Whenever someone says “alone” with an emphatic cocktail of pity and disdain, I remember that one weird episode of Spongebob Squarepants, where Squidward — exhausted by the intensity of Spongebob and Patrick — finally stumbles upon this almost psychedelic space of solitude only to be bombarded by random creepy voices repeating, “Alone,” over and over again.
One of the best feelings post divorce was getting to say, “Party of one,” any time I went out. The theater, a restaurant, a museum — wherever I explored, it was nice to finally be alone (and safe) again. But I quickly learned how pitiful the world views aloneness; how it is consistently synonimized with loneliness, painted as shameful and problematic.
When I confronted the last man I dated for disrespecting my boundaries — after repeatedly expressing that I detest, with every fiber of my being, men taking their liberties and getting too comfortable too soon in a relationship — instead of listening and understanding, he retorted with a loud, “Do you want to be alone, Dania? Huh? Do you want to be alone forever?” (So much for the man who owned a “Smash the Patriarchy” t-shirt and consistently claimed he “acknowledged” his male privilege.)
He expected me to be taken aback, offended and gaslit into dismantling my own principles for his sake. The thing about society is that it genuinely indoctrinates women from birth into believing being alone or single — at any point in their lives or for any period of time — is an embarrassment. I looked back at him and laughed, “Are you trying to threaten me with that? First, do you think I hate my aloneness? Because I love it. Second, do you think I am alone? Last I checked I have my family, my close circle of friends, my jobs and passions which bring me new people everyday, and best of all I have me.” (Yeah, that relationship didn’t last very long. I’d never be with a man too afraid of aloneness because that’s a man who needs a relationship, not wants one. I am seeking the latter.)
But this stigma associated with someone being alone is quite sad. I find so much beauty in people being alone. For example today, on what has been as known Thanksgiving (but is really just a twisted celebration of America’s first genocide — yeah, I said it), I went on my walk, alone. And on this walk, I saw so many beautiful celebrations of aloneness, ones that others see and automatically assume is a sad lonely person.
I saw a middle aged woman relishing in the magnificence of a blue ocean with her three novels. A young man, smiling at the sun on a picnic bench. Another young person slowly riding their bike on the beach path, alone. So many other folks on their walks and sprints and jobs, alone.
Why do we see this and allow our brains to automatically default to a negative thought when it could (and often is) something beautiful? Why, when right before I wrapped up my walk I passed by a dark forest green bush and was halted by the vision of a remarkably beautiful tiny pink flower, blooming with so much pride, alone.