On being alone

"Oh yeah, I totally understand! It's like social phobia, right? I think I have that a little bit too!" Anthropophobia, or the fear of people and society, was perhaps what my friend was in the process of diagnosing my brother with. She did not, in my opinion have it 'a little bit'--she just used the verbal equivalent of two exclamation points in 20 seconds of chatter, after all.

"I don't have a phobia," my brother replied calmly, "I just don't like people." He added, almost as an afterthought, "they're always disappointing me."

Amen, brother. In the last six months I've experienced more disappointment at the hands of the people in my life than I could possibly imagine. Yes, I recognize that this could be due to my unreasonable expectations of people (although all of the therapists seem to think otherwise). This means that either the people in my life are so flawed as to not be able to avoid disappointing me, or my demands are excessive. However, on the slight chance that my expectations are unreasonable, isn't it still easier to just avoid having those expectations--and thus human contact at all--than go through the demoralizing process of lowering my expectations yet again?

I've known for a long time that fundamentally, no one really cares about me. It's not personal, I don't think. No one really cares about anyone unless it's in their own self-interest in some way. However, it's taken me longer to reach the obvious extrapolation from that theory, which is that fundamentally, I don't care about anyone. I listen to my friends prattle on about how much they hate their Jewish boyfriends or how hideously straight their hair is or how they don't know if they will ever meet anyone with a big enough penis. I used to be able to sit through this for hours on end, and be happy to do it again the next day. Now, though, I find myself responding with sage advice like, "so what?" and "huh? what did you say?"

Most weekends, I lie and pretend to have plans so I don't have to see people. When I do make plans, I tend to flake on them. I still like my friends, I just don't feel like seeing or talking to them. My family has disintegrated completely, so that relieves the stress of trying to avoid them. I find that I prefer to stay home and work on websites about gay sex and watch HBO shows to actual human contact. I've even given up dating (mostly), content to maintain my harem of international boyfriends that I only have to see every 6-8 weeks.

I'm slightly worried, though, that I can't work up the kind of enthusiasm for any of the people I have day-to-day contact with that I can for characters in numerous HBO series. I don't desperately want to know about the childhood of anyone I've dated the way I do about Margene on 'Big Love.' I just don't care.

There was a dark point in my life when I was obsessed with The Sims. For those of you not in the know, The Sims is a strategic life simulation computer game. In my game, I created many Sims. I even created a 'Lina' Sim, complete with bad hair and a tiny, crowded apartment. What was so interesting is that all of my Sims were incredible successful--they reached the tops of their careers, were madly in love, had successful children, engaging hobbies and were incredibly wealthy. What I learned from these hundreds of hours in front of my computer was this: if I had control over every detail of the universe, I too would be happy and successful. It's only the outside influence of other people that ruins my chances of serenity.

What's so unexpected about my new found solitariness is that I don't think, for once, that it's symptomatic of a major depressive episode. In fact, I'm happier now that I've been in a long, long time. Seriously. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I really feel content in a way I don't think I ever have before. I'm not sure if the realization that I could never have children in good conscience, or the acceptance that I am completely incapable of having a real relationship freed me from the sort of neurotic expectations that I'd otherwise be experiencing. I get so much more done now, and like being alone in a way I never did before. I can remember with horror a time in my life where I was unable to make it to the grocery store two blocks away without a chaperone. Now, I'm planning on touring Europe alone after my stint in Dublin is over.

I'm not sure if it's just an illusion like most of my other most-cherished beliefs, or if this is actually an effective strategy. The way to avoid disappointment, it seems, is to avoid people.