on loneliness and the powers of observation
I used to be afraid that I would grow up to be one of those “crazy cat ladies” with 50 cats and baggy dresses who drink tea every day, the kind of woman who lives by herself in a tiny, cramped apartment and knits all the time. It took me a long time to realize that loneliness does not necessarily strike a person when they’re alone-it can strike them in a room full of people. And then I realized that while I like cats, I would never want to own more than one, and I love dresses but not baggy ones, and I hate tea because it makes me want to throw up, and I have no idea how to knit and probably never will.
But I’ve always been billed as the shy girl in class, the kind who should “raise her hand more” or who “needs to participate to a greater extent in class discussions.” Or at least that’s who I used to be. But I think those demands are shit, to be honest. If you are considered shy, you’re probably not shy; you’re an observer. You see things and you notice them, then you hold them inside you. And like that you keep them alive. Sometimes when I introduce myself to another person at school, I pretend not to know their name, when really I’ve known it already for a few years. I don’t want to be misconstrued as creepy, but I can’t help it. A name is just a detail, and details are something I’m good at.
Some people can’t remember what they ate for breakfast that very day, or even what color of shirt they were wearing the day before. I ate two slices of toast this morning with peanut butter, and had a bowl of Cap’n Crunch with milk. I wore a white sweatshirt yesterday. Being an observer is sometimes much better than being a participator, because it allows you to stand away from the action and begin to understand it. Observation is a kind of science in and of itself, almost a philosophy. It’s a way of life. I study human beings and I like to get inside their heads and figure out what they’re thinking, but more importantly, why they think the way they do. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t mean I’m shy; it means I understand people more deeply than the so-called “normal individual.”
Maybe I got it from my father. He always talks about wanting to know what peoples’ “stories” are, where they came from, how they grew up, what happened to them, etc. Whenever he drives by a stranger in the car, whether they’re jogging or lugging grocery bags or walking along talking on their cell phone, he always turns his head literally ninety degrees or more to stare at them. The staring part bothers me-because some people can feel that stare from outside the car windows, and some people notice the staring. It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like being looked at, even for a few brief seconds. Whenever someone makes eye contact with me for an unnecessarily long period of time, I turn away.
Yet I love to look at other people. But only when they’re not looking back.
Strangers fascinate me. I could dissect them all day; put them under a microscope like a fly’s wing on a glass slide and study them for hours. Each and every stranger has their own history; some are more intricate than others’; some are 50 pages long while others’ are 1,036. The life history of a single individual should be offered as a course in college. I’d take it in a heartbeat. Human beings are fascinating creatures because they live inside their own heads. They make their home there, sometimes without even realizing it.
But you can’t pay rent on the mind, or hire someone to keep it clean. You can’t make its beds or close its cupboards or sweep its stairs. The mind gets rusty and dirty sometimes, and it grows weak and tired and afraid. People don’t just break sometimes; they shatter.
I once read that “real loneliness is not necessarily limited to when you are alone.” And that’s true. Because even when I’m surrounded by crowds of people in the hallway, even as I’m noticing their clothes and hair and the way they snap their gum, or how tired they look to be lugging that heavy backpack around, I can still feel as alone as if I were sitting in the middle of a completely white room. No windows, no doors, no exit. No other person in there with me.
Observation really is a lonely science, just like photography is a lonely medium. They both consist of capturing peoples’ souls and essences. So while I’ve gotten over my fear of ending up as the crazy cat lady, as some may call her, I’ve never quite been able to rid myself of the fear of being alone. It’s an innate feeling. I don’t think it ever goes away. But it’s made me who I am today, and for that, I am grateful.
