I just had a fascinating therapy session. Correction -- she’s not a therapist, she’s a “wellness coach” that I signed up to meet with because my school district was offering a $100 gift card to LL Bean to anyone who participated. That was April, and since then I’ve received the gift card and am therefore off the hook, yet here we are six months later. Somehow she’s significantly more helpful than any therapist I’ve worked with in the past (and I’ve tried many). I’m not sure if it’s her, or if I’m in a place where I’m super ready to receive help, or the fact that it’s over the phone so I don’t have to worry about eye contact or sitting still, or because the years of therapy I have done have set me up well to work with someone who isn’t trying to dig deeper or tell me about myself, but simply coach me through my own thinking and problem solving.
Whatever the reason, I always leave sessions with her feeling like I’ve just connected the dots within my own brain and discovered something incredible. Sometimes it leaves me exhausted, but today, I feel like I could run a marathon.
It began with an observation that I feel disconnection -- a sensation that I’m actively less able to connect with friends who I’ve previously felt very close to. I went two or three weeks without a social date, and when I finally saw people this week, it just left me feeling worse. I described how it felt to not feel connection, to feel socially awkward, isolated, or to simply not know what to talk about. She then asked, as I knew she would, what would it feel like to feel connected? I had no idea.
So I stayed quiet. I think because we’re over the phone I feel more comfortable with silence than I have with past therapists. I’m not staring into her eyes -- or actively avoiding eye contact -- thinking “just say something… anything… maybe she’ll break the silence…” while my brain gets too stressed to actually ponder and delve.
In this silence, I started to remember myself. And I started to cry, a response I’ve learned to trust as evidence that I’ve found a profound truth.
I crave intimate silence.
Sitting in the silence of that moment, images flowed through my mind.
Those moments on long hikes when the conversation peters out and you just find a rhythm through movement and breath and shared experience.
Excitement bubbling within me while I wait for my turn in a game, catching someone’s eye and barely containing a grin.
Tending to the garden, weeding and picking and stealing bites.
Singing, dancing, or creating art together.
Parallel reading -- what my family calls the act of hanging out in the same room, but doing separate activities, such as reading, drawing, or even chores like folding laundry.
Exercising side by side, earbuds in, sweat dripping, muscles burning, in the zone yet somehow in tandem.
Standing in vigil, writing letters, or creating protest signs together.
Cooking or baking, making a mess and then cleaning, followed by indulging in the rich flavors earned by shared work.
Snuggling on a couch, eyes closed, listening to music we both love.
The montage went on and on. This morning, I'd feared that I didn’t know how to connect to others, that I’ve never been good at “socializing,” and that I either had to suffer through discomfort and grief until connection reappeared magically or forcibly create structures to manufacture connection.
But no. I am fantastic at creating connection. It does flow freely and authentically from me in beautiful ways, without structures and plans and conversation starters on index cards. It may not flow, however, from weekly walks in public spaces.
These memories of intimacy have common threads: Physical closeness, if not touch. A shared purpose. Quiet spaces. And almost always silence.
I am a deep introvert, something I know well. Sometimes, though, I forget that speaking exhausts me. Six months ago, I hunkered down into my home, thrilled at the opportunity to get away from people, to quiet my mind, to find the solitude that my busy life before COVID was lacking. When weeks turned to months and I realized that I still, in fact, did need some human connection, I tried to think of ways to socialize within the strict confines of the COVID spike lockdowns. I began to see my loved ones over zoom or on socially distanced walks. We could talk, see one another’s faces, and even get some exercise if we wanted. It felt great, after so long apart, to talk for hours. We’d catch up on everything we’d missed, process the complex feelings, and bear witness to the challenges of our new realities.
But it’s now October. We’ve been at this for half a year and it feels like half a century. When I walk or video chat with friends, I find I have nothing left to say. The grief I feel at the state of the world, the fear I feel stepping into a public school each day, and the millions of other painfully complex emotions, are too big for a walk in the park. They are “hold me while I sob” big. You can’t hold me, and it wouldn’t feel safe to sob in a public street. So I either choose not to share, or share in cynical ways that keep me protected but ultimately harm the conversation. When the awkward silence inevitably follows, we ask, “so what’s new?” In this time of just trying to make it through each week without caving to the monotony, what exactly are we hoping to hear in response?
Yet we keep walking, keep talking, keep zooming, and keep going home emptier than we left.
I’m done. I’ve had enough of “socializing” -- of going out with a friend because that seems like how I'm supposed fill this void of connection, of hoping for outcomes that are improbable at best.
And after today, I think I finally know where to start!
About a year ago, I was in an elevator leaving the building in which I’d visited a dear friend. I could remember how much I love him, and that I miss him when we’re not together, but standing in that elevator I just felt gross. I wanted nothing to do with him, to the point where my skin was crawling and I felt shaky and exhausted. I knew the feeling would pass, because I’d felt it before and always just ignored it until it went away and was replaced with joyful and meaningful reunions. For whatever reason, I didn’t want to ignore it that day. I wanted to explore it.
So I got home and called my friend. I shared the feeling honestly, shared that I’d felt anxious the whole time we were together, that I barely enjoyed it and left feeling alone and empty. I don’t know where I found the courage to share these thoughts, but I was rewarded with one of the best conversations I’ve ever had about friendship. I was not alone in my feelings -- he too had felt a weird disconnect and anxiety, and acknowledged that it happened sometimes with me, but also with his other friends.
Since that day, we feel infinitely closer. When we feel something getting in the way of our connection, we name it. Sometimes it’s a physical barrier -- we both struggle with illness and disability -- and sometimes it’s just something emotionally or spiritually off that day. We don’t hold judgement about it, but we let it be and work to make it better if we can. For example, sitting up can be a challenge for me and long talks can be a strain for him. We love hanging out though and tend to surpass our own limits by accident. So we started setting a timer when I arrived for ten minutes. We’d use that time to catch up and chat and laugh and just BE freely with one another. When the timer went off, we'd wrap up our story, lay down side by side, and listen to a guided meditation for 30-45 minutes. When it’s over, we feel connected but also rejuvenated instead of depleted.
This is what I need -- to find the ways of hanging out that fit each relationship's needs. My therapist (sorry -- coach!) suggested I think about each friend and what I love in my relationship with them. Then use this to guide what connection could look like between us.
Immediately -- my mind being a visual one -- I saw the images from before, but with the friends mixed in differently. I actually laughed out loud. It was ludicrous to imagine meditating side by side with my gym buddy, snuggling to music with anyone but my partner, or parallel drawing with my hiking friends. These are all crucial pieces of me, and of what I need in friendships, but to expect the same actions of each person is absurd.
I’m excited for this next step, albeit a little nervous. I hope to check in with each person I love one by one to admit my current state -- that I’m feeling lonely and disconnected, and SO burnt out on talking -- and explore other ways of connecting. I’m worried that COVID will foil most of our ideas, but hopeful that we’ll come up with some beautiful opportunities. We can still hike, sketch outside, or build fairy houses in the woods. We can watch the moon rise by a campfire and sing or listen to podcasts. We can discuss books we’re reading and write stories together, play games online, share recipes… I hope this will be a moment of exploding creativity, in which each of my relationships can also get a fresh coat of paint. I’m excited to not just see my friends, but to be together, to feel intimacy and connection, and to not only feel loved, but feel how much I love them.