Tonight, I was scrolling through Facebook, killing time as usual, when I came across a post from a friend who is out hiking in the Pacific Northwest. We’re not close friends, more like acquaintances from BBQs. Every year she goes on a hike or adventure like this. She goes alone. Her husband stays back with the kids. As I looked at the pictures of Mt. Rainier, I tried to understand the workings of their marriage. I can’t imagine wanting to leave my best friend behind or needing that much solitary space. She wrote on one of her posts, “My time alone is near its end.” When I read that, it comes across as she doesn’t like time with her family – or that this is the most precious time of the year for her. It was strange because I almost felt personally hurt or threatened or saddened / offended by it. I barely know this woman and I feel defensive for her husband’s sake. None of my “reaction” feels healthy and as I’m writing this, I’m trying to break down exactly what I’m thinking and where it’s coming from.
My initial thought was, man, I’d feel really sad if my partner wanted to go on an adventure like that without me. Perhaps it’s because I love travel and I love hiking and adventures. I suppose if it was something I have no interest in, I might feel differently, and I suspect her husband doesn’t have much interest in these types of trips. But something about “her time alone” makes me think that even if he was interested, he wouldn’t be able to go, his presence would be seen as an intrusion. What is it about that prospect, that need to get away, that need for time alone that I find unsettling? Why, if I were in his position, would I feel like her need for time alone to go see the world on her own is an indication that she didn’t want to be with me (a criticism, a slight, a personal dis)?
My initial response (internally) was that maybe it’s tied to a fear of missing out (FOMO)? There were a handful of times during my childhood when my brother got to do some things that I had really wanted to do. He got to see Van Halen on their 1984 tour – they were one of my favorite bands. He got to go to baseball camp before I did. There were times I wasn’t allowed to play Dungeons & Dragons with him and his friends. He also got to take a couple of trips with my dad – well at least one, that I didn’t get to do – Chicago for his graduation. Could it be jealousy over being the younger brother always tagging along and sometimes being left out? Maybe, but I suspect it’s something deeper.
I started to think of other times I felt left out or left behind. The girlfriend cheating certainly came to mind. In college, she went off to do an internship for a semester. She met someone while away. Afterwards, I was the one who suggested we try again. Things were never the same – it was a pretty big violation of trust.
I can remember as a sullen teen being a Pink Floyd fan. I grew up listening to The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon. Eventually I got in to some of their other stuff, especially The Final Cut. But it was the movie for The Wall that haunted me – in particular the scenes leading up to the song “Nobody Home” in which the character Pink tries to reach his wife and she’s in bed with another man. He then goes off the deep end, hooks up with a groupie, and trashes his hotel room. At the end of “Nobody Home,” he sings “oooh babe, when I pick up the phone. there’s still nobody home.” I watched the movie again shortly after the cheating incident. My friends had come to visit me at Penn State and distract me. The movie was a terrible choice, but they were drunk and stoned and I insisted. I always push the sore tooth. Maybe I’m still carrying trust issues from that? Probably.
But maybe it’s older than that. I dug back to my childhood – 1983 to be exact. My parents went away to New Orleans to watch Penn State play in the Sugar Bowl. My brother and I stayed at our grandparent’s house. I remember missing them. I remember learning I didn’t like pick and peel shrimp (I think it was something that my grandparents had for New Year’s Eve). I remember listening to records on an old record player – “The Mighty Quinn” was something we listened to over and over again. I remember being upset and not understanding why we (I) couldn’t go with. I had a tape deck with me and was listening to the Beatles Magical Mystery Tour and Abby Road – they were things that brought me comfort – to this day I have an uneasy appreciation for “Fool on the Hill.” I remember not wanting to go downstairs and do things with the rest of the family – only wanting to be with my parents in New Orleans or with my music, alone. I remember my parents had their picture taken. They were dressed up – I think, dad in a blazer and tie, mom in a blue dress. They seemed more glamorous than how I normally saw them. I’m pretty sure this was also the year my parents got divorced. I remember (or so I think) seeing that same picture some time later, but I think my dad had been cut out.
My mind could be making all of this up – I was maybe eight at the time. I’m sure I have the timing off, but somehow my mind seems to equate that trip with the last time we were a family and with my dad leaving. They went away and nothing was the same. I can’t rule out that I’ve somehow created a type of separation anxiety out of this series of disjointed events. A narrative in which I’m always left behind – something that sounds like “when people go off on their own, things end. Nobody comes back.” And while I’m sure the opposite has also happened at some point in my life, I can’t think of a single instance when separation has made my relationships stronger. In the end, they’ve always dissolved. In the end, I’ve always been the one waiting and watching from the window.
Not too long ago, when we were still together, my ex-fiancee and I were watching one of the National Parks episodes. It was devoted mostly to John Muir. Muir, considered one of the founding fathers of environmentalism, is widely admired by many people for his many contributions to science and nature conservancy. As we watched, I remember being turned off by him. He was married with two kids, but often left on long trips to be out in the woods, alone. It struck me as selfish and irresponsible. As I’m writing this, I’m reminded of my father and his study – how he had his sacred ground, his place where he wasn’t to be disturbed. At what cost?
Maybe that’s why I struggle to let go, or why I insist on having an open heart even when the other person has left. Maybe it’s all I know how to do? Maybe just once, I’m expecting the other person to be the one who comes back, the one who invites me in. It’s weird to see or feel or recognize this level of insecurity – especially when I tend to be a pretty even-keeled, secure, don’t get phased much type of guy. I have all the self-confidence in the world… until I don’t. I fear that in the end, someone will always realize that there is always a better option. It’s been my experience. How much of that do I will into creation?
This feels like the type of thing I should talk to someone about – you know, professionally. Though, I’m not sure they would ask me any questions that I’m not already asking myself. I do a pretty decent job of plumbing my depths for these potentially pivotal moments. Earlier today I wrote about how I was afraid of losing my ex-fiancee (and maybe that’s why my friend’s FB post was a bit of a trigger). There were lots of times when we told each other that it felt too good to be true. If my ex-fiancee and I were incompatible, it was because we were afraid of the same loss – we were carrying some of the same insecurities but dealt with them in opposite ways. Her tendency was to pull away, and mine was to hold on tighter – a destructive and all-too-common dynamic.
As I walked tonight, I contemplated spirituality and writing (could I write a book like Eat, Pray, Love?) I thought about whether I have the chops to write an advice blog “What I Know of Love” (admittedly little). As I thought about these things, I realized there’s another reason why I take these deep-ish dives and write about them. I expect my partner to be open to this type of sharing. Adrienne Rich describes it as “a process of refining the truths they can tell each other” and says it’s important because it breaks down self-delusion. I write, and post, because I don’t anticipate sharing this with anyone anytime soon, so I might as well share it with everyone. It is a way of falling in love with the world (and myself). It is a way of breaking down my self-delusion. It is a way of ensuring against the quiet build up of shame that becomes so destructive in relationships. I don’t like that I would feel left out if my partner were to go on a trip without me – like my friend has without her husband. I suspect I would behave like a petulant child – like it was 1983 and I had just been left with my grandparents. I would feel left out and wonder why I’m not good enough to go along. That seems petty, and that, for me is where the shame lives. I don’t want to be left behind and I need to find better ways of dealing with that when I feel it.
Also on my walks, I often think about taking a trip – to San Diego, or Austin, or a beach, or Italy, or Barcelona. I know I can’t (COVID). And as much as I want to do it, there’s still only one person I want to share that type of experience with. And maybe that’s why I struggle to understand my friend’s solo trips. I think once you’ve found your travel partner (literally and figuratively), you can’t imaging going without them. I think life is meant to be shared. I hope to learn how to not take it so personally when someone doesn’t want to share it back with me.