Last night I watched George Clooney’s recent  movie Up in the Air. He plays a traveling hatchet-man who flies hundreds of thousands of miles every year to reach destinations where he will ruin people’s lives. He measures his success by his frequent flier miles.

He has an apartment somewhere, bare and stark white, which he occasionally visits. He has no friends but is warmly, but superficially, welcomed by airline personnel wherever he goes. His parents are dead, and he is estranged from his sisters. He seems very happy until  he meets his female double –  tall, thin, beautiful blond businesswoman who seemingly lives up in the air and out of a suitcase just like George.

In case you haven’t seen the movie, I won’t ruin it for you. But you can probably figure out that George falls in love and begins to question his self-imposed banishment from humanity. His heart gets broken (which is where the movie enters the realm of science fiction because what woman in her right freakin’ mind would break George Clooney’s heart?) and George finds himself back in his old shoes, alone, unloved and up in the air. He is not happy.I am sure a lot of people watched this movie and thought, what a pathetic, lonely life this man has. I watched it and thought, wow, what an awesome life! Solitude with frequent flier miles! Right on.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where many of us folks with depression differ from you. We want to be and live alone. They used to call people like us “hermits” — but not in a Ted Kazinsky kind of way. I am of the spinster variety. I keep telling my therapist I really like this and am more comfortable alone, and she keeps telling me I am not.

Apparently, my self-imposed banishment from humanity fuels my depression. But the way I see it, being a friend among friends or a worker among workers makes me very, very uncomfortable. I prefer to be alone and I always have. I prefer activities and places that allow me to be alone among others — like an airport.

As a kid I hung out at the library because I loved to read — solitude among others. I began swimming competitively when I was 8 — isolated and uncommunicative in the water among other kids. I aspired to be a writer — solitude and deep personal connection with a faceless reader.

People will tell you they never knew this about me because I am so comfortable at a party or speaking or hanging out. I can do those things and do them well. I can talk and write openly about this most intimate details of my life. But I won’t let you in.

I have tried — usually with men in romantic relationships. It ends badly. I smother, then I want to be alone. I smother, then I lose myself in him and forget who and what I am and want.

After half a century on this planet, I realize I am where I want to be. Alone on a Sunday morning, my dog asleep in his bed beneath my desk, two newspapers in the driveway and a very, very quiet house … and my computer screen.

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From Psych Central's website:
PsychCentral (April 11, 2010)

    Last reviewed: 11 Apr 2010