The Great Aloneness

Recently, I've struggled with an overwhelming sense of loss that has left me feeling completely alone amidst a sea of people, both friends and family.  Deep within my being, I long for something more, yet I can't describe it.  Have you ever felt that way?

When I turned 50 years old, I longed for a book, or a seminar, about "How to Turn 50".  I found books on anti-wrinkle exercises for my eyes, books on how not to look old and books about finding purpose in life as an empty-nester.  I read books on eating, meditating and loving.  I also threw those books away when there was no answer to what my soul needed.

I was so afraid of turning 50, that I put on a ban on birthday cakes, birthday cupcakes, birthday cards, gifts and absolutely any form of party!  The result was this: my Dad sent me a gift which I cherish to this day, my mother met me for coffee and a bagel, my daughter did call me and my husband took me to dinner and gave me a modest birthday gift.  There was no chocolate cake.  There were no candles, and no song was sung.

The next day, life continued.  My hair hadn't turned white over night.  In fact, the highlights and cut in my new "birthday hair cut" still look great!  Both legs still walked.  My dogs still wagged their tales and wanted to play outside.  The fact was: life continued.  50 wasn't some magically horrific age where my life imploded overnight.  

It was, however, the beginning of a very interesting journey.  A journey that was supposed to be "50 is the new 40" was instead of a journey of self-awareness and unbelievable pain.  A journey into what I will, as of today, call the great aloneness.  I secretly laugh at this term, because it sounds like the title of a country western ballad sung in a minor key.  While I laugh at my warped sense of humor, I also realize that if I wanted to, I could sit down in a puddle of my own tears while allowing myself to truly feel this aloneness.

As I write this, I reflect on all the times as a single mom I anxiously dropped by daughter off at pre-school while I went to work.  I worried about her.  I prayed for her safety.  I could hardly wait to pick her up after I got off work and made the 90 minute commute in the dark back home where I would feed her dinner.  I spent my sick days, taking caring of her when she was sick.  I spent my vacation days taking care of her when she was sick.  I always spent some of my grocery money on Crayons, coloring books and other books for her to read.  I spent endless hours watching Disney movies with her.  I loved being a mom.  

As I write this, I reflect on all the milestones in her life, and my life too.  Without her knowing it, she helped me battle cancer while I raised her alone when my marriage fell apart when I discovered I had breast cancer.  She never heard me crawl into my closet and cry myself to sleep.  I was so frightened of being alone.  With sheer determination mixed with a ridiculous and unhealthy love for buttered popcorn, pasta dishes and chocolate combined with a history of relationships that broke my heart repeatedly, I made it through my 30s alive.  My daughter graduated into Kindergarten, and I cried.  I was proud and sad and loved her so intensely that it hurt.  I knew there were so many ways I had missed the mark as a single mom.  I knew there were ways I had failed her.  She graduated into Middle School, and I cried again.  I was overcome with the feelings of joy, pride, accomplishment, love, and fear that we were growing through life moving forward into the unknown that would some day leave me with an empty nest.  I vowed I would make better choices for us both.  I would do my best to grow up and become the woman she thought I was.

As I write this, I reflect upon the profound joy and love I experienced when I watched her walk across the stage and receive her high school diploma with honors.  A few years later, I sat in a different arena and watched with an even more profound joy and love as she received her university diploma with honors.  I was too busy with details, friends, family and moving her back home to even begin to feel the massive flood of emotions growing inside my soul.

After her college graduation, I watched her pack her car to embark on another educational journey, and waved goodbye as I saw that little old green car drive cautiously down the street until it turned the corner and left me standing in the street in a puddle of tears.  Was I the only mother that had said "well done" with each phase of her life, and at the same time mourned the loss of having her move forward into her next experience of adulthood?  Was I the only mother who knew that it was time for her to go, to be set free, to live her life, yet grieved with this incredible feeling of isolation and loneliness?  What was wrong with me that I felt abandoned, while fully knowing that this was the next wonderful phase of her life?

This beautiful child has turned into a beautiful, poised, intelligent, creative, talented young woman who spent 13 months in South Korea teaching English.  Her purpose?  To see the world and "do life" as an adult.  To experience adulthood without me.  We talked or sent text messages or emails almost every day.  We truly have never been closer.  She needed me on many days, and it was my greatest purpose in life to be able to listen, encourage, or give advice when needed:  day or night.  I needed her in a most profound way, as I journeyed through incredible upheaval on my side of the ocean.  I needed her and she unwaveringly loved me.

She has since finished her tenure in Korea and lives in the same town just a few miles from me.  One would think that she lives 4000 miles away with how my heart aches!  I admire her more than any other person on earth.  She has traveled to a foreign country, navigated a life there, and then after a short trip to swim with shark whales, she moved back to the states to secure a job, an apartment, buy a car, and "do life".  She lives in the same zip code as I do.  I fully realize that many mothers would love to experience; yet, even with her in the zip code, I still ache with loneliness and fear of abandonment.

Are you seeing a common thread here?  

It is the thread of "I ache inside and I don't know why."

I know that logically, I shouldn't ache.  In reality, my emotions are buttressed behind a carefully built wall of deep, intense love and something I will call "my chosen maturity".  I am embarrassed to admit that I ache for the closeness of friendship we have had; yet, when we see each other, that closeness is still very much there. I don't trust it, because I have been repeatedly hurt and abandoned throughout my lifetime, not by my daughter but other relationships.  My relationship with my daughter is strong. It is sure.  It is alive.  There is an ebb and a flow.  And, it is all good.  It is a most precious gift.  Yet, I ache.

A friend today pointed out that my daughter represents what I have longed for my entire life: to be loved unconditionally, to be wanted, to be cherished, to be nurtured, to be accepted.  My daughter represents the feeling of family that is so strong it can withstand any trauma.  She is that family to me.  She represents the freedom of a child crawling into a parent's lap and being held closely.  Our relationship has been the one constant in my entire life that has never failed or wavered, or screamed, or yelled or judged.  Her love has never divorced me.

My adult mind knows that our separate lives is the most right, the most healthy, the most loving relationship I have ever experienced.  It has spanned 29 years of my mistakes, my fears and a countless list of illnesses and surgeries.  It has spanned her growing up, her pains and her joys.  She has never wavered.   Her love has never wavered.  She has comforted and held me, or wiped away my tears.  When she was 2 and I lost my hair because of chemotherapy, she patted my head and said, "Don' worry, Mommy, it grow back.  It grow back."  

And, it did.  It grew back. 

She is a gift to me from God.

As I write this, I reflect on what my friend told me today, "Your daughter represents all the belonging, all the connection, all the vows that you ever wanted to be true and pure in your life.  Her living her own life now frightens that part of you that feels more than it thinks.  It terrifies you because you are afraid that this connectedness will cease to exist.  Her living her own life causes you to doubt if you are valuable enough to live your life on your own, whether you are married or not.  It causes you to question and fear what the future will be like without her actively in your life on a daily basis.  It causes you to feel ...

... the great aloneness."

Aloneness.  I hate it.  And yet, at the same time, I run to it.  Aloneness is sometimes safer than the risk of relationship, and most especially the risk of judgment, rejection, and abandonment.

I am sitting at the kitchen table with the Christmas tablecloth underneath the laptop.  I am sitting alone while my husband sleeps upstairs.  I am sitting alone while the world beyond these walls is asleep.  I feel the great aloneness.

This time, however, I do not cry.  This time, I feel the feeling, and just notice it.  It hurts.  I don't like it.  It doesn't feel like Santa will ever come again on Christmas morning.  And, if he doesn't, I will be okay.  The next time I see my precious daughter, it will be different.  She will be even more grown-up.  I will look into her eyes and I will see the eyes of a beautiful grown woman; and I will also see the eyes of that precious baby I delivered almost 30 years ago.  I hope I will slow my life down long enough to memorize those beautiful eyes and drink in whatever conversation we might have.  Maybe we will talk about baking or skiing or work issues.  Maybe we will watch a fun movie.  And, maybe there will be some distance and she will walk out the front door, get into her car, and drive home.  

And I will be okay.  

It is my time to learn how to be okay in the great aloneness.

And there, in that aloneness if I am quiet and still, and very brave, I will see the face of God.  

And the pain will begin to recede as I look into the eyes of Love.