Table For One
What do you consider dangerous and at what length are you willing to avoid it?
If you’re afraid of flying, then there’s a good chance you’d drive. Afraid of dogs, then I’ll assume you have a cat. Afraid of being alone in public spaces– well, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.
How do you avoid existing? You don’t.
It has come to my attention that this isn’t a normal reaction and, despite the conditions of COVID-19 regulations, didn’t affect everyone similarly. I want to say that this event isn’t what started it, but vigorously pushed it into a serious condition.
The last doctor you should consult when questions rise is Google; 0.42-second results can lead you down a rabbit hole of misdiagnoses and misinformation. However, I must confess this unreliable source is my go-to. Once I realized that I was only allowing myself to go to places out of necessity (the gas station, grocery store, school, etc.), I understood I was limiting myself to everywhere else.
In its less intense symptoms, agoraphobia encourages you to avoid public places in fear of uncomfort, anxiety, or embarrassment (information courtesy of Mayoclinic.org). I never thought this was an issue because I’ve always assumed going out in pairs or groups is normal, but I realized I viewed it as a necessity. It was admittedly embarrassing to come to terms with, and although I knew I needed to do something about it, my anxiety multiplied and denied the request. It was my subconscious belief that going somewhere alone would be dangerous, no matter the place or time—an irrational idea that I tried to make rational.
I’m not directly diagnosing myself either, but I wanted to challenge the length I was willing to go in order to confront my “danger”: three solo dates consisting of a cinema, an hour at a cafe, and a table for one at a restaurant of my choosing.
Behind the Scenes
Second to imagining worst-case scenarios, the scariest part was the preparation. I made reservations in advance and left out any nuances that would allow a change of plans, which meant all I had to do was show up. The question was who I wanted to show up as. I spent hours going back and forth about what true comfort meant for me: did this mean comfy clothes or the attire I express myself the most in? Was I dressing for invisible eyes, or my own?
Eventually, I chose the latter.
It was part of the process of being alone—existing for myself and presenting as myself. Part of my struggle with solo trips was how much I had to feed into my own wants and needs; there was no worry about what someone else wanted, only indulgences I never let myself have.
Despite my choice to be myself in public, prior to adventuring into this “dangerous” territory, my stomach was in knots. Before each date, I sat in the parking lot and had to argue with myself that I wanted to do this. My brain was making this a mission of survival—fight or flight—saying I needed to race back to the safety of my home.
This was no longer a want, it was a need. My brain could no longer recognize what was truly dangerous: removing opportunities without giving myself the chance to experience them.
The Movie Date
I held my breath, nearly swimming through the lobby since I left the safety of my car. I wanted to get in and get out; I didn’t even consider what movie I had chosen and picked something based on intuition. As long as I followed my pre-planned steps: buy an Icee, scan my ticket, find my seat, and enjoy the movie—I would consider it a successful trip. I assumed I would be happy that I forced myself to try despite my anxieties, but I knew how wrong I was the moment I sat down. I wasn’t just happy. I was thrilled to be there.
The room was practically empty—crisp theater air, dimmed lights for one, with the comfort to leave for a bathroom break without brushing against someone’s feet. I sipped away at my Icee, obnoxious sounds from my straw with no one to annoy. It felt like a rented event where I got to sit in V.I.P. seating and (the best part) no one else showed up. Suddenly, I wanted to preach to all of my friends and family to experience this for themselves; I was overjoyed to be alone. In fact, I liked it so much that I ended up buying another solo ticket for the week after.
I left the theater very pleased with this newfound discovery and asked myself the same question my movie had: what truly matters in life? Why is life worth living?
My fear of loneliness had consumed me, so much so that I couldn’t exist by myself or for myself. I was able to acknowledge this and prove that these “dangers” were unhealthy “what if” wonders that drove me into fits of shadowed self-doubt. I knew I had trust issues but I was starting to think that this broken trust was with myself and not others; even when I beat this stage of my day, I realized it didn’t get any easier for the next round.
An Author’s Cup of Coffee
The Barnes and Noble parking lot didn’t get any special treatment compared to the theater’s lot. I was a sweaty, panicking mess that wanted to call it quits. My movie entertained me for 2.5 hours; however, now, I had to entertain myself for at least 1.
This date was especially important because I have always dreamt of it being a routine; being paid to write and travel while I sat in a nearby cafe was one of those “author fantasies” that you either saw on T.V. or a big name writer talked about while writing their New York Times’ Bestseller.
So, there I was, bracing myself to walk inside B&N and sit at the Starbucks cafe, only to meet the meanest mug staring my way. They adorned this tense frown with furrowed brows, giving me an evil eye as I walked by and I couldn’t help but laugh; my reflection was intense. It’s more likely that strangers would be scared of my perceptions of them, not the other way around.
Even when I sat with my back achingly straight, often looking in the reflection of my document to make sure no one was peeping over my shoulder, enough time passed by that I felt safe to write. I discovered a community of writers had frequented this place and their keyboard clicks gave me a push to create my own tune, a continuous writing streak that never fell short.
When I sit at home, I write a paragraph and reward myself with social media. Here, I felt like I had to at least look like I was working. It didn’t have to be good, I just had to go for it; bad writing, good writing, as long as I was matching my pace with my elders, I was satisfied and busied with the hour I spent.
Although it was uncomfortable for the first half hour, I didn’t want to lose out on these opportunities. Realistically, I could have hated it! I would have never known if I didn’t force myself to step into the “Danger Zone” and into the real world. There may even be a chance that I’ll be still uncomfortable the next time I do this but the problem lies with not allowing myself to do it. To live such a boring and miserable life, for me, is to cut out the fundamental part of what makes it great: experiencing and learning new things.
Table For One
This was the moment I was leading up to and I ruined it.
My lunch plans were thrown out the window because a single cup of coffee made me feel too full. Showing up wasn’t enough this time– I’d have to return home until it was dinner time and I knew that that was my biggest threat. The moment I got home, I ached to stay. Crowds accumulated in my mind like a restaurant of worries; I kept imagining myself in the corner of a pizza joint, watching the flow of hungry traffic as I sat alone. Nausea started to settle in my stomach and the caffeine had made me jittery.
I stayed that way for hours, distracting myself while I cleaned. My home was tempting me to stay for the rest of the afternoon until night. Excuses of refrigerated leftovers and a freshly made bed had invited me to join, “It’s safer here than it is out there”. Though the outside world had earlier proved itself, it could not give me an absolute.
Mid-clean, my frantic fingers picked up a lone vile of essence oil. I popped off the cap, the smell of salted lime let me travel back in time. A simple memory I shared with my mother had given enough energy to stir:
Baja Fresh earned a landmark in my heart during grade school when my mom had surprised me during a school day to take me to the theaters, then to enjoy a stroll until we ended up at this small establishment. We always got the same thing: plain quesadillas with sour cream, guacamole, drenched in lime juice. This concoction paired well with the mixed cheese inside soft tortillas and– yes, nothing beats real Mexican food– but the nostalgia of this memory had made my mouth water. There’s comfort in thinking about those times, a scene that looks less like danger and more like a warm hug.
Once I arrived after a long drive of restless hunger, I soon came to the conclusion of how I felt eating at a table for one: dreadfully boring. This wasn’t the same fuzzy feeling that I enjoyed when I was younger but a water-down snippet I will soon forget. There were others, like me, alone and full from their meal like this was a daily routine. Maybe they enjoyed this in a way I couldn’t, packed in the corners of the restaurant with their phones in hand.
For me, I came to terms with the fact that meals are made to share, to connect, to enjoy in the comfort of others. Even though I had accomplished the task of eating alone, it wasn’t for me.
Which brings me to my discovery that I can leave the house in pursuit of my hobbies and I will be uncomfortable every time I decide to take that action. There is an unlikely chance that I will unlearn this fear anytime soon, if at all, and that’s okay. I must work towards that goal and fight myself to accomplish what I believe to be “impossible”; I want to live through the uncomfortable parts if that means I’m able to discover the beauty underneath.
The person that I’m meant to be will never be found hiding under the rug of my bedroom floor, but under invisible eyes who watch me exist “dangerously”.
