Hezah, 26

I have been living alone, (*note not ON MY OWN, but truly and utterly alone) for seven months now. I love it; I hate it; it freaks me the fudge out. Being an only child, I have a heightened awareness of my physical and emotional space, so living alone is very conducive to stereotypical single child “me time.” But let me tell you, I have A LOT of me time.

I live in slightly oversized one bedroom apartment that I love, but sometimes I can’t help feeling lost in my own space. Yes, I am referring to both my mental and physical space, and yeah; that’s some deep shit. I relish coming home from work, plunking my crap wherever I’d like, and not having to talk to anyone. I can watch whatever crap on TV I choose without judgment or consideration, and I can lie on the floor because it makes me feel better, and no one is here to witness this weirdness. I can eat handfuls of snack for dinner because no one is telling me to eat a balanced meal, or making fun of me for never learning how to cook. My mess is my own, and I can decorate my walls with an excessive amount of bird paraphernalia without anyone telling me it’s an interior design hot mess from hell.

That’s all well and good, but living alone isn’t all rainbows and shortcake. I’ve started talking to myself, which is creeping me out. Depleting your weekly DVR records by yourself isn’t nearly as enjoyable without someone else. Having to pay for all your bills alone is kind of a bummer, and I have no one to validate new outfits and hairstyles. The second sink in my bathroom feels neglected and superfluous, and sometimes I lie awake in my bed concocting irrational thoughts of a rapist breaking in and no one being around to say, “um, please stop raping my friend.”

I have lived with my family, sorority sisters, a best friend, a boyfriend, and now just myself. A friend told me that at the end of the day, you are really left with only yourself. I think I am just starting to understand that statement. There was one weekend in particular that made me realize I have a lot of growing left to do.

For whatever reason, all my close friends were out of town or unavailable. I literally had to bribe my Father to have dinner with me. I wouldn’t call this a high point. Since deciding to live on my own, I had been able to fill my weekend ands weeknights with work, activities, exercise, concerts, bars, and of course stuffing my face at various locales. However, this was the first time I was faced with, gulp, myself. I framed pictures; I touched up the paint on my walls; I watched movies. I hymned and I hawed, until I really let myself be “alone.”

I finally allowed my signature bottled emotions, insecurities, and Feelings rise to the surface, and I don’t think I have ever felt more vulnerable in my entire life. It had taken me months to face my greatest fear: me. I felt melancholy, nostalgic, loss, gratitude, and even just plain old sadness. It made me realize just how much I have to learn about myself. I’d love to believe that these rollercoaster feelings of self-discovery will be left behind once I embark on my thirties, but something tells me it will never change. And really, I think that’s pretty cool.

So, as much as I love/hate living alone, I know it won’t be forever so I’d better take advantage of this time in my life when I can sit in a soggy towel eating chocolate covered pretzels, watching Gossip Girl….and nobody will say a damn thing.