nikan.

The older I get, the more I understand how important alone is to me. I love waking up to a quiet home. I love walking around in whatever I feel like wearing at the moment. I love watching the shows I want to watch, when I want to watch them. I love doing what I want to do, when I want to do it, without any interruption or distraction. Alone also suits me because I have a lot of anxiety. Phone calls from my parents sometimes increase my heart rate. Study group with my classmates is sometimes overwhelming. Going out with my friends sometimes feels like torture.

I made elaborate plans for my birthday, and decided against them the longer I thought about the socializing it would require. But that same weekend I’d initially planned to celebrate, I went to a dinner party where the only person I knew was a magical Black girl I met on twitter. I went to brunch with a friend that always has the right words, and open arms, and two of his friends. Then I spent my Sunday afternoon at another friend’s apartment, soaking up so much love I almost burst. I enjoyed every single moment of it.

Navigating my own psyche is a treacherous task. When I am overwhelmed with emotion, I write down my smile/tears/frustrations. That forces me to face myself, and to try my damnedest to understand. Yet and still, nothing is as satisfying as knowing that someone knows these amazing/terrible/wonderful things about me, and either relates or empathizes. But the more I seek out safe spaces, the less I actually find them.

My boyfriend knows things I will never tell my mother. My college friends know things I will never tell my grade school friends. I’ve shared stories with women in my new home that I will never share in my hometown. But the heavy things that are sacred and have changed who I am, have been shared in their entirety with one person. Over one hundred people wished me a happy birthday, yet the only place I feel safe enough to unload is with one of them. I want to say that’s wrong, but is it really? If that openness is reciprocated, and I am able to leave every conversation lighter than I entered it, what exactly is the problem? For me, specifically, it is the people that demand a seat at the table. It’s the phone calls that ask for updates on your life, but offer no real emotional support. It’s the implied authority that years of knowing someone gives people. It’s the unsolicited judgment from people that don’t know what makes me happy. The problem is when anyone feels entitled to an all-access pass for my life.

But this morning, I woke up to a voice I believe belongs to my great-grandmother saying, “If you do not take care of what you have, you will lose it.” I thought immediately of my apartment and my car, which could both use some attention. Then I thought of my personal temple, and the ways I’ve neglected its well-being. But right now, I am thinking of the relationships I neglect both purposefully and inadvertently. Right now, I am questioning whether losing some of them would actually negatively impact me. Family aside, I can count on one hand the ones I cannot afford to lose.