was warned of the loneliness that came with being a mother. The
shot social life and fighting the crowds of faceless faces, the voices
that sound the same, the park-life rich with cliches and clowns. I was
told it would take some getting used to, waking up every morning, going
through the motions. I was told to make friends, to get out there, to
be around other mothers who might be in the same boat-- paddling the
same seas. Like the first day of school with babies on our backs
instead of Jansports.
Except all of that made me feel
more lonely. Making an effort is exhausting. Friendships are supposed
to be organic. Bonding must occur over mutual interests, over books and
music and favorite films.
My favorite movie of all time is Hannah and her Sisters, what's yours?
Being
a mother can at times be very lonely just like being a writer has
always been. Alone all day and then at night, alone again, talking
mainly to someone who doesn't understand and then at night, talking to
no one, whispering words against computer screens and characters that
look back with my same eyes. But there is a fine art to being lonely,
there are windows to open into the night. There are stars, the same
stars that everyone with a window in her office can see.
Yesterday I took myself on a date. I took myself to see a beautiful little film about beautiful people.
Lonely people who make the other feel a little less so. And I cried in
the corner and no one saw. I waited for the credits to run and all of
the people to file out of the theater before holding my own hand and
walking myself outside into the afternoon. I took myself to the
bookstore afterwards and paced the aisles with a head full of thoughts,
wanting to talk to somebody. Anybody.
"Do you sell Moleskine notebooks?" I finally asked.
The man behind the counter showed me the way.
So
I bought one and I wrote everything I wanted to talk about down on
paper. I wrote for two hours, until it was time to go home and I felt
instantly better. Less alone. Perfectly content to say nothing to
anyone for an entire afternoon. And then I wondered what I would do if
I didn't write. How would I handle this? How would I embrace the
feelings of being so often alone?
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