"alone time" vs Alone Time

I used to think that I was this solitary creature, a girl who liked to be left alone with herself to do whatever she wished without anyone around to say otherwise. I was famous at family gatherings, especially those on my former stepfather's side, for disappearing into a room and only emerging for the necessities (read: food, bathroom, obligatory "My, how you've inexplicably grown and changed since this time last year" talk with the various pseudo relations). I loved when my mom worked nights and my brothers stayed at their dad's house because it made me queen of my own domain--temporarily.

And therein lies the source of my recent revelation that I am actually not solitary. Not one stinkin' bit. I do like the occasional afternoon or day to myself, when the roommates/boyfriend are elsewhere and I can be my natural self without worrying about wearing pants or doing the dishes instead of watching a four-hour Degrassi marathon. It's nice, it's fun. But there is a mighty big difference between "alone time" and Alone Time. I like to have someone to come home to (or to come home to *me*) and share things with. I like talking and laughing and feeling safe from impending zombie attacks.

Because, let's face it: in the event of a major zombie outbreak, I'd be one of the first to go. I'm slow, easily disoriented, and have zero reflexes. And I bet my brains are super tasty.

But the people I've chosen to surround myself with over the past four years are the ones I can imagine would not only survive, but wage an all-out bloodbath of a war on the brain munchers. And I might stand a chance if those people were on my side, protecting me by forcing me to hide silently in a locked room under some blankets while they got things done. I just don't see me standing a chance by myself.

And I don't think there is anything wrong with admitting my weaknesses. I think the smartest thing I could do is be honest with myself about, well, myself. I'm not strong, I'm often prone to falling over randomly when standing completely still and upright, and if last week's failure at shooting arrows into hay bales at the Renaissance Festival is any clue as to how I'd be up against a real foe... let's just say, we shouldn't be giving me any weapons anytime soon. I would probably shoot one of my fellow zombie survival warriors in the kneecap. Or somewhere less bad ass, yet more painful and useless.

So, where was I going with this, exactly? Oh, right.

I don't like being alone.

And yet, a few hours ago I kissed Terrell goodbye and watched him pull out of our building's driveway to head north into New England for a two-week (or longer) visit home with his family. The last time I was here by myself for longer than eight hours was back in May, also a visit home for him. But that time I was jobless and could get away with staying up until 4-6:00AM and my eyes wouldn't stay open any longer every night. Also, he was gone like 4 days.

I should be happy at the prospect of getting to live independently, but I'm just not. I don't exactly worry about my ability to do things for myself (though it'll take some serious effort and coaxing to clean the bathroom like I need to... eugh) or get to work by bus or whatever. But I do worry about my sanity without someone here to talk to and laugh with. I've never been truly Alone, and the thought rather terrifies me. Having only one's self for company brings to immediate and sickeningly clear attention all the faults and fears and worries that can be buried (or eased) with the presence of another person.

Despite the general aimlessness and lack of purpose that I've experienced in the past few months, they've also been some of the happiest and most relaxed in my life. I have truly cried maybe two times all summer. That, for me, is an absolute miracle because I usually cry a LOT. Although I am happy, and I feel happy, I know that deep down inside of me some of that old darkness is still there, lurking, ready to jump out and fuck things up when I least expect it. Maybe I've just been a Joss Whedon fan for too long, but I can't help but feel that every time life gets too good and too happy, something is bound to come along and unsettle things. Like a two-year-old with a snowglobe.

And it isn't as if I have no real basis for this fear. Junior year of college was arguably the best and the happiest, and then in one fell swoop I experienced death, severe health issues, and some serious relationship turmoil. It has been difficult to heal and recover from everything that happened in 2009, but I finally feel like I have--like we have. 2009 was as much my nightmare as Terrell's, and dealing with it all together has made us closer than ever. Our relationship could have broken, maybe even should have by most people's standards, but it didn't. He's the best thing I have going for me right now.

I think, in the end, that's why I am so freaked out by the idea of spending all this time alone and without him. Because I sometimes wonder: when you subtract him, is there anything left that makes me worthwhile? Probably a dangerous sentiment, and probably the exact kind of thing I should not be sharing with the world, but it's something I find myself wondering quite often.

Well, this post turned out to be far more depressing than I had hoped. I should've probably left it at zombies, but oh well. And hopefully by posting this, I haven't alerted the zombie forces that there's a prime target with an extra-tasty brain just ripe for the picking up here in Syracuse... o_o

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