Backseat Vacancy

Graphic by Isa Renée

At five years old, I developed an inexplicable fear of abandonment. Nobody was sure how this started; overnight, it seemed, I began panicking about my parents’ whereabouts whenever we were apart, convinced they had concocted a plan to leave me behind for good. I began to check their backseats each time they were about to leave the house, convinced that I would find piles of luggage that they had carefully prepared for their impending departure. Soon, the stomach pains that accompanied these attacks became so severe that I couldn’t eat. This continued eccentrically for about six years, until the day I unwillingly went to a child psychologist. To her, I confided my fears; she asked if I had ever been traumatized, or correct in my suspicions. My answers were no. To this, she shrugged, telling my parents, “It’s common, it will pass with time  …  ” 

In those moments, my separation anxiety was a monster that swallowed me whole: I was certain that the last time I had seen my parents was goodbye forever, that they would settle in another suburb or in the south of France. Perhaps they would have a new daughter, one that was more normal, self-sufficient and level-headed than me. Worse than the anxiety itself was its persistence: No matter how great the relief of seeing their faces again or of finding their backseats empty, I could feel an attack returning the moment they alluded to going somewhere without me. And though irrational, my worries highlighted a piece of me that was far more burdensome and undetected: a phobia of loneliness. 

Being alone can be sacramental; we become one with ourselves, our hobbies, our passions, our annoyances, all because we are released from the binds of our social facades.

2020 showed us the universal aversion to being alone. To many, the word itself conjures up feelings of sadness and images of emptiness. At my part-time waitressing job, I often find myself creating elaborate stories about the lone patrons for my own peace of mind; perhaps the man who dines unaccompanied has a happy and healthy family at home waiting for him to finish his sunny-side-up solitude. I should be ashamed of this; it is impossible to determine another’s happiness from witnessing a likely well-deserved moment of solace. Furthermore, so what if they don’t have someone expecting their return? Being alone can be sacramental; we become one with ourselves, our hobbies, our passions, our annoyances, all because we are released from the binds of our social facades. As an introvert, I require and devour alone time. I am alone as I write this, content and intact. The epidemic of loneliness, on the other hand, is a distinctly insurmountable beast, one who thirsts for the rich and poor and ugly and beautiful. It is fed by the easy detachment that the digital age provides. If nothing else, we are united by the beast’s attempts to consume us. It’s one of life’s most cruel ironies. 

Loneliness is, of course, subjective; some can only go hours without company or entertainment before feeling socially deprived, while others can go months without feeling anything. In the forced isolation of 2020, I realized that loneliness is not a feeling, but an act of reflection; it is driving on the hometown streets that I once knew so well, beside an empty passenger seat that once held and protected someone who is no longer there. It’s looking at pictures of my roommates from a concert in Brooklyn, mere weeks before lockdown would begin. The camera was disposable, as were the rest of our plans for the year. We danced in blissful oblivion of the world’s imminent dimness. Soon, we would be forced apart. My trip to Spain would be canceled, my three-and-a-half-year relationship dissolved. And there I was, five years old again, my stomach pains reminding me that it is possible to be left behind, to feel betrayed by time. But I was not swallowed; though maybe not whole, I was enduring. It was then that I realized my fear was never of loneliness, but of not cherishing my company when I had them. I was not desolate, but envious of my past self for having the words to comprehend those moments’ worth, and angry that I had held them in. When intimacy is robbed, how do we know that our mere togetherness was enough? 

Perhaps there is comfort in the inability to know for certain that we cherished a moment in its passing; we simply survived it together, a small moment in an endlessly random universe.

I’ve come to terms with the wanted and unwanted solitudes of adulthood as though they are a fateful diagnosis. Home is now seasonal; childhood friends have new companions who will bear witness to their ascension into the “real world,” and I will not. We are all busy and in a hurry. We have learned how to hurt each other. Consequently, there is something to be said about the melancholic beauty of loneliness; what else can force us to appreciate what is left? What else awakens us from the lethargy of the days that bleed into one another? It would be impossible and suffocating to love intensely out of fear, fear of loneliness or unappreciation or the ambiguity of what is to come. Loving can be retrospective and tacit. Cherishing can be quiet — a solitary breakfast, a disposable camera, a passenger seat. Perhaps there is comfort in the inability to know for certain that we cherished a moment in its passing; we simply survived it together, a small moment in an endlessly random universe. It is difficult to be reminded that togetherness was once a choice; but still, I chose you, and you chose me. Someday soon, we will be close; I will find myself dancing among Brooklynite strangers again. And for my sake, that is enough. 

John Donne famously wrote, “No man is an island, entirely of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.” It is impossible to contain people, to always check their backseats. In the forthcoming year, I hope that I leave these fears behind and begin basking in the beatitudes of loneliness. I hope whoever is reading this is, too, at peace in the seclusions they carry. Whoever you are, wherever you are, I hope you aren’t afraid of them. If you are, don’t worry: It’s common, and it will pass with time.