I recall a time when I felt alone a lot. I was living in one of the largest cities in the country, and I had never felt more lonely. I had plenty of friends. But as I drove home from my acting class in Hollywood to my apartment in West Los Angeles, I remember having an overwhelming sense of isolation. Despite having plenty of connections, I didn't feel like I was actually connecting with anyone.
Now 18 years later my only solitude is found between dropping the boys off at various social and extracurricular events and usually, it is brief. My minivan is my sanctuary. It's climate controlled, kind of echo-y has the best music and it is the place that I can let everything out. For as many times the odometer has clicked a new number, I have prayed, worried, sang, laughed or pulled over to cry. I have had deep hands free phone conversations while in the Target parking lot which probably made me look crazy. I have taken cat naps. I have asked questions and expected to hear the answers. When you're busy, you have to find meditation wherever you can get it.
Last week I was on the cusp of what felt like a big decision in my life. I had finished a particularly challenging workout. The sun hadn't quite come up yet, and I found myself pulled over next to the river. I opened the sunroof, turned off the engine. It is not a secret that I'm a very artistic person. I have come to realize I see things through a more colorful lens than your average person. With that in mind, I will continue.
I looked over at the hospital. I was born there. My siblings were born there. All four of my sons took their first breaths there. Even the two souls that never did, were born there. Every single school day, my dad and I would drive past on the way to school. Every day my mom and I would drive past on the way home. I can almost feel every joy, pain, anxiety, happiness that I have felt throughout my life when I look at that building. I still pass the hospital every single day, and it still catches my attention. It's like passing an old friend, one who doesn't say much but observes everything. knows a lot more about you than you think they do.
As I sat there contemplating a change in my life, I turned to the hospital, almost expecting an answer. Sometimes I think listening is the most powerful tool I have. Even when the answer doesn't come in words.
When I was my loneliness, it was because I was trying to conform to someone that I wasn't. I was on a mission to hide who I was, trying to please someone else, to be liked by people who weren't my friends. In the process of trying to go from a size 4 to a 2 to a 0. I wasn't just physically shrinking, my true self-was disappearing too. I couldn't even be alone because if I sat really still, I had to listen to the voice that knew my authenticity had been seriously compromised. I'm not one to shy away from an argument, even with myself.
The truth came to me in a really dark moment. I had been out with friends for about an hour when I was drugged. Thankfully they recognized this and got me to safety. To be out with friends one moment and 12 hours later wake up and not have any recollection of how I had gotten there was incredibly scary. I was home, in my little apartment bathtub, which is confusing as it is, but at least I was home. (In hindsight, I wish they would have left a note) but I at least they got me there.
After I stopped being sick and was laying in my own bed, in my own pajamas, I took an inventory of every inch of my body asking myself how I had gotten there. Both literally and figuratively. And while taking inventory, I had to make sure my soul was intact. And at that moment, it wasn't. Not at all. I listened hard that morning. And even took a break from L.A. for a few days to find me again.
Sometimes you need to be in solitude to allow your soul to give you the answer it has been trying to give you this entire time. I'm not saying being drugged by a stranger is ever a good thing, but in this case, it was a dangerous wake-up call. That I needed to stop searching for answers from others and search inside myself.
A few weeks later I met Don. A few years later we returned to my hometown to raise a family. And live a stone throw away from my old hospital.
And now, I find my sanctuary, sitting in a van down by the river.
I got my answer that day. But only after I truly stopped. Stopped my body, and my racing mind. Stopped scrolling and lifted my focus away from my phone, away from the worry of what other people were thinking. And I took a sharp turn inward. How amazing to give yourself the gift of solitude in a crazy busy world. A splendid moment of isolation in more restorative than any conversation could be. And when you quiet the noise you can finally find your voice.
No comments:
Post a Comment