An Abominable Sort of Conceited Independence (Part 2)

Independence is a kind of freedom that becomes addictive; one that, over time, you start to guard jealously – it is dear to you because you’ve worked hard at it, often conquering inner battles to reach a level of self-confidence and laissez-faire you never thought you’d achieve. Sometimes, your independence is all you have to define who you are.

The first time you venture to do something on your own – go to the movies, travel, see a gig – it’s a daunting experience; you feel exposed and vulnerable, unsure whether you’ve made a wise decision. You imagine the whole world is watching you, tsk-tsking at the poor, lonely soul with no friends. But surviving that first experience and realising no one noticed nor cared that you were solo gives you the courage to do it again and again. 

I have a wide social circle but despite this, on many occasions over the years my options have been to either miss out entirely or go it alone. So, after a few disappointments, I decided I simply didn’t want to miss out. I got used to doing my own thing, I even started to enjoy it and, dare I say, prefer it? 

I’ve felt emboldened by the liberty of coming and going as I pleased, sometimes on a whim, without having to give account to anyone else or wait for somebody to be willing and able to join me; without needing anyone to come along. I started doing things, and acquiring things, as and when I wanted. And why wouldn’t I?

Well, apparently this lifestyle doesn’t sit quite right with some people. It seems that living my life without having to give a second thought to anyone or anything else makes me somewhat selfish. Being able to spend my money on just me makes me inconsiderate. And filling my abundance of free time with fun and interesting activities makes me egotistic. Even having an abundance of free time somehow makes me culpable. And let me tell you, anyone who doesn’t have such freedoms will not spare you their thoughts about your independence.

Being independent is a habit, a muscle-memory toned through repetition and persistence. It’s like driving a manual transmission car - you travel your road without too much thought, absentmindedly shifting gears as required, focussed on getting to your destination safely. Because you have no choice but to become autonomous, you get good at it, you might even get a little smug about it; it’s easy to forget that others don’t always have quite the same possibilities. Is this a fault or a consequence? 

My friends have always been a vital source of support when either my physical or mental wellbeing have taken a hit. Likewise, I am always available to them; they know they can rely on me in any situation. There are things I’m hopeless at (moving house, for example, is sure to cause a meltdown) or procrastinate on (tedious Medicare claims!). But I’m well into my forties now and have spent most of my adult life single and living alone. I’m so accustomed to my independence that it is difficult and even disconcerting to admit when I do need help. This is not because I see it as a weakness but because being independent is my strength. And, frankly, I’m not prepared to apologise for it.