Keep trying

It's easy to get discouraged

“It's raining right now, and you think that means it'll rain forever. But it won't.” - The only good piece of advice that man ever gave me.

I haven't talked about him very much - I don't really think about him too often, even though it's only been a year or so since we broke up. And there's not really much to say. He was more or less cruel, dismissive, or mean most of the time, and I knew that when I first got involved with him. I had no illusions that he would change. I guess I just felt like punishing myself.

When you're feeling alone in the world, it's easy to grab on to the tiniest scraps of kindness and mistake them for love. I've been unlucky with friendships my whole life - mostly isolated, mostly alone, mostly aching for the fable of supportive, easy company that's promised from the pages of young adult novels. When my one and only friend moved to New Zealand at age 9, I didn't have a single social contact outside of church, sports, or school. I met my ex-girlfriend when I was 18. For the nine years in between, I can count my private conversations on one hand.

I almost wrote, “I didn't have a single friend for ten years,” but realized that would be unfair to the friends I did have - Robyn, my high school best friend and water polo teammate; Sophia, my Christian-metal, punk-rock partner in crime. Not that we got up to much actual crime, but we did make a lot of inappropriate sex jokes at youth group. I would sometimes make a temporary friend at the go-kart track, or hang out with the Muslim girls on my lunch break at school - we all had strict religious parents, so we had a lot in common. But I rarely saw the inside of anyone's house, or spoke to another person outside of a structured activity. I had an optimized adolescence. I wasn't allowed to just be.

What friendships I did make tended to end in disaster. I was dramatic, traumatised and searingly lonely. I took everything personally, and had no language to contextualize my inner states. I blamed other people for my own bad feelings, and so tended to attract people who enjoyed causing them. Short, intense, conflict-filled relationships punctuated the long silence of my aloneness, and I grew to understand that this was the best I could expect. It was better than nothing, and I had no standard to compare it to. “Hanging out with your buddies" seemed like a fantasy from TV, like the giant apartments on Sex and the City. I still sort of suspected the problem was me.

Is it any surprise that six years later on the CDT, coming out of the wreckage of what I had assumed would be my new start in Montreal, I was susceptible to falling back on old assumptions? I had never really gotten a toehold on community. As soon as I would begin to expect inclusion and kindness, something would happen and I'd go back to Square One, just a partner or two and maybe one friend for company. I was tired of picking myself up to get knocked back down again. I was tired of holding out hope for things to get better this time. Maybe this is the person who will introduce me to a network of people, who will invite me for boozy Sunday brunches and wild Friday nights and after-work bike rides to explore abandoned factories. Maybe this is when I'll finally have friends. Maybe this time. Maybe this time. I was afraid of people. I was afraid to overstep by announcing my intentions, afraid that I would be roundly mocked by a half-imagined clan of Popular Girls for daring to invite someone out who hadn't asked me first. There was an arcane perfect sequence to the getting-to-know-you ritual, a secret series of dance steps that, if I only got them right, would unlock a secret portal into the world of Good Friends. I would be safe there, for life. I would never have to be alone again. Why couldn't I just figure it out?

It didn't work out between me and Montreal. Moving away from my girlfriend put the final nail in the coffin built from my dissociated closed-off state and her untreated depression. My boyfriend-at-the-time, a directionless vegan manchild with Manichean tendencies, followed me across the country only to veto every new opportunity as insufficiently Marxist. I won't say I wasn't complicit in this self-sabotage. We went to join the revolution we'd seen during the Maple Spring, and found that there was a life there for us instead. It was a crushing disappointment, not getting to sacrifice ourselves for the cause. He's still trying to sacrifice himself, as far as I know - to dogmatism or drugs, I’m not sure, but both were certainly present back then. We were dogged by chaos and poverty with every new roommate and apartment. He never could keep a job, or pay the rent when he had one. I took care of him, because I assumed that at one point he would take care of me in turn. He was just unlucky, always getting hurt or fired or breaking crucial items that needed expensive repairs. He was “just unlucky" for five long years. I never seemed to catch the stomach flu as easily as him. My sellable items slowly disappeared, and little by little, so did I.

So then, the CDT. I lost my last remaining friend to an argument on trail, a stupid thing really. It was the last straw in a relationship that couldn't survive me standing up for myself. I was always assumed to have bad intentions or unexamined privilege. No matter what I said or did, it was wrong. I was used to that. What I wasn't used to was being right, being competent, and being stronger. With thru-hiking, I discovered I had a talent. I was good at this, and what's more, I liked it. My friend didn't want me to be confident and happy, because they knew they would lose me. They were right - I wouldn't allow myself to be cut down, and so they engineered a blow-up, so I could beg for forgiveness and they could cruelly refuse. I was devastated. It was the best thing that could have happened to me, and I walked into the Red Desert with a heart full of sorrow and a new, unknown hiking partner.

The less said about him the better. As I said, he only ever gave me one good piece of advice. I clung to his indifference like a life raft, grateful that this cold, neglectful person would tolerate me and let me talk to him sometimes. I was too emotional, too needy, too much. I knew those things were true, and I knew he was horrible for making me believe them. I kept the rare shining treasures of his affection in a shoebox under my bed, and examined them under the covers with a flashlight. It was all I deserved.

I did leave him. One long lonely winter in Montreal, and then I sent myself from Mexico to Canada again, squeezing blood from his stone heart with every precious instant of cell phone service. I moved myself out to Whistler since he couldn't move east, and drove to Washington twice a month. And then I left him. The arguments were too much. I was spending so much money and time and energy on trying to keep him happy, trying to make him stay. I didn't even really like him that much. I had my van. I had my skis. I was starting to get better on the slopes, taking refuge from my loneliness in the singular, ferocious joy of motion. I didn't need him. I didn't need anyone.

I was alone.

I had my three friends from Montreal, all dealing with various health crises.

I had five co-workers who were more concerned with partying than with strange, sad, feral girls.

I had a few short-lived romantic connections, enjoyable or otherwise.

I had nobody.

But I had the trail to look forward to.

---

And now?

I feel like I'm back on Square One, but maybe that's not strictly true. I'm in Whistler, yes, pretty much by accident and still trying to get myself established. I still need to perfect those dance steps to take me inside this new social world - maybe this person is the one with the networks of friends, who will invite me to a Tuesday morning ski or a wild Friday night or an after-work expedition to the crag. Maybe this time. Maybe this time.

But for all the loneliness I feel, I know I'm not alone. I have a friend here now, one of those failed romantic adventures turned confidant, a new equilibrium balanced on familiarity and trust. I still don't see him that often - he's still too busy. But I don't take it personally any more. I know the problem isn't me. I'm friendly with some coworkers, though the breakthrough invitation has yet to arrive. I'm in a touring groupchat with a bunch of friendly strangers - I just need to motivate myself to go. It's hard when I've been so depressed, to wake up early and coax myself onto my skis. But there's a month of winter left, and I have time to get it together.

I have other people, too. I found Enok and Jasper again, right where I left them, and I’ve grown closer to my old friend Kelly. When I went back to Montreal for Hayden's funeral, the distance between us melted away. It always eventually does. They've been there this whole time, waiting for me without knowing it, waiting for me to acknowledge my own pain without fear that it invalidates theirs. “I've missed you - I've been so alone - I know it's nothing compared to what you're going through - can you call me once a week?” How could this declaration of love destroy anything? How could anything I'd ask of them make them turn their backs on me? I still feel the fear of being a burden that led to my isolation, but now they know that I do. They take care of me in little ways. They send me funny videos, and tell me how their days are. I can lean on them any time I need to, and they let me know they're here with every emoji and groupchat ping.

Best of all, I have Constantine. A partner who isn't broken, and isn't cold. A partner who tells me every single morning how much he wished he had fallen asleep by my side, who thinks I'm beautiful and capable and smart, who takes care of me when I'm afraid to ask, who lets me take care of him. A partner who wants me, and loves me, and tells me every day with action and words. He's going to come live with me after trail next year, and I can't wait. He's good at making friends - he'll be the one getting invited to things before long, and all I'll have to do is come with.

So no, I'm not on Square One again, as much as it might feel like it on a day like today. I woke up at noon and missed my therapy appointment, and have spent the whole day in bed scrounging for low-effort meals, too ashamed to check my email and too lazy to leave my parking spot. I don't have any missed messages, and I don't have anything to do. It's depressing, and I'm tired, and I feel like I'm alone in the world. But I'm not. It's raining right now, but it won't rain forever. Sometimes it's sunny, here on Square Two.