Being hyper-independent isn’t a flex

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.

I love Josh Johnson’s stand-up comedy. Besides being funny, his sets are timely and relevant. He puts out a new one every week, which leaves me in awe of his creativity.

Meanwhile, I spent the past six days wondering what topic to tackle in this essay. See, the posts I most love to write are those I know in my gut I need to. A spark shimmers inside and grows brighter the more I poke at it. Words begin to float around. Once they become sentences, I have no choice but to sit down and let them loose on the page.

The writing I care deeply about always starts like this. With a seed that blossoms to the point where I can no longer ignore it. Which is usually great. It’s how I know that the topic is worth mulling over and the writing may be good, at least by my standards. This time around, I had a problem.

The spark ignited, but I kept trying to put it out. Make room for something else. Come up with a passable dupe.

Because I very much don’t want to write this.

*

One of Johnson’s recent sets was about the recession.

He includes funny anecdotes about the dollar store, falling into a pool, and something living inside the walls of a house. All diversions come together beautifully, and the main idea is quite simple: the only way to survive hardship is to build community.

If you and your neighbor watch out for each other, you have a better chance of pulling through difficult times. If you want to find your tribe, you have to make an effort, because people tend to respond positively to that kind of energy.

Above all, he argues that you have a better shot at building said community than becoming a billionaire. So maybe that’s what you should focus on?

As a hyper-independent girlie, this gave me pause. Not because I ever thought I could be a billionaire—I write for a living—but because community and I aren’t a strong match.

It’s a topic I’ve been thinking about a lot lately.

*

I’m an only child. I don’t believe I’m selfish, but I’m protective of my time, stuff, and space. I’m used to taking care of my own problems, and I find asking for help uncomfortable.

That’s putting it lightly. The sheer act of asking for help makes my skin crawl.

When people do help me with something, I feel indebted to them, even when I know they expect nothing in return. That’s annoying to me, given that I’m happy to lend a helping hand with zero expectation of that person returning the favor.

I don’t keep score, so why is it so difficult to believe that someone else might operate the same?

I don’t have a good enough answer.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been around for a bit, and I know how most people operate. Our society promotes transactional relationships and makes unconditional help seem out of the norm.

Being a cynic is my default setting, and I often have to fight that urge with everything I’ve got in order to maintain some faith in humanity.

Maybe it’s due to the fact that I struggle with confidence, and I don’t always believe I’m worth being helped.

Or maybe I’ve watched House M.D. too many times and internalized the main character’s skepticism. Kindness comes with strings attached.

Whatever the reason, asking/accepting help puts you in a vulnerable position.

I’m willing to contort myself for potentially pleasurable results. But emotional vulnerability? It’s one pose I struggle with.

*

For a long time, I took pride in my hyper-independence.

I love that I can take care of myself. I know how to make myself laugh and motivate myself and soothe myself and put myself back together each time I crumble.

You’re on Your Own, Kid is one of my favorite songs.

Cel Mai Bun Prieten is another, a Romanian tune about how the narrator’s best friend is herself. When I heard the artist live a couple of years ago, she said she hoped no one in the audience felt the way she did when she wrote it. I took offense. I knew that my overly independent ways were a defense mechanism, but I wasn’t ready to accept it.

I remember watching the boyfriend I had at the time fix a cupboard door in my kitchen and realizing it was the first time a man had done something like that for me since my dad passed away over a decade ago. It was nice.

With him, I tried to take off my armor and overcome my fear of relying on someone too much. As a chronically single girlie, letting people in requires a learning curve. He wasn’t the right guy, so it didn’t work out. However, it gave me hope that I may not be a lost cause.

I don’t want the next time I open up to someone to be my autopsy. Unfortunately, I’m also not the best at making connections.

I’ve had acquaintances confess I come across as “cool” (never) and unapproachable (lol).

In reality, I’m just awkward while wearing black.

*

My parents had community. People used to rely on each other more under communism. Resources and entertainment options were scarce.

I’m lucky enough to be close to my extended family and indirectly benefit from their network. Over the years, I've gone through tough times, and I would have been worse off without their emotional support.

But I haven’t managed to extend that network too much on my own.

I’m an introvert who enjoys solitude. I work from home. In the past, I let friendships fade when they became too tricky to maintain. I’m not proud of this, but I have a suspicion that I’m not alone.

This past decade, I’ve noticed that self-care has become synonymous with putting yourself first no matter what.

While I agree that you should bail on toxic relationships and shouldn’t let others walk all over you, it’s impossible to build community without occasionally being inconvenienced.

Attending that function you’re not in the mood for. Making small talk when you would rather chop off an arm and hit yourself with it. Allowing others to do something nice for you and performing small acts of kindness yourself.

Going to the funeral.

For hyper-independent folks, all this may not come naturally. I hadn’t noticed I’d become more isolated until I lost a big freelance gig last year. Suddenly, I had all this free time on my hands to pay attention.

Before, I worked long hours. At the end of the day, I only had the energy to doomscroll and feed myself. I was perpetually distracted by social media, television, and shopping for things I didn’t need.

We live in a time when it’s easy to virtually keep in touch and challenging to do it in person.

Why knock on someone’s door to borrow an egg when you can have one delivered in under an hour? Why call a friend to see how they’ve been doing when you can watch their Instagram stories? Why organize a brunch when you know that everyone is exhausted from working all week, and coordinating schedules will be a nightmare?

Some people thrive when they’re at the center of an intricate web made out of others. They’re open, chatty, supportive—and being vulnerable doesn’t make them physically recoil.

I’m not part of that select group. Even hitting publish on this post makes me feel exposed.

But I’ve been trying.

I’m still struggling with work, so friends paid for my drinks, and mom helped with my bills. I’ve talked to strangers, to various degrees of success. I’ve made a couple of online buddies I cherish. I’m better at keeping in touch with my extended family. Once I’m ready, I’ll give dating another go.

It’s a slow process. I’ve been a feral black cat for most of my adult life, and I can’t transform into a friendly golden retriever overnight.

Hopefully, I can become a tad more domesticated.

As Josh Johnson puts it: Your future is your neighbor.

If you fall on the hyper-independent spectrum as well, that’s something to think about.

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Photo by David Bartus