being alone.

I’ve realised something. Something it took me a while to learn. A lot of chocolate and tears and “dear diary why doesn’t he like me back” moments to figure out. But I did. Finally.
And it’s that, being alone is good. Being alone is healthy. It’s something every person needs to do.
But being 21 and single, people occasionally lament at the amount of time I spend alone. And I’ll admit it. At times, spending nearly every Friday and Saturday night either alone or babysitting gets you down. A self-depreciating joke that causes that little twang of pain.
But being alone (and slightly bitter) has been good for me. Because somehow, somewhere along the extremely long timeline that is my singledom, I developed a healthy self-esteem.
It’s almost like I fell in love, with myself. I got to spend time learning my strengths and my flaws. I realised that I can be occasionally funny. That I have a really bad temper at times (my family sometimes call me Frank Costanza). That I will procrastinate the flip out of cleaning. That I love tea more than I love some people. That I need banter to survive. (I also realised some more profound and in depth things but those are also more “dear diary” moments).
I realised that I am unique.
Bit late on that specific epiphany I know. What I’m trying to say is that I realised that I am a very specific person with specific likes and dislikes. With my own set of quirks and foibles. We all are. It’s something that I already knew, but I never really appropriated to the idea of relationships (or lack thereof).
I am a specific person- a unique individual (as the cliche phrase goes). I am who I am. And I’m proud of it. I’ve stopped second guessing myself, or changing myself to fit the situation and saying what I think they would want to hear. I’ve fallen in love with myself, and I won’t take anything less from anyone.
Because I am myself. And I like her.