Alone time feels like a peaceful sanctuary until it isn’t chosen. It feels like a purgatory filled with the deafening sound of silence — a wasted Saturday afternoon when the sun is shining. It makes you feel desperate. Like you’re grasping for something that you don’t even want, because anything that isn’t you alone feels like it might fill the void. But, you have no options and it feels like you have nowhere to go. The things that temporarily ease the discomfort seem to evaporate faster than they started helping. This is what made me face myself, and learn the subtle art of being alone.
I’m an outgoing introvert. For the most part, I’ve always loved my alone time — because I was always in complete control of it. I’d binge shows I’d be too embarrassed to admit I wasted a day watching. I’d eat garbage food and maybe do the laundry. I’d waste time doing mindless things that recharged my batteries enough for my next social encounter. It happened rarely, so when it did, it felt like the type of luxury I wanted to drown myself in. When I was done being alone, I’d call my husband or re-enter my on-call network of friends who always seemed to be waiting with open arms and an extra drink with my name on it.
I shared those beloved friends with my husband. Because we were both semi-Seattle transplants, they were mostly friends we had made together. They were as equally his as…
