The Art of Loneliness
I was warned of the loneliness that came with being a mother. The shot social life and fighting the crowds of faceless faces, the voices that sound the same, the park-life rich with cliches and clowns. I was told it would take some getting used to, waking up every morning, going through the motions. I was told to make friends, to get out there, to be around other mothers who might be in the same boat– paddling the same seas. Like the first day of school with babies on our backs instead of Jansports.
Except all of that made me feel more lonely. Making an effort is exhausting. Friendships are supposed to be organic. Bonding must occur over mutual interests, over books and music and favorite films.
My favorite movie of all time is Hannah and her Sisters, what’s yours?
Being a mother can at times be very lonely just like being a writer has always been. Alone all day and then at night, alone again, talking mainly to someone who doesn’t understand and then at night, talking to no one, whispering words against computer screens and characters that look back with my same eyes. But there is a fine art to being lonely, there are windows to open into the night. There are stars, the same stars that everyone with a window in her office can see.
Yesterday I took myself on a date. I took myself to see a beautiful little film about beautiful people. Lonely people who make the other feel a little less so. And I cried in the corner and no one saw. I waited for the credits to run and all of the people to file out of the theater before holding my own hand and walking myself outside into the afternoon. I took myself to the bookstore afterwards and paced the aisles with a head full of thoughts, wanting to talk to somebody. Anybody.
“Do you sell Moleskine notebooks?” I finally asked.
The man behind the counter showed me the way.
So I bought one and I wrote everything I wanted to talk about down on paper. I wrote for two hours, until it was time to go home and I felt instantly better. Less alone. Perfectly content to say nothing to anyone for an entire afternoon. And then I wondered what I would do if I didn’t write. How would I handle this? How would I embrace the feelings of being so often alone?
When I’m alone, I like to pretend I am on my own. That I am single and childless and like most women my age. I pretend to the mirror as I dab my face with toilet paper. I pretend to the spines of books as I browse through the book store. I pretend until my hours are up. Until it’s time to come home, cook dinner, get Archer ready for bed and when he’s fast asleep, open the office window to the stars.
There is an art to loneliness, of sheltering
oneself from and at the same time craving the sounds of strange voices, potential friendships or lovers or
the simplest interaction. There are a million mothers out there reaching out to
something that understands, trying to find the words to tell ourselves
everything is going to be okay, treating ourselves to popcorn in the
darkness so we might feel the presence of strangers surround us like a
hug. So we can take a moment to mourn our past. A moment to reflect, to embrace the quiet and learn to understand ourselves. Or at the very least, try.
***
You are not alone in your loneliness.
You said it much more eloquently than I could. I often find myself envious of my single friends. I imagine all the opportunities at my fingertips if I could shed the motherhood skin. Somedays, I feel angry at the life I have now, feeling caged. But other days I feel fullfilled, and proud at what I do as a mother and wife. But, nonetheless, those lonely moments happen and your writing is your tool. Perhaps I need to seek out my own niche for those days.
totally true. my alone reflective time…in the car dying peacefully to joanna newsoms beautiful music. it puts me somewhere apart from all my moments of being just a mom..that special alone time albeit lonely is sometimes pretty inspiring…i just wish i had more of them!
One of my strongest recollections of having small children (they’re now 10 & 12) is that intense feeling of isolation. You have written about it so well here.
For me, those lonly moments come when I realize time is moving quickly and not at all; when I’m sitting on the floor stacking blocks for my six-month-old and I realize I’ve gotten lost for a few moments in some carpet fuzz or something, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing. Why am I not accomplishing more? Why is my day just a blur of these moments of doing absolutely nothing, of stacking blocks and making sure a tiny head doesn’t get bonked? Surely I could be sewing a cute toy giraffe out of old jeans or knitting up blue plastic grocery bags into a larger blue plastic grocery bag, right? But the minutes slide by, and I feel like I’m just waiting for the day to be over so I can have another one tomorrow that’s more of the same–another day I endure.
I wish I was the kind of mom who was organized enough to have things planned–the zoo one day, the botnanical garden another–so that my days were things to be lived and not just waited out. I think that’s the lonliest part of my days now: the fact my days essentially are nothing but chunks of time that I just try to get through. And I know that the stacking of blocks and the protecting of small heads are important tasks, but it’s a sacrifice. And some days, that sacrifice is weightier than other days.
Oh, and my favorite movie of all time is The Graduate, which opens, of course, with some of the most lonely words ever written: Hello darkness, my old friend…
Darling girl,
You even make lonely beautiful. I sure wish I’d had a chance to talk to you at BlogHer.
-Rachael
I’m thinking about starting to cry here, but I’ve got the loneliness so beaten down now that it’s hard to start (and once I start I don’t think I’ll be able to stop). Sometimes, it’s just unbearable. The other day I got to go out to a bookstore all by myself, have a coffee, read, and it was just bliss. To be alone, a grown-up, someone with $4 to blow on a latte and a couple hours to blow on myself, not someone with no money, no time, nowhere to go. I feel sometimes like I’m most lonely because I miss myself more than anything else, the self I used to be before I became Mother Uber Alles and gave up so much that I used to love and take for granted.
This is to say, basically, that your words hit me hard tonight, that you aren’t alone in feeling this way, and that I’m glad someone could put this out in the world so beautifully, so eloquently. Thank you.
You and the above comments have made me cry. How is it that so many of us feel this way, but we are still so alone in our experiences?
I grasp moments of my old self when I’m dressed up and headed to work or out for an infrequent night on the town. I grieve for that old me. Yet I am torn–I miss home. I miss my daughter. I wonder if I am missing something important or if she needs me. And there are so many things about now that I love.
I was just sharing with my husband how I hope to change my perspective and be more content in living in the moment rather than waiting for the days to end…waiting for the next dash of excitement in my day-to-day living. I can relate to getting lost “in some carpet fuzz or something” on a regular basis. I hope I can grasp how to be content now rather than looking back on these days wishing I had embraced them more fully. I’d like to master this “art of loneliness.” But how?
I wish someone had warned me about the loneliness of motherhood. What do you think was better — being prepared for it or being whacked in the face with it? Even today, with PunditGirl getting ready to start 2nd grade, with playdates and lots of things to do, it’s still lonely, even when there are people around. And the writing, yes, I’ve chosen two paths in life that feed the loneliness. I wonder why?
The movie? I LOVED it, as well. Have you bought the soundtrack? Lovely.
Hope I get to talk to you more next time we meet.
Rebecca – I’ve been reading you for so long, and your voice gets stronger each time I visit. A beautiful, enviable voice.
I didn’t need to become a mother to realize my loneliness – as you say, writers are solitary by nature and work.
But being a mother made me ever more isolated. Days and days go by, while I live in a new town that has not welcomed me, and I speak only to my toddler and husband. Thank you for, as always, speaking of the hard things so eloquently.
Thank you so much. You don’t even know how this just helped me.
I’m a bit late to the comment party, but I feel I must let you know how beautifully written this was. Thanks for writing this. This is how I feel most days and it truly comforts me to know other mothers go through the same thing.
The loneliness is made even stranger by the immediate feelings of guilt I get when I’m lonely–what right do I have to complain when my little son didn’t ask to be here?
For the mom of the six-month old, planning will happen eventually. This or that park with a pal on Tues, the zoo on Monday, etc…
The easiest way I’ve found to make pals is to frequent the same parks on the same day and get the parent/caregiver (I’ve met some very cool nannies/babysitters) to show up. Keep trying and look for free readings at libraries for tots–lots of fun and a good way to meet others with tots.
Does motherhood make you lonely or do lonely girls turn into lonely mothers? Or are some people just more in tune to their loneliness than others? I’ve always, essentially, felt lonely. Even in rooms filled with people. Now, when I’m with my daughters I fluctuate between loneliness, boredom, anger, complacency and true contentment. The friends I’ve made as a mother are mostly superficial. It’s hard to transcend the minutiae, to get past the motherhood masks and find out who you’re really talking to. And playgrounds…. they’re the loneliest places of all. Sunny days inside kill me too. I’ll take a delightfully- gloomy rainy day any time. Thanks for your honesty.