Yesterday, I was blessed. Tired, again, of being alone, and weary at the thought of having to entertain myself all day, I was clutched with anxiety. I had no plans, no responsibilities, and, therefore, no desire to be productive (I find it possible to manage the business affairs of my life only when I am doing a million things at once; methodically planning my day sends me into deep depressions, furthering my personal impression that I would make a horrible housewife: with nothing to do all day except laundry and cooking and paying bills, I would shoot my husband in an instant). So, as I walked out of the Pomona fairgrounds after another unexpectedly short day of work training, and the realization of another long directionless day began to weigh on my spirits, who should call but my darling friend Arianne, eager to moan together about our lives.
An hour of laughing and complaining and discussing later, I was still sitting in my hot car in the parking lot, sweating to death but thoroughly happy.
Arianne and I have been friends for years (six years this month, to be exact), meeting during first year orientation at Wellesley when she approached me with the invitation to make vegan cookies with her since, as she so eloquently put it, "neither of us have any friends". Realizing that it was better to attempt a friendship with this strange girl than to create an instant enmity, I assented. Today, I would throw myself down in front of a bus to save her vegan ass.
We rarely talk, now, though, since she has deserted me to live in Prague with her boyfriend Pavel, and I can't figure out how to make Skype work on my computer (I know its easy, and I know that someone who has only a vague understanding of computers could make it work, but I don't have the energy to figure it all out and so I simply don't bother). Our conversations take place only when she has time to call me and, given the distance between our different countries, usually those times tend to be while I am at work. The confluence of our schedules yesterday, therefore, was a lovely, much sought after, treat.
Finished catching up with Arianne, I headed off in search of my mother and money (moving has meant that I am constantly short on funds and constantly begging from kind friends and family). I located Diane in Santa Monica where she was helping her friend Cynthia (whom I believe I can now say with confidence is my friend, as well) to move. It would have been impolite to simply take my coveted cash and make a run for it so I stayed, chatting and providing as much moral support as I could muster. Like mine, Cynthia's move was made of the necessity of creating a fresh start. She, like me, has just made it through a divorce and wants to surround herself by her own, new, single life. The biggest part of that new life is creating a new space that is yours alone. I had the beginning of that feeling of autonomy in Waltham with Sara, but the proximity to Nick and the continuity of lifestyle (same job, same friends, same daily patterns) made it impossible for me to truly create my own identity. I grew stronger with Sara, much stronger than, during my marriage, I had thought possible. Still, the part of me that I identify as my self -introspective and independent - was atrophied. Nick taught me that I was worthless and that I could never survive on my own. He taught that I could be successful, but only with his help. He taught me to stop believing my own ambitions.
His lessons stuck.
Moving across the country and beginning life from scratch has taught me that, while I do need help (all the thank-yous in the would could not express my gratitude to the friends who have helped me, and who continue to help me, during this period of transition), I am not helpless. I may no longer be a three year old longing to become a train conductor, but I can still do anything I set my heart toward, as long as I remember to breath.
This is not to suggest that I am infallible. My self-sufficiency is prone to periods of panic and doubt when it is all I can do to shower. These episodes often consist of blind trips to someplace like Target (the idea being that buying something useful will make me feel like a productive member of society and, therefore, will make me happy again), which end with me wandering aimlessly around the store for embarrassingly long periods of time unable to see anything because there is so much fear in my head.
I am learning, however, to take control of my panic, a process accelerated by living alone. Earlier this week, for example, scared to tears at the thought of being alone, my eye was caught by a highway sign for the LA Arboretum. I recklessly cut across traffic, figuring that anything was better than allowing myself to wallow in depression and, as an added bonus, I have never been to an uninteresting arboretum. And so, instead of spending my afternoon crying in bed, I spent it smelling roses and watching peacocks loll in the sun. Running from panic, I forced myself out of the comfort of routine, and ended up remembering how much I can enjoy my own company.
Watching Cynthia make preparations yesterday for her new life, I was happy to help provide support. And last night, as I drank Karma beer and ate Himalayan food with my new friend, I was further grateful to her for unknowingly keeping me from loneliness.
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