. I complete my usual routines in the wrong order.

I attend a work “retreat.” I think that rehashing our successes and foibles of the year is pointless. I eat more enchiladas. I drive my coworker and I to a work happy hour. It could be worse. I only have one drink to avoid sabotaging what I planned for after work. I do not eat dinner. I exercise. I am restless and hollow. I get in my car and put on music that I know will only make me feel sadder. I buy myself ice cream, alone, surrounded by children and their parents. Sleep comes only fitfully.

I drag myself to the second day of my retreat. We receive news of the overturn of Roe v. Wade mid-discussion. We lose focus of our original discussion. I am appalled by the level of hysterics. I wish we would either end the work day here or recenter ourselves on the original agenda. My work day does eventually end early. I call my favorite sushi place and get left on hold for ten minutes. I get sushi I can’t afford and don’t enjoy from somewhere else. I watch High Fidelity because I think it will make me feel better but I have difficulty paying attention. I stay up too late making pointless digital art in Photoshop because I’ve had too much coffee during the day to sleep.

I wake up to the sound of the power going out. I bargain with myself to go back to sleep briefly when power returns, and then I accidentally sleep for three hours. I realize the mysterious smell that I thought was a change in my own chemistry was actually the desiccating flowers in my apartment. I feed my friend’s cats. I am disappointed when there is not cash left out for me. The cats are more work than promised. I let them onto the porch but they do not come inside when called. I resort to somewhat cruel tricks to entice them inside but feel evil for approaching an animal dishonestly. I buy myself takeout again that I cannot afford. I let the TV play whatever is on because it’s too much work to focus above the air conditioner. I have not spoken to a single person today. I fall asleep on the couch until midnight and then make myself get into bed. 

PART TWO

WEEK FIVE

For the first time in a week I wake up at the time I intended. I wonder when I will notice that parts of my hair have grown. I feed my friend's cats breakfast. I treat myself to breakfast on my way home under the guise of being efficient with my day. I exercise instead of sitting in front of my computer. I scrub most crevices of my apartment. I run errands for my mom. I belt Katy Perry alone in the car. It is unbelievably hot. I have still spoken to no one except for my mother. My grandmother writes me a check with more money than normal because she thinks I purchase things my mother needs. I will probably pocket this money with no remorse. I leave to run my own errands. My phone buzzes several times and for a reason I don’t understand, I feel horribly irate and misanthropic. I spend $30 more than I intend on groceries. I put all new fresh flowers in my vases. I want to order a pizza for dinner, but they are all gratuitously overpriced. I order the pizza anyway and resolve to spend no money outside of the basics next month. I eat my pizza in front of the television the way God intended. I think about how I could possibly afford living after my mother has died. I wonder who will order my grandmother’s groceries online and cut her hair and make sure her utilities are paid. I will not let it be me. I do not feel any urges to perform my usual routines. My rituals of preservation have been rendered meaningless. I only have four weeks of solitude left. I hope I can return to the way of living I left behind.

I go to work.

I receive a text from my grandmother. It was nice to see your cheerful face, it reads, wish things were different. How pitiful to believe things could ever be different from how they are. I change my clothes and feel compelled to use one of the last sprays of my favorite perfume I had been rationing for years. I eat dinner with my father. He invites me to Spain. I tell him he can buy me my ticket. I cannot make him understand. I watch him leave. I catch a whiff of my old perfume on my top. I take my top off and hold it close to my face like a baby blanket. I want to sleep curled up next to the way it makes me feel. The day of the week no longer matters to me. I try to remember that I felt this way during summers between college and hope that in the fall I will feel I am in time and place.

I have nearly discovered the secret to making my dreadful haircut work for me. I am nothing if not tenacious. I wonder if others think my tenacity is one of my positive traits. I use another spray of my old perfume. I get to work. Today the scent of my perfume is too strong and it gives me a headache. Humbled, I wash my chest and neck with plain foaming soap in the bathroom. I apply to another job. I plan out my aspirations for the next quarter and realize that the year is half over. I declare in my journal that I will have job interviews in July and a new job by August. I walk around campus in the sun. I fall asleep at my desk. I meet my friend after work to split his farm share with him. For the first time that I can remember, I feel normal. I know this happy normal feeling will disappear soon. I cook myself a delicious dinner and vow to cook every day until the end of July. Even in the shower, the normal feeling doesn’t rinse away.

I oversleep. I feel compelled to make sure my vintage Marc Jacobs denim minidress still fits and I am late for work after checking myself out in the mirror. I find a more comfortable way to sleep at my desk. I perform my usual routines. I correctly guess the final Wheel of Fortune puzzle for the first time in my life. I try to fix my shower head which has been stuck spraying water directly onto the shower wall for two days, but instead it sprays everywhere else. I spend an hour tightening and adjusting and adding new thread tape. I am frustrated by living alone. I try to laugh it off because at least I can send my mom funny texts asking for help. I wonder if my father would be confused and bothered if I asked him how-to questions and sent unnecessary life updates. Maybe my mom is also confused and annoyed, but doesn’t want to tell me.

I choose to sleep in. I courageously straighten my hair. I listen to music that makes me happy. I do some semblance of work. I write. I perform my usual routines. I meet my friends at our spot for trivia.

I get some things done at work. I leave early to go to the grocery store. I plan to have a nice day tomorrow. I exercise. I cook myself a nice dinner, do the dishes, and put on a movie.

I am well-rested. I walk to a cafe for breakfast. I go to the farmer’s market. I relax.

WEEK SIX

I enjoy my morning. I go to the grocery store before 11:00am. I clean my apartment and water my plants. I cook both lunch and dinner from scratch. I go for a run. 

I go on a long hike with my friends. We get sandwiches at a place with a silly name. We have a picnic and go swimming. We stop for ice cream. I feel pleasantly sleepy. I am disappointed to return to an empty home. I take the most enjoyable shower of the year. I curl up with a rom com.

I don’t sleep in too late. I take care of some projects and get my nails done. I exercise. I feel okay. I agree to visit my dad in New York because he says he’ll handle my transit there and back.

I pack for New York. I help out my mom. I discover her final wishes which she chose not to share with me. She is unnecessarily cruel to me. I am reminded of every time my needs were rejected as a child. I go home and cry into a jar of salsa. I think about all the yelling I endured in my life. I get into my dad’s luxury car and go to New York.

I sleep poorly and wake up earlier than normal. I walk over eight miles across Manhattan. I am not heard when I speak. I lose my appetite. I must pay for my train ticket home. I spend the upcoming week’s grocery money on the ticket. I want to scream. I cry until I fall asleep.

I sleep later. My face feels swollen. I am still not heard. I spend most of the day napping on and off in a chair. I say I am not okay but no one believes me. I go to a cookout I have no interest in attending.

I wake up feeling sick to my stomach from eating things I don’t like. I tell my father how much the train ticket costs when he asks. I take a four hour train ride back to where I came from. I cry for an hour as I unpack my things. I discover my rent is being raised again. I exercise. I buy takeout I cannot afford. I think about the yelling again, the being left alone, the rigidity, the rules. I wonder why I was forced to be caged in when I was already perfectly conformed. I finish The Bear. 

WEEK SEVEN

I sleep in. I am so happy to be reunited with my coffeemaker, my car, my food. I exercise. I contemplate waitressing part time on top of my job. I contemplate leaving my job entirely to waitress full time. I clean my apartment and wash my floors. I put up fresh flowers. I cook myself dinner. I do my eyebrows and shave my legs and give myself a pedicure. I watch Shameless. 

I do not want to return to work and overcompensate by wearing makeup and doing my hair. I catch up on emails. I finally speak my mind. I feel lighter. I watch Bachelorette.

I sleep in but feel a bit inspired. I do not feel life is unbearable. I rush through laundry and exercising and dinner. I go to the movies with my friends. We laugh so hard we cry. I receive an email from my mother. I will be responsible for her finances soon. I stay up too late being angry.

I oversleep. I cannot focus at work. I feel desperate to find a second source of income. I receive a text from my father asking for another visit. I am angry. I want nothing to do with my parents anymore. The greatest gift I could receive is being left alone. I leave work early to rot in my apartment. I go for a three mile walk. I look at all the things I want but could not get. I decide it is time to no longer live my life for other people. I eat ice cream for dinner. I stay up too late because I can but tell myself it’s because the lightning outside would have woken me up anyway.

I work from home. I feel dizzy and weird spending the day alone in my hot apartment. I eat a cheese stick and gummy worms for lunch. I watch TV and go for a walk and feel better. I meet my friends at our usual spot for trivia. I know our time together is running out. 

I go out to lunch on my coworker’s last day. I feel again as though I have friends for a brief moment. I create the illusion of productivity. 

I have to go to work even on Saturday. I take a nap after. I watch Shameless for nearly eight hours. I buy takeout. I feel horribly sick. I stay up too late.

WEEK EIGHT

I play video games for too long in the morning. I feel restless. I drive around aimlessly. I begin to feel horribly sick again. I put off my usual routines. I don’t want my life. I lay down with the AC on. I eat a sandwich and find the will to continue. I finally perform my usual routines. I make pasta. I shower. I rewatch an episode of The Bear. I do not fall asleep before midnight.

I get up just shy of  7 a.m. I do some semblance of work. I drink coffee late in the afternoon. I completely forget about a meeting. I have dinner with my father. I am explained at about how I should feel. I am told I am doing well. I give up on exercising for the day. I cry in the shower. 

I go to work with the intent of taking care of my own business afterward. I do laundry. My house is spontaneously, inexplicably infested with bugs. I am at the end of my rope. I sit in the dark.

I procrastinate work. I talk to my cousin on the phone. I leave work early with chemicals and special tape and sage to burn. I commit tiny acts of murder. I cleanse my house. I have a friend over for dinner. I cook. We laugh. She does my dishes and it’s the largest act of kindness I’ve experienced all summer. 

I go for a run first thing in the morning and break a new mile time. I interview new hires. I cook myself lunch. I speak with a social worker who thinks the opposite of what I do about my family. I want to hate where I came from and who I belong to but then I would be denying myself. I eat pizza with a new friend and make jokes and drink a beer and enjoy it. I almost feel nostalgic, but I know I can’t be the person I was. I am not the person I was. I can’t go back to the life I used to have, but I hope someday I can have something different.

I attend a professional development that is largely just improv 101. I share eye rolls with my colleagues. I rediscover items from the past. For the first time, I look at photos from high school and feel like an adult. I wish I could go back and ask the girl inside my camera roll what she really wanted. I succumb to nostalgia. I stay up too late.

I run into a guy from high school and we catch up over coffee. I find comfort in familiarity. I realize afterward that this felt like a meet-cute. I go to dinner with someone I barely know. I drink too much wine. I feel awkward and am relieved when I get home. I go downstairs to my friend’s apartment to talk. I feel young again. I learn that people will see you however they want to see you. I realize I have a lot going for me.

WEEK NINE

I attend dance company rehearsal for the first time in a month. I workshop a new piece. I am the base of a lift for the first time ever. I buy things for my mom. I eat grocery store sushi. I put on John Mayer’s live album and give a concert to no one as I do my usual routines. I feel a twinge of the person I used to be and always have been before it felt like my life had stopped.

I have things to take care of at work. I perform my usual routines. I watch Bachelorette like the good old days. I don’t have much time to think or be sad.

I see Regina Spektor with my old neighbor. She treats me to dinner. I do nothing fancy but I feel content.

I listen to country music. I gather my work materials for my business trip. I get free ice cream with my coworker because they’re giving away ice cream to anyone named Taylor today. I crack honest jokes that are not depressing. I feel charmed. I have dinner with my aunt. She listens to me. I meet my friends for drinks one last time. I know our saga as it exists now is ending. I know I will see them again someday. Maybe this is the closure I was supposed to get back when none of us had any at all.

I meet with the social worker. My expectations are exceeded. I begin to feel heard. I bounce between meetings and errands. I work out. I forget to shower.

I interview for a job. I pack my things. I clean my house. I throw away garbage. I say goodbye to my shower and my coffee maker. I eat junk food and enjoy it. I play the lottery.

I get up before sunrise. I make my way to California. I know when I come back that things will not be the same as they were.