“Since raising my own 3 children, I have made what I think are significant strides in my ability to be alone: in the daylight, with locked doors, and access to phones...”

Growing up in a big family was a little like being in a litter, especially when I was small. We were all knit together, around and on top of each other, bumping into one another with no sense of boundaries. Surely, there was a grown-up or two around somewhere, but mostly we lived and moved about in kid-space. There was no experience of being alone, of doing something, anything, alone. It was a collective life; there was a kind of soft comforting hum that wrapped itself around those days together—background noise, if you will.

This, I believe, explains my aversion to being alone, or doing things, almost anything, alone. That and there’s the thing about me being afraid of everything, which is inextricably linked to this collective living. There is strength in numbers. There is also “pure utter damn confusion”, as my Uncle Fred, father of 11, would say. With so many siblings, I was usually able to find at least one of them, at any given moment, who would be on my side, come to my rescue, or defend me to my parents.

Since raising my own 3 children, I have made what I think are significant strides in my ability to be alone: in the daylight, with locked doors, and access to phones and/or very close neighbors. Speaking of locked doors, we recently built a home in a small town in Idaho where the contractor assured me that having a security system was unnecessary, that people left their keys in their cars, doors unlocked.

“Nothing ever happens here”, he said.

“Until it does”, I responded.

Recently, I have seen the admonition, “Do something that terrifies you every day” as a way to live life to the fullest. My first thought was, you have got to be kidding me. This sounds like a prescription for misery. But then, upon further reflection, I thought this approach might prove a worthy undertaking for me, and, because it would be so easy, doing things alone qualified.

I should have started small. I didn’t. I decided to take a walk in the woods behind our cabin in the mountains. A cabin, I might add, that I have never spent a night in alone. And that, you can be sure, has a security system, lights that can lead a helicopter directly to it, a dedicated landline and an axe, which I was against, because of course…well, you know why.

I prepared well, left a note in the kitchen, texted my husband, my three children, and my brother-in-law, a former Air Force pilot (he was nowhere near me, but in a pinch, he could make “things” happen).

The trail starts feet from our back door, and I have travelled it more times than I can count in every kind of weather, happily. But now, alone, it didn’t look all that inviting, maybe even a tad sinister. Who would chat with me as I walked? Who would hear me if I screamed? Who would help me if I fell and broke both legs? Who would give me CPR (not that there’s anything wrong with my heart)?

I should probably give you my husband’s take on why I find doing things alone so difficult. He believes it’s not so much that there won’t be someone there to help me, or talk to, or grow closer with by sharing an experience together. No, he believes it is because there would be no one to “throw under the bus” in a dire situation. This is a horrible (and untrue) belief.

OK, maybe there was the time he found me in the backyard, without our son, after going down the hall with the belief that an intruder was in our home. Come on, clearly I was going for help. Or, the time I stepped on him to escape through the hatch of our boat when I believed it was sinking. Again, going for help, I’m the better swimmer.

Back to the forest. I had my cell phone, fully charged, and I took my picture at the start of the trail so that when (I mean, if) I disappeared and my phone was found, there would be a record of my journey; in the movies, this always helps. I took a big breath and began. OK, this is going to be just fine. I moved further down the trail trying to be at one with my aloneness. Maybe a practice of meditation would have helped, but so far I have only downloaded the app, never actually listened to it.

Wait, what was that noise? I am in the Mt. Hood National Forest, all alone, what do you think it is? Well, I can tell you: an animal, probably hungry (for me), or a lost psychopath (same). This was a bad idea. (As a side note, I could still see the houses on my street). I took another photo, not only for the date stamp, but (worst case scenario) also to catch a grainy image of whatever was out there the moment before…..

There were many photos, many date stamps; it was, perhaps, the most documented ½ mile walk in the woods EVER. I am sure it was beautiful. In fact, some of the photos are quite lovely. I’m sure my walk in the woods could have brought insights and comfort, or a sense of accomplishment. But, no, not for me. Being alone, walking in the woods, was agony—all that aloneness, all that anxiety, all those dark imaginings.

I returned to our cabin, my breath finally slowing, and went upstairs to where my husband was sitting.

“I thought you were going for a walk”, he said.

“I did”, I said.

“But you’ve only been gone 15 minutes.”

He smiled. “Would you like to go for a walk with me?”

You bet I would! A long walk in the woods, together; the better to have someone to talk to, and, if need be, throw under the bus.