loneliness ≠ being alone, and being alone ≠ loneliness: two other reasons the english language is inadequate

i've been thinking about the faces of loneliness lately,* and how they relate to being alone. this dictionary (fairly reputable, i think) says that they are synonymous - that being alone or lonely means that we are solitary; even desolate. perhaps i am naive, but i don't think that loneliness and being alone are the same thing - not at all. in my experience, a person may feel lonely in the midst of a huge group, while at another time, a person could be alone - entirely solitary - but feel not in the slightest bit lonely. and you can be both of those people - though i suppose not at the same time. but still...how confusing is that?

i've been thinking mostly about the perception of alone-ness, i suppose, because there have been so many instances in my life recently of people really feeling abandoned, on their own, and soliary. these are people that are socially adept, with vast support networks and numerous people that love them, with fulfilling lives and experiences. and their experiences of being alone, even in the midst of all of that, seem somehow equally crippling as actually having no one to love, no one to talk to, no one with whom to connect.

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i spoke to a beloved cousin last week; a woman who loves hard and whom some people, even in my family, find hard to love (i would like to note there that this is largely related to the inability of some of my family members to love without caveats; but i digress.) she is a woman with whom i connect on many levels, who loves to disclose secrets and discuss family idiosyncrasies and laugh and drink fantastic wine and cook good food, but she is also a woman whose temper is quick, whose furious words have been known to erupt swiftly, burning all of those in their vicinity. she is unpredictable, and she is beautiful.

her family - indeed, our family as a whole - suffered a tremendous loss when her mom, a beloved aunt of my brother and i, a dedicated mama bear to two grown girl-children, a devoted wife of over 40 years, a treasured best friend and sister to my own mother, passed away 11 months ago. we are all still healing. the ache is still raw, none more so than for my cousin.

she was understood by her mom in a way that made her feel okay in the world. they would argue explosively, screaming and door-slamming, because they were so similar that they drove each other wild. when her mom was ill, my cousin, with painstaking attention to each one, formed 1000 colourful paper cranes for her, in the case that the ancient japanese legend may come true and she could wish the inevitable away.

without my aunt, she has been destabilized, although until recently she hasn't seen it that way. she has grieved in ways that have been criticized by others; her contribution to the obituary did not contain sufficient wailing, mascara-running, and ululations for my grandfather, who has not spoken to her in months. (i'll save his dealio for another time.) she has grieved with nothing but her shelves of books in her small apartment to absorb her tears. she has grieved with rage, while hiding out, and by engaging in unhealthy activities. last week, her voice thick with tears, she divulged her most painful secret yet: that she is utterly, desolately, alone.

her dad is dealing by not dealing, and her older sister told her two years ago that she is uninterested in a close relationship with her. they are grieving too. it hurts my heart to witness it, as they are doing it separately, privately, and apart. and this cousin of mine, surrounded by friends, attentive coworkers, a supportive therapist, stimulating travel partners, an aunt (my mom) incredibly attuned to the aftermath of this loss, and immediate family members who are in close physical proximity, feels like she has no one.

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i have a friend and midwifery classmate living in thailand right now who recently sent a mass email about a temple she would be attending for a 10-day meditation retreat with hundreds of other spiritual seekers. she has been there with her partner for almost two months, travelling, writing, experiencing a different life, and she was excited for this new opportunity. although she is not formally schooled in buddhist thought, she has always somehow seemed steeped in it, wise beyond her years. she was really looking forward to a chance to learn more.

less than two days after her first email, i received a second. she said she spoke too soon, she had lasted 30 hours. she was trying not to beat herself up. she said she was seeing it as a learning experience. she was just not ready.

this woman, although not actually alone in the world, is perhaps more alone than others. she 'came out' to me and my classmates a couple years ago as being an orphan - something that carried a great deal of pain and shame for her. when she was 19, her mom died of breast cancer, and her father, who was divorced from her mom, keeled over at a movie theatre less than a year later. she was there for both deaths - as her mom went to sleep for the last time in a big city hospital, and as paramedics performed round after round of CPR with a backdrop of popping corn, neon lights, gaping onlookers, and bleeping video games.

this friend constantly carries loneliness with her. she goes through the motions of belonging and being part of a group. she has tons of friends, has had many lovers, and is a pleasure to be around. the reward of her smile is frequent and her laugh is contagious, but still ...she feels alone. she thought she might belong in the stillness.

yet, it seems that she was not alone enough, in some twisted way. in that silent thai temple, without the constant chatter of people, of voices, of reassurances that she was in fact among others, she couldn't stand it. couldn't stand being alone with her thoughts. realized that all those people with whom she surrounded herself, even though she felt solitary in their midst, kept her from the most lonely, alone place of all: her self.

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when i think of this journey to baby-carrying, it in many ways feels solitary. i know there are others out there reading this, and i personally know people in my own 'real' life who are struggling with the stubbornness of their own uterii (i just can't bring myself to write uteruses. it's weird.) or poor motility or staying pregnant.

and although my partner holds my hand at every step, and is about as wonderful and supportive as a partner could be, it is my body that feels like it is failing. it is my uterus that cannot hold on to life. in an appointment i had scheduled with my GP today (the nurse who called me in from the waiting room called it a 'talking' visit, which amused me), we discussed this ironic, painful experience of being among many, yet alone. she, too, traveled the same road we are currently treading, and it took a good 14 months (!!!!) for her to conceive. and when she spoke to me about it, i could see the remnants of that pain in her eyes - even though she has two beautiful teenagers - especially when she spoke about her partner, who although understanding, did not, and indeed, could not know what it felt like to try and try and try and worry and try not to worry...only to hear the words before they were even spoken - some variation of 'i'm sorry...' or 'unfortunately...' or 'it's not what you had hoped...'.

so what kind of lessons are there to learn in this, universe? i mean, really?! what does it say - if anything - that we can feel by ourselves even when surrounded by others? does it have to do with some inadequacy in ourselves, some lack of sharing, some fault that we must overcome? or does it simply speak to the human experience? are we alone because we keep ourselves that way, or is it up to others to seek and share experiences to demonstrate our commonalities? is perception reality or simply a self-fulfilling prophecy - that is, do we in fact create our own sense of being alone in the world?

what do you think? cuz i just don't know.



* i know, i know, i'm really not helping people want to get to know me better with all this heavy shit. i promise that you will learn, someday soon, that i can be as inane and frivolously ridiculous and cleverly witty and verbosely addicted to adjectives as the next chick.

whazzup with the name of this blog?

at the risk of attracting the wrong kind of blog readers, i have a secret: i have been living my life for the past several months obsessing over my urine.

actually, more specifically, i have been obsessing over the state of my uterus, which can be reflected in my urine, especially around day 17-18*, which is when this odd perseveration piques. because really, by day 16, it's all i can do to resist hooking myself up to an IV (cuz i actually know how, and have a few dealers around town for supplies n' such) so i can pee wildly on those expensive little litmus sticks. well not really wildly. just normally, like in a toilet. but many times per day, while holding a little plastic stick between my legs for exactly five seconds.

...that is, until i see those two little lines. pink ones, blue ones, faint ones, dark ones - whatever. they are all beautiful to me.

because those two gorgeous little lines, my friends, are how a 32 year old midwifery student, who is on-call 24/7 (save for four days per month) and thus has basal body temperature charts that are about as predictable of ovulation as they are of the weather; who refuses to take those crazy ovulation-regulating drugs that enable the fertility doc to pinpoint the nanosecond when her ovary births her little wonder-egg (or twelve of them); who has fallen in love with, and then married a wonderful woman who (very fortunately, but in terms of reproduction, unfortunately) does not have a penis or a ready supply of free sperm; who has wanted to carry a baby in her tummy since she was eight years old, and whose most compelling addiction (other than peeing on sticks) is cuddling any wee tot within 40 feet (with parental consent, of course - sheesh, you don't even know me and already you're making me out to be a pervert!!); who has managed to regulate her wonky luteal phase with months of naturopathic and homeopathic drops and pellets and remedies to enable her to even get to this joyful peeing-on-a-stick point; who is paying $1400 per month to some young stud in the US for the use of his super-swimmers...yes, those two little lines are how i know it's time to call the baby-docta for my monthly two-day extravaganza with the duck-lips.**

every month the very presence of those two little lines spell excitement. the pictures taken for pending baby books, the butterflies, the late night chats with M over hot chocolate, the pondering of names. the absence of booze in the hot chocolate (that part sucks). the worry. the anticipation. the calls from parents. and then the waiting, oh the waiting!

then, by the fourth month after unsuccessful tries, the stiffening of upper lips. the internal self-talk, constantly murmuring things like 'don't get too invested;' 'remember what happened last time;' 'it will only hurt in the end.' the avoidance of phone calls. the valiant attempts to be 'realistic.' the inability to concentrate on anything else. the physical ache of joy/pain when you hear that others are expecting. the guilt. the conviction that your body hates you and that the universe wants you to suffer.

because last week, i again came up empty. and i choose those words because it's how i feel - an absence. less than. subtracted, taken away, hollow. and no amount of heartfelt apologies, of warm hugs, of pitying glances, of rational suggestions, of reassurances that it is not my fault - none of it fills me up.
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so i am trying to write it out. process it, you know? because at this point, i'm having trouble putting a spin on it. i just want to be told how to fix it. i want to be told how to be full while that space in my pelvis remains vacant, and while my arms remain empty into the unseen future. i want to meet the bastard whose cruel joke is that my chosen profession is to be with women as they birth, while my own womb remains devoid of life.


and then, i want to collaborate with him so we can start our own line of greeting cards. cuz we could make some serious cash, yo.





* of my cycle. you know, that womanly one.
** a docta who, by the way, does not resemble any man i would typically let near my vagina, let alone into it.

if only it were this easy

better out than in

those of you who know me in 'real' (ie. non-bloggy) life know that i have no shortage of topics to chat about. what's kind of funny (scary?) is that that i have a whole lot more stuff that never makes it past my lips - it just bumps around inside my upstairs bits, causing untold bruises and pain and maybe even this new blinding headache that has been pulsing for what, a month now?

so frankly, i'm trying this blog thing again. i've done it once before, but i got stuck. perhaps i will talk about it here at some later point, who knows. but what's different this time is my strict commitment to a self-imposed 'no pressure' policy. no self-flagellation about how funny i should be, how pedagogical (i can't honestly pull that off anyhow), how thought-provoking...my overarching theme for what gets written here is pretty simple: it's better out than in (well for me at least. for you? only time will tell!)