Never a dull moment
Never being alone isn’t the same as being okay alone.
All the unhappiness of men arises from one single fact, that they cannot stay quietly in their own chamber.
— Blaise Pascal, Pensées
This summer when I was working down in Austin, Texas, I had the opportunity to get really close to some people, closer in connection than I’ve ever felt. We’d carpool to work together, eat lunch together at Juanita’s. I’d always order myself a nice California burrito. I was such a regular there that one time I tested and said to the nice lady, “The usual, please.” She knew what I’d meant. Anyways, we’d carpool home together, chill in the living room together, eat dinner together, you get the gist. The only time I felt I had alone was when I went to bed. I was fortunate enough to get the master bedroom, which had its own bathroom, and so, had more alone time.
The point is, I got close with my roommates. This is the kind of relationship I thought I’d wanted for so long, the one that I felt like I was missing throughout the past few years as a 21-year-old. I thought this was “brotherhood”, friendship, bonding. What I didn’t realize was this could’ve just been a coping mechanism that allowed me to avoid being alone all by myself.
Growing up, I always felt like I had this codependent mindset. I don’t like to put labels on things but it felt like I was responsible for the happiness of others, and I really struggled to say what felt wrong in my mind.
I’d hang out with the same friend group most days after high school and so there was never a dull moment. I’d always be surrounded by people. This was a growing problem though since in hindsight, it feels like the definition of who I was, was defined by the people around me. To an extent, that is true for all of us but I’d argue that who you truly are is the one that no one sees.
Maybe it’s because I feel like I’m uncomfortable being alone with my thoughts. This was way more obvious to me before I picked up a few hobbies. I’ve recently picked up piano again, I’m reading, I’m writing. These things are keeping me busy while I’m all alone. Now, I feel the advice given sometimes is that filling your life with hobbies, your craft, your projects, your art, is great since it keeps your mind busy. Is that necessarily good though? Is pivoting your mind’s focus from the brutal reality of your situation to something that makes you temporarily happy a good thing? It feels weird to me because it seems like you’re running from the sad truth of reality rather than facing it. I’m not sure. For me, piano, reading, and writing let me express creativity.
Physical pain, to me, seems more tolerable (so far) than mental pain. I consider myself to have relatively high pain tolerance, which might relate to metacognition levels such that it allows me to think during stressful situations.
I remember a time I dislocated my shoulder at the UBC Aquatics Centre, and later went to the hospital. I sat in the ER holding my dislocated shoulder for roughly 4 hours. 4 hours, without painkillers, holding the pain. I remember my friend asking me, “How you rate the pain?” and I said, “Probably eleven out of ten.” It was truly the worst pain I’d ever felt, yet I felt like I had this level of metacognition and I was reaffirming the fact that I could give in to this pain, but what would that solve? I was already in agony; what would being in “more” pain feel like? Earlier, I recalled the nurse talking about fentanyl painkillers, which might give you a sense of how bad the pain was. She ended up forgetting them.
When I’m not with friends, I find myself hypersensitive to the things around me. I never know how to act; this is especially obvious to me in highly social, busy environments. I feel the version of me that people closest to me know isn’t what I’m like. I remember a friend telling me that I seem outgoing, confident, always happy. When I’m alone, that’s not really the case at all. I feel I like to stay quiet, keep to myself. At times, it feels limiting, like I’m afraid to speak up, even though I know I have much respect for the person that does. This quiet side of me is probably most noticeable to me. It’s made me more comfortable with being alone. I’ve always had this trait where I could be so clearly obsessed with what I’m working on and I forget about everything around me. That’s honestly when I feel like I’m at my best.
For example, in the summer of 2024, I really was curious about the appeal of running. I played soccer, did a lot of cycling while growing up and so I thought I had a great base. For context, I am a firm believer that you can achieve almost anything you’d like in life given the right mindset. With this belief, I really got into running. I’d run 5Ks every other day. With a 10K weekly. If I recall, after about three weeks, I admit, egotistically, I decided to push for a half-marathon (21.1K). After about the 19K marker, I felt like my knees were shaking, my mind felt broken; it also didn’t help that I was near my house already. I came so far, why stop now? Suffer a bit more, and then you can rest. I ended up running around the block, essentially in a circle, like a horse running a lap around a racetrack for the last 2 kilometres. I finished the half-marathon that day.
A few days ago, I recall having a conversation with a friend about who’s truly there for you. I found it interesting that if you could look at your life as a whole in a film tape so far, and randomly select any scene, and ask yourself “who’s truly there for you?”, it’s almost always different. For most people, this is probably your immediate family.
I had grown up with the same friend group for roughly twelve years before we all parted ways after high school. Now, twelve years is a pretty long time for a 17-something-year-old at the time. I thought these people would be there for me relentlessly, that this is what it means to be friends. This shifted my understanding of what friendship had meant. For me, throughout university, I’ve had the opportunity to become very, very close with some people, which I’m grateful for. Some friends I’ve made feel like a distant brother or sister I no longer talk to, yet in times of need, I know I can rely on them. I’ve lost contact, whether it be growing apart from friends, or friends moving away to pursue medical school, with many friends. The conversation with my friend really made me think if people are temporary, and maybe family is always what you really have.
I’ve noticed that a coping mechanism I have to quickly detach from people is to essentially make a mental list of things I clearly don’t like about them, which helps me justify leaving. There was a friend I used to study and hang out with every day on the fourth floor of the Irving K. Barber Learning Centre, on UBC campus, in the winter of second year. We rarely talk now, since I feel like we grew apart. After I took a step back, I realized they weren’t who I thought they were, they were emotionally draining, they cared more about ego. But maybe that’s me.
When people ask me, or when I think about why I don’t talk to them anymore, the reason clearly pops up in my head: they weren’t a good friend, it wouldn’t have worked out, they were too this, they were too that. For me, it’s hard to believe that whatever negative happens in the moment happens for the best. I think I leave first when I realize it’s detrimental to my own well-being long term. Regardless of whether they leave or I leave first, the negative reasons are still there.
I believe we subconsciously do this for things in our daily lives. Didn’t get the grade you wanted? The course was hard. Didn’t get the person you wanted? They were the problem. The list goes on. We make excuses about the scenario rather than face it head on. It’s easier to blame things outwards than inwards. No one wants to believe that they’re the problem; it takes a surprising amount of awareness. I feel I struggle with this quite a bit for socially related scenarios. It’s made disconnecting from long-term friends I’d consider siblings much easier.
Tangentially: think about it, the only person, if you’re lucky, that’ll probably stick around and care for you, grow with you, and put up with your bullshit, would probably be your significant other. I was watching The Green Mile earlier, and there was a scene that really stood out to me. It was about the prison warden talking to his friend about how he should tell his wife that she’s dying since she’s got a tumour the “size of a lemon”, deep inside, where the doctors can’t operate. He mentions that he can’t think of how to tell his wife she’s going to die. This got me thinking: the worst case, you die first and your significant other lives on. They’ll for sure be grieving, the first few years will be hard, it’ll get better, but it’ll never truly be good. The best case is that you both die a relatively close time frame apart, because what could life mean without them? Most of us are probably not hitting that best case scenario. And so, sometimes I think about some real lows I’ve had in my life, and I think to myself, the lowest is yet to come. I’d admit, I am truly afraid of when that comes. The depressing thing about the happiest moment you’ve had, the angriest you’ve been, or the lowest low you’ve experienced, is that it implies that you’ll never reach that point again.