Catch and release

When there's no one to have and to hold

Look, I wasn’t raised a sentimental sucker, but here we are. As much as I hate to say it, there’s a whole slew of cheesy sayings that I’m starting to learn are all true. You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Loneliness is a silent killer. Or wait, that’s not a saying, that’s reality.

I’ve been alone for the last three years in some way or another. I was too busy to connect, then I was too sad to connect, and now I’m too distant to connect. I never lived completely by myself until now. I’ve lived in student houses filled to the brim or with a select few close friends. Five years I lived together with my ex and later, our dog. When they left, I was alone for the first time. Sometimes solitude is healing. Other times, not so much.

As it turns out, I hate being alone. I don’t mind being single, but I mind being by myself. I would’ve never thought of myself as an extravert before, but I’ve come to realize that my ideal world is permanently filled with people. I prefer to have someone around at all times. We don’t have to talk or laugh or go out constantly - we would just do our own thing, by ourselves, but together. Unfortunately, this scenario isn’t that easily achieved as a singleton past their socially bustling college years.

Living la dolce vita hasn’t been all that dolce, to be honest. I don’t know if this is the usual pace of things and life abroad is simply like this, but so much just keeps on happening. It’s like I missed the memo not to emigrate if not in a relationship - I haven’t met many single internationals, and I see why: living abroad is equal parts fun and stress. Both of those things are better when shared.

But I had to absorb everything myself, and I can feel it swirling inside me. I couldn’t properly explain to my friends back home all the ways in which living in a foreign place can really get to you. I don’t blame them. It’s hard to understand how seemingly small stuff drive the nail in the coffin sometimes. The love between us is still there though. The distance my moving created has made us distant, is all. I don’t know how to fix that from so far away. People are busy living their life and I am currently simply not in it. There is only so much beckoning I can do and unreciprocated attempts I can make.

Of course I’ve made new connections here as well. Mostly with other imported folks, I will admit. I hesitate to call them friends because our relationships remain shallow and tend to fossilize. Not to sound like a bitter hag, but I suspect it’s because most have partners to do their more serious emoting with. And the Milanese, well, they’re a lot like other big city peeps - smiles are buried under layers of bitch face. I’m like them, we understand each other. And so we don’t talk to each other much. It’s the rules.

But if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? If a weekend goes by and I don’t see a soul, am I alive? Increasingly it feels like, no, I’m not. Even when no one is there to hear it, I’m falling. I want to have someone in my space, breathing, living. I need a creature to exist with. My demons don’t seem to cut it, as of late.

Thankfully, I have creatures, right here in my house. They won’t join me for a spritz any time soon and our visiting arrangements are pretty laissez-faire, but when they’re there, they’re there for me.

First, there is my dog, George. I introduced him as a melted puddle on the floor in my previous post, but I left out that George is a shared custody dog, a child of separated parents. I watched our puppy grow big for two years, then saw him driven off in the back of my ex’s car for a year of traveling around Europe. Thankfully, George is back in my life now. Every few months me or my ex travels to wherever the other might be living at that time¹ to drop George off to stay with the other for the next few months.

When he’s with me, there’s the clickity clackity of his nails on the tiles. There’s that stupid paw licking thing he does in the morning that wakes me up. The silly sound he makes when drinking. He is clingy by nature and wants cuddles, and so do I. When he's mopey, I cheer him up with a walk. When I'm sad, he consoles me with a headbutt to the face. (Lovingly, of course. George is a lot of things, but gracious isn't one of them.) I look at him and love and gratitude come easily - and I’m not really about that life, usually.

Then, in the months of George’s absence, I was blessed to be frequented by the orange mass that is a semi-stray cat who I’ve named Mr. Chonkers, for obvious reasons. He is fat and can be picked up, which suggests pet, but he is also always kind of dirty, which suggests stray. He might be one of those communal cats, owned by none but fed by all. Goals, honestly. He appears and departs as he pleases; his visits, in turn, please me.

Surprisingly, Mr. Chonkers likes me also if I don’t feed him. I give him water, pets, and the bed to sleep on. In, even, because I’m terribly allergic so I’ll have to change the sheets anyway. In the most cat way, he enjoys taking naps on the dog bed. I once gave him some of my cereal milk and in return, he let me pick him up and bury my face in his fur. It was terrifying, of course, plus I had to take a shower after. But I think we both felt loved.

Glancing over and seeing an animal sleep peacefully in my presence quiets my heart no matter how I’m feeling. Feeling their warmth and hearing them snore, seeing their comfort under my care: that is all I need from them. Learn to love the act of loving and you won’t need much in return.

Of course I’d love to live with all my friends on a big farm where we moonshine liquor and bake pastries and do pottery. Or live all together in an apartment complex in the city where we throw parties and exchange wardrobes and mess around with dates. And still do pottery, duh. And if I would find someone who can make me feel comfortable and loved under their care, I’m here for that too.

But the comings and goings of George and Mr. Chonkers showed me that ultimately, all you can do is give love whenever you can. It’s a game of catch and release. So it is with the people in my life, be it lovers, my close yet distant friends, or the new shallow acquaintances. I can only hold them briefly, gently, lovingly, and let them go again whenever they wish. Let that be enough.

1. Like I said, laissez-faire. As long as it’s somewhere in Europe.