Unalone

UNALONE

Pamela Hu

I love words, I hoard them (as you know, as you’ll see...)

When I come across a line that really resonates with me, I can feel it, physically, viscerally. It’s a feeling, that: I am never as alone as I think I am.

And when you experience something that grand, you can’t help but want to be a part of it. I couldn’t. So I started creating my own words.

I’ve been writing long before I even considered sharing my writing. What changed? An internal shift, a realization that the very act of sharing is the closest I’ve been to magic.

It is magic.

Every bit of word I’ve ever shared is the only way I know how to assure you, that: you are never as alone as you think you are.

In fact, the way I see it now, these words aren’t mine, but yours.

Ours.

If you look, if you pay attention, if you let it— Everything, everywhere, can and is reminding us that: We are not alone.

We are not alone.

We are not alone.

We are so very

P.H.

u n a l o n e.

We’re all busy trying to satisfy our own ambitions. We bury our heads in hard work because it’s noble, because maybe we actually want to. But then we see so much in tunnel vision, we end up living tunnel lives.

And sure, you can share your day and your successes with someone, but they’ll never really get it. Just like you’ll never really get their’s.

We’re social creatures, but

w h y h a s i t g o tte n s o e a sy to b e o n o u r ow n ?

“ I did my undergrad in law in Australia, focusing on domestic criminal work. Then I moved to the Hague in The Netherlands to work for the office of the prosecutor in the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia. Then I worked for an NGO in Johannesburg that uses the South African constitution to enforce human rights. Then I went back to Australia to clerk for a justice of the supreme court. Now I’m here studying international criminal prosecution, though I’m considering switching to transitional justice.

What’s the b i g g est c r i m e yo u ’ ve eve r co m m i tte d ?

I’ve never been a constant in anyone’s life.

D i d yo u co m e h e re to b e a l o n e?

I don’t know how to describe it. I feel lonley but not for anyone or anything in particular.

My best friend from sixth grade, she has given her self away to any boy who will listen to her life story long enough for her to start crying, and she cries every time she tells it. That man over there, that’s his fifth beer. And judging from the number of times he’s looked over at that woman who’s laughing with another man, I can’t blame him. And my roommate, he’s the most honest person I know. And even he has an air freshner in his car to mask the smell of cigerettes that he swore off of. But, more subtle than that, I once met a girl who averaged 6 movies a week. And my cousin, my mom kept recommending he seek therapy but he turned to the black jack tables instead. There are, my god, a million ways that people can hurt. Or

m a y b e, a c t u a l l y, t h e re a re a m i l l i o n wa ys t h a t p e o p l e ca n co p e.

Hurting, that’s one very distinct and pronounced feeling, and we’re all trying to

RUN AWAY FROM IT.

“

There’s a thing in the book about how when somebody leaps from a burning skyscraper, it’s not that they’re not afraid of falling anymore, it’s that the alternative is so awful. And so then you’re invited to consider

w h a t co u l d b e s o a w f u l t h a t l e a p i n g to yo u r d e a t h wo u l d s e e m l i ke a n es ca p e f ro m i t ?

I don’t know if you have any experience with this kind of thing. But it’s worse than any kind of physical injury.

It may be in the old days what was known as a spiritual crisis: feeling as though every axiom in your life turned out to be false… and there was actually nothing. And that you were nothing. And that it’s all a delusion and you’re so much better than everybody ‘cause you can see how this is just a delusion, and you’re so much worse because you can’t fucking function.

I’m

starving

f o r savior .

There’s rejection, there’s heart ache, there’s feeling like you disappointed someone, lost someone, miss someone; there’s feeling like you didn’t do your best, feeling like you did and it still wasn’t enough. Dig deeper, there’s shame, guilt, indifference, apathy, hopelessness, helplessness…

But you know, the worse feeling I’ve ever felt… Or maybe even, the common denominator behind all those bad feelings is when, I feel that badness to such an extent, with such an intensity, that talking about it wouldn’t help…

It’s like I’m unable to believe that someone not myself could feel it too. And maybe that’s because, I know it’s not true

b u t , I fe e l s o m u c h of i t t h a t t h e re ca n’ t p o ss i b l y b e a n y l ef t ove r fo r a n y o n e e l s e to fe e l .

Or maybe because I know there isn’t a way for me to communicate it accurately enough and so I don’t bother trying at all.

Why do you wear it?

Because I like it.

That’s it?

Yeah. Why? I thought it meant something.

Not everything has to have a meaning.

In an instant, I saw your world: just mine, stripped raw.

Just mine, but very much not mine at all. How light it must feel, carrying words so transparent. You are who you say you are. I am... well, I’m still something of

a b re a t h i n g co n t ra d i c t i o n , a frustratingly constant tug and pull between opposites, hope for finding a middle ground, for becoming who I “really” am, whatever that is.

And how is it possible, or why is it possible that, even in our own reality, we have different realities. In one, I am the sensible and brave. In another, I am the neurotic and timid. For every thing I am, I am also not. You have seen all of me and none of me, both. And between each polar reality, there I am, still alone. And there you are alone in yours... but you don’t seem to mind. Somehow, you’re freed.

“ In Dostoevsky’s novels, whenever a character deals with committing a crime or with knowingly causing suffering in the world, it’s never the outer reality that punishes them. It’s their own psyche.

Even if no one else in the world knows about what they did, they still have to hide it from others, and eventually, try to hide it from themselves. This simple fact — the realization that they can never truly be honest with someone, never show their whole self to them — makes them feel alone and isolated even when they are surrounded by people who suspect nothing wrong.

This is an extreme example, but in many ways, modernity, with its complex cultures and its technological connectivity, has created a fragmented reality in which we can’t get away from this problem, either.

You are a different person at home than you are at work. You are a different person offline than you are online. You are different person in one sub-culture in your life (say, a book club dedicated to science-fiction) than you are in another one (say, a Sunday league where you play football).

Due to various social norms, we have to hide some parts of ourselves in front of certain people and in certain places, which — again — isn’t itself a problem, but the simple habit of doing so generates subtle lies that we tell both ourselves and other people. And eventually, these lies begin to build on each other, leading to a number of fragmented selves that don’t integrate.

A true connection with someone occurs when you show them your whole self, as they show you theirs, warts and differences and all, simply accepting that not everyone is going relate to it. Modernity, unfortunately, makes that very difficult with its various, complex norms, in spite of the fact that we are now superficially connected all the time.

If we don’t actively work to reconcile our different parts into a cohesive, integrated whole that we expose to the world, in complete truth and honesty, then we are not going to find what we are looking for.

Before you accept the company and the connection of another person, you have to first do the work to accept yourself.

The irony here is this: It takes a lot of isolation and solitude (which can lead to loneliness but is usually not the root cause) to develop the self-awareness to see that all of this is playing out beneath the surface.

Today, we are all a product of an infinitely complex combination of cultures that come together at specific points in time, at specific places, at every moment in our life, to create our sense of self in a way that is hidden. As a result, even we don’t know who we are.

In this sense, solitude is a gift. It lets you see what’s there when you aren’t being influenced by your relationships to those around you or to other distractions, giving you a chance to objectively observe how the different parts of your identity conflict with one other.

Instead of managing your image or your brand in a situation, you are forced to reckon with the person behind the appearances: the lies you tell both yourself and other people, the shame you feel, and everything else that your mind does a great job of hiding when you are not paying attention to it.

None of this is easy, and none of it feels like an antidote to loneliness, but a strange thing happens when you face what you have been avoiding: You start to slowly respect and value the real person underneath, no longer needing to be dishonest about anything, thus opening the door to connection.

Naturally, real honestly and a lasting connection require the participation of two reciprocating parties willing to bare themselves, which isn’t entirely up to you, but it still has to start with how you relate to yourself.

In Dostoevsky’s novels, any time one of his characters give in to the guilt of their falsehoods and remove the psychological burden that weights down their life, they find themselves feeling freer than they had been before, even if they are punished for their confessions later on.

In this same way, we feel lonely when we hide our selves, or when we don’t know our selves, and the solution isn’t to add more superficial connection to our lives; it’s to become who we already are.

personally,

“

I’m a mess of conflicting impulses — I’m independent and greedy and I also want to belong and share and be a part of the whole.

There I was, unalone in reality, but so very alone in my reality.

I want to ask, what did you figure out? When you spend all that time alone, in thought, you have to confront some pretty harsh realities‌ well, you have to confront yourself.

same thing.

“ I always feel this pressure of being a strong and independent icon of womanhood, and without making it look my whole life is revolving around some guy.

But loving someone, and being loved means so much to me. We always make fun of it and stu. But i s n’ t eve r y t h i n g we d o i n l i fe a wa y to b e l ove d a l i tt l e m o re?

“ THE DESIRE TO BE LOVED IS THE LAST ILLUSION. GIVE IT UP AND YOU WILL BE FREE.

Why is it so hard for people to tell each other how they’re feeling? Like if something’s bothering them…

I guess it’s because they feel like others won’t understand…

There are 7 billion people on this planet. There’s very little way that your circumstances are so unique, that no one else has ever felt the way you do...

Sorry, that sounds harsh. I believe too much in human connection, maybe. I think people can surprise you, if you just let them.

“

Oh, the body—its hungers, needs, and limitations. You look at somebody and you realize that they’re in there, inside there, somewhere, and how will you ever reach them, understand them?

When I was 6, and people would talk about super powers— I didn’t want like that generic flying shit.

I wanted to touch a person and be able to completely understand their life story.

“

Knowing people takes time, which we all swear we don’t have, or some mitigating circumstance like being caught in an elevator, or war.

Huddled in the foxhole, [we] said it all. We were judgmental and bitchy together—desperate and existential too.

Occasionally, we were our highest and bravest selves, working our way through the darkest ideas. I was lucky to know [her] that well, to know anyone that well.

Yo u ca n’ t b e re a l l y l ove d i f yo u ca n’ t b e a r to b e re a l l y k n ow n . . .

What I wish I’d known then, so I could have told her, was that every important conversation I have, for the rest of my life, will have a little bit to do with her.

She put into words what I could only feel‌ So it has a name? It has been experienced by another fabulously ordinary human being? I guess I’m not that much alone.

“

I b e l i eve i f t h e re’s a n y k i n d of G o d i t wo u l d n’ t b e i n a n y of u s , n o t yo u o r m e b u t j u st t h i s l i tt l e s p a ce i n b et we e n .

If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt.

“

Have you ever read that book by P.D. Eastman called Are You My Mother? In it, a baby bird hatches while his mother is away from the nest and he decides to go out to find her. He can’t fly yet so he walks. He walks and he walks and he walks on his tiny baby bird feet, constantly asking the question: Are you my mother?

Each time he asks the question, he’s convined the answer is yes. But he’s wrong. Nothing is ever his mother. The kitten isn’t his mother. The hen isn’t his mother. The dog isn’t his mother…

But finally, when all hope is lost, the baby bird gets himself back to the nest and along comes his mother.

It's a children's book that isn't really about children.

I t ’s a b o o k a b o u t yo u a n d m e a n d eve r yo n e e l s e w h o h a s eve r b e e n t we n t ys o m et h i n g a n d s e a rc h i n g fo r t h e t h i n g i n s i d e t h a t a l l ows u s to fe e l a t h o m e i n t h e wo r l d .

It's a story about how impossible it can be to recognize who we are and who we belong to and who belongs to us.

I like seeing people greet each other at the airport. You know that spot right after baggage claim but before the exit. The signs with names, all the hugging. I don’t know,

maybe I just like the idea of having someone to come home to.

Who am I without it? Like, who actually am I without it? And I’ve tried quitting so many times…

Really?

Yeah, I’ve tried so many things only to give up because I didn’t feel like I was good enough… but if I quit this, what would I have then?

Please don’t tell me that the only reason you do it is because you don’t know what else to do.

Of course not.

I do it because I love it.

You can’t imagine the relief I felt hearing you say that. The way he loved was sincere, unreserved, straight to the point. I needed to believe that it was possible.

I considered him a lucky one, embracing his turn at this kind of magic. I considered myself a spectator, waiting for mine.

I do it because… it feels like home…

I smiled. I didn’t want to but I couldn’t help it. A sentiment I’ve heard how many times before? But never quite like that.

Never so brand new after being brand new, never so close enough to touch after feeling so far from it.

I love that.

Yeah, it’s like…

You feel like you belong.

I was buzzed, and shaking, and in awe. A forever stain on my unforever memory. Had I been less tongue tied and tangled, I would’ve told you: you are more than what you do, you are how you do it.

I walked back to my place feeling “good”. A seemingly generic but really a rather obviously specific “good”. I couldn’t pinpoint it at the time but here’s what I think now: you had become a very clear and precise reminder that home didn’t have to a where or, in your case, a what. It could be a who.

It didn’t take much. But for me, for a very few short and cold hours, in that one conversation, my home was you.

“

When I think of this trip, I see David and me in the front seat of his car. We are both so young. He wants something better than what he has. I want precisely what he has already.

Neither of us knows where our lives are going to go. It smells like chewing tobacco, soda, and smoke. And the conversation is the best one I ever had.

David thought books existed to stop you from feeling lonely.

If I could, I'd say to David that living those days with him reminded me of what life is like, instead of being a relief from it. And I'd tell him, it made me feel much less alone.