When Love Gets Lonely
These thinkers approach, but then pull back from, the spiritual dimension of loneliness. They understand that the ego yearns for release, seeking it most commonly in the surrender of loving relations. But when this vehicle comes up short, they do not recognize that our disillusionment is an opportunity to rethink our approach to happiness. If we only look outside ourselves, we remain blind to our capacity for inner fulfillment.
The spiritual teacher Jack Kornfield, in his book A Path With Heart, tells a story about his battles with loneliness while training as a monk in Thailand. For a long time, Jack was besieged by sexual longings in his meditations. Embarrassed, he asked his elderly teacher what to do. The old man told him to simply observe his longings. Jack worked hard at this, applying what is called bare, or nonjudgmental, attention as fantasies filled his mind. Slowly, a feeling of loneliness emerged. His lust was not only lust but a way of seeking closeness.
Jack continued to observe his inner process. He realized (like Kyra) that his loneliness was tied to a childhood feeling of insufficiency. There is something wrong with me and I will always be rejected, he found himself thinking. He recognized this as a core belief about himself, but instead of closing down around it in self-pity, he applied what he had learned from his training in mindfulness meditation. By neither holding on to this belief nor pushing it away, he opened to it in the spirit of acceptance. Slowly but surely, disturbing emptiness gave way to clear space. The lonely feelings persisted, but they were stripped of the quality of "poor me."
Kyra was not as self-aware as Jack, but she was able to head down a similar path. In therapy she realized that she was an expert in closeness, having learned how to weave herself into someone else's space in order to make that person happy. "I know how to put someone else first," she told me proudly, with a trace of exasperation at her husband's inability to do the same for her.
"You don't want to feel second, yet you always put the other person first," I pointed out. "What would it mean to put yourself first instead of waiting for someone to do it for you?"
Kyra began to question the assumptions that had been running her relationship. She wanted to feel important to her husband, but when she felt lonely, her trust in him began to crumble. "Can't you feel lonely and be important to him at the same time?" I asked. Kyra admitted she had never thought of it that way, and then had the kind of breakthrough that makes me happy to be a psychiatrist.
"Feeling the loneliness is being close to myself," she said softly. I could feel a new level of self-acceptance taking hold. If she didn't allow herself to feel lonely and tried only to be closer to her husband, she could never find herself.
This insight stopped her from turning disappointment into depression. It broke the connection between loneliness and low self-esteem that had been forged years ago when she struggled for her mother's attention. Kyra had taken her loneliness to mean she was flawed. By staying with the feeling a little longer instead of rushing to an old judgment, she opened up other possible meanings. Her husband might ignore her at times, but she could be close to herself. There was excitement in this discovery: Aloneness uncontaminated with self-pity is very fertile. Now she had time and energy to focus on something other than her husband. And although she was not very practiced at this sort of "selfishness,'' she was ready to learn.
Mark Epstein is a psychiatrist and the author of the book Going on Being (Broadway Books).
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