I am an only child born to older parents, my birth circa their early 40's--it's a miracle my mother survived the ordeal considering her petite stature and my fetal weight. Most of my time spent with peers was in school, at church, or at the park. Regardless, I spent countless hours playing and entertaining myself in my room, alone, with my toys to the extent that my stuffed animals became my friends, and protected me from vampires when the lights were turned off. But that is inconsequential.
If you've ever lived alone, you might find yourself having conversations in your head, often saying the same things many times over, or recalling the same memories or people until you find something else distracting--like sitting in front of a wall. The only response to your call into the abyss of human absence is silence. Consequently, you start to intuitively know yourself very well and become comfortable with me, myself, and I.
Topics that would normally suggest, yield or require discussion become monologues. It is very easy to become close minded and trapped in the room that is your isolation. It isn't that a person in this room keeps everyone else on the other side of the only door in, it is more that no other human is sitting on the carpet with you, sipping tea, as a matter-of-fact.
There are a lot of stereotypes about only children. But I have found that their independence means being unafraid to be alone. For some people, the absence of a loved one (or potentially another person in general) feels like a piece of your world is missing. For me, my world was never missing a piece to begin with, it was simply fuller when others were around. It is easier to cope with absence when solitude is something you have known your entire life.
This blog is a dialogue presented in monologue. A dialogue about an only child, young Buddhist woman traversing American life while not compromising her many identities. Sometimes I wonder how I'm doing...
