Taking My First Trip Alone: Being Comfortable in Independence
I'm a senior in high school. Unfortunately, this comes with the reality-facing phase of life when you realize that you will be leading an entirely different existence in one short year. In September, as I shuffled through dozens of pages of application essay requirements, it began to hit me harder and harder that I was writing my way into a totally unrecognizable chapter - and nothing scared me more.
I've always been somebody who subconsciously finds too much comfort in the familiar. I've lived in the same place my entire life. Same school district. A healthy, consistent relationship with my parents. Friends I've had since kindergarten. Despite all of this, I found myself determined to go as far away as I possibly could for college. I told everyone who would listen that I was going to end up in Colorado, New York, or Hawaii. "Anything that requires a plane ticket," I'd preach. Growing up under the love and guidance of my spitfire Croatian Nana, and my mom's two badass, live-wire sisters, I cultivated a desire to be complete all on my own. Independence had been my mantra.
Unexpectedly though, my junior year of high school threw some curveballs. Some of the hardest times that I had ever been through drove me to rely on the comfort and closeness of my family and friends. I felt like I'd lost the fiery spark in my personality, and as I entered my senior year, all I could do was think about the goodbyes I was getting ready to make. I was no longer ready to leave my bubble and be on my own. I hated myself for regressing, but I was struggling too much to overcome the sense of apprehension and lack of confidence I had in being alone. As I’ve been going through the college application process this fall, I´ve come to terms with how codependent I’ve become on my life in the town I grew up in. Everything around me makes me nostalgic. My parents, my favorite coffee places, and my familiar drive home down a woodsy road. I have felt so out of touch with myself, as I spend hours and hours a day in front of a screen writing essays. Whittling away at my sanity, while my under eye bags become a euphoric shade of purple.
So, with Niagara falls draining from my tear ducts on a Tuesday afternoon when the sun refused to peek out from behind a cloud, I decided I was going away. By myself. I’ve never traveled alone, and my new, anxious demeanour despised the idea. Spontaneity took the reins, however, and I realized I was going to have to learn how to be by myself, and know myself, eventually. So in a totally pretentious, spur-of-the-moment monologue, I told my parents I was going to spend some time in the beach town a few hours away that I grew up visiting.
Port Ludlow is a microscopic town on the coast of Washington state. Think of thick forests of evergreens, sailboats, and old fishermen who tell scary stories as the rain clatters on the window panes of colorful victorian homes. A place where clam chowder is served at every diner and coffee stands are found every thirty feet - like trash cans in Disneyland. Everything here is weathered from the salt and the rain - even the people. I think it’s why I always loved going there - it’s full of stories.
The first night I spent there, I sat on the couch, eating the vodka cream pasta I made for dinner, watching whatever reality dating show was on TV, and checking my phone every two minutes to see if my parents had called or texted. There were creeping thoughts in the back of my mind that I was shoving down. What if? What if? What if? I was scared not only to be alone physically, but I was so determined not to be alone with my anxious thoughts that I kept the TV on full volume all night, with hope that the sound would drown them out.
The next day, I woke up with the sun as it drenched me in a honey-lavender light through the windows. From the room I was staying in, you could see all the way to Mt. Adams, across the Puget Sound. You can see the Olympic mountains as they poke their jagged frames around the corner of the peninsula. The sky, painted by the tips of the foliage that bordered the horizon, was an array of faded color. It was just the right picture to start a more hopeful day.
I spent the afternoon at The Bay View Restaurant, the all-glass waterfront diner that smelled like warm bread. In The Bay View, silence was not an option as the loud clinking of cutlery and hefty laughs from the chefs echoed from the kitchen. I pulled out my laptop, and ordered fries and a cup of coffee from a grandmotherly woman who came and refilled my cup every so often. I worked for quite a few hours, watching people in bright, primary-colored kayaks glide by out the window. I felt a sense of security blossoming as I conversed with other customers and talked with the people who floated past my table. It felt homey. Even though I was completely alone - a thought that had been terrifying me in weeks prior - I found myself forgetting about the nights I had been spending drowning in anxiety.
I think that there is a stigma in our society about being by yourself. It's weird and uncomfortable to go out to dinner or the movies on our own. I think that through our sociable human nature, we subconsciously learn to derive security from others. This exact notion is what I think drove me into a strong sense of dependence during what had been such a difficult period in my life.
From what seems like a minute experience, I had regained a hand in control over how I was feeling. Anxiety coupled with growing up can feel inhibiting. It is such a universal human experience to feel scared in loneliness, to be afraid of being alone with oneself. Once I recognized that an innate fear of being without subjects of familiarity was what was holding me back from returning to myself - I was able to ignite a more deliberate sense of self-work. Taking a shot in the dark out of my comfort zone (which had shrunken to be microscopic), it was seeded in me that what felt like the darkest hour was an opportunity to grow. In finding peace with myself, I was able to recognize that security, comfort, and intimacy is not, and should not be reserved for an external party.
