I never much liked my own company as a teenager. My own company meant throwing my hand down my throat, crying to Rihanna songs and writing about boys who didn’t like me back in my diary. It was a bleak ol’ scene.
And as I got older, that never really seemed to go away. I revised with my friends, ate dinner with my friends, felt hungover with my friends, had art work days with my friends, went swimming with my friends, had sleepovers with my friends, drove around for hours in my car with my friends. I liked to be surrounded by people always, maybe because I didn’t like the things my mind was capable of when left to its own devices. I liked the distraction, the constant adventure, and the sense of always having someone there to catch me, if life got too much.
And it meant that I relied heavily on other people for my happiness and state of mind. You can imagine that cool, chatty, fun girl who was secretly harbouring an I’M SO CLINGY personality trait went down wildly with the boys. Lol.
I am a people person. I like conversation. My favourite Friday nights are the ones with a handful of well selected people, some pizza and a large barrel of wine. I am, as someone who likes to label people would say, an extrovert.
OMG and I like organised fun. Like, I really like games whilst drinking wine and eating said pizza. Oh man, I am a hoot to be around on a Friday night, just sayin’.
Anyway, as I’m typing this and reflecting back on my personal journey of y’know, being a mentally saner person over the past few years, I’m understanding exactly why I struggled a little bit with the whole full-time blogger thing at the beginning.
I’d moved away from London and people and office-work and my security blanket to live with an introvert (hey Chris, love ya boo) in a place where I knew no-one. A place where there was no-one to hold me up and keep me talking so that I could refrain from losing myself to my own head.
I had time to actually get lost in the little alleyways of my brain and no-one to pull me back out again.
The gist of this tale is that over time I have learned to handle myself. I have taught myself how to be alone for up to 12 hours at a time without falling apart into tiny pieces and needing coercing out of bed. I have learnt to thrive on my own. To feel like a sassy, confident woman who doesn’t need nobody else to support her and hold her up.
(I mean, I still don’t like going to bed on my own because omg all the noises and all the people definitely 100% trying to break into my house).
But I love my own company. I love making my own decisions and being my own boss and being in charge of my day, of doing things the way I like to do them. I love not having to ask permission or check in with anyone else. I love, well, I love being alone.
But in healing myself and my head, and allowing myself to embrace being Hannah without leaning on other people has come with a side effect I wasn’t expecting: I hate people.
I mean OK, I don’t hate people. I don’t hate you (*waves*). I don’t hate people at the end of texts or on the phone or through Twitter or Whatsapp. I don’t hate people when I’m grabbing a quick coffee and having a catch-up or going for dinner.
I love having little snippets of people. An evening out with friends here and a long cake and tea session with people there.
But for anything more than a couple of hours of real-life in-the-flesh time, I hate people.
Hate maybe being too strong a word. I just kinda feel uncomfortable and anxious.
I hate not being in control, not being on my own and being in charge of my daily itinerary. There are obviously a few exceptions, a few people who I could spend an eternity with and not contemplate locking myself in the toilet to hide. And not all of these people are old pals, people I’ve known since the sun and the moon formed, some of them are new people who I just instantly click with.
But is this a self-employed person living away from people she knows thing? Or is this a growing up thing?
Is THIS the real reason our parents never really seemed to have all that many friends? Because gah, interacting with people is the worst and who really has the energy for that?
I hope no-one is taking offense to this. I’m aware I may be coming across like a vulgar monster that would be better off spending the rest of her days in the sewers without sunlight or conversation. But I’m just, well, slightly less easy going than I once was.
I feel most inspired and motivated when I’ve had quick coffees with fellow internet people, but there are very few places I’d rather be than on my sofa with Chris, the cats and a sea of blankets. It is my safe place. My calm place. The place I can be most me.
Anyway, I’m harping on and unsure if this makes any sense. But, as always, I’d love to hear if anyone understands what I’m talking about or nah babes, get in a hole.