Walkabout
In this four part series, Good Men Project columnist, Taylor García explores the male loneliness epidemic, and how we might make better connections with ourselves, and others
The memories fall into my head like little, unexpected shooting stars. I’ll be zoning out on a conference call, when a snippet of walking along the Avenue of the Dead in Teotihuacán outside of Mexico City will flash into my mind. I’ll be struggling with my kids’ behaviors, and I’ll see a glimpse of the breathtaking waterfalls at Foz do Iguaçu National Park in Brazil. Or when I’m feeling a little off in my relationship, I’ll transport to the Pyramid of Kukulkán at Chichén Itzá.
These are some of the priceless memories I still carry with me after the trip of a lifetime I experienced this past summer. I had the distinct privilege to take a six-week sabbatical as a fringe benefit from my employer. Six years of service yields six weeks of paid consecutive leave. It’s a thing co-workers spend an inordinate amount of time discussing amidst the grind of our commercial enterprise.
I also had the ultimate distinct privilege to experience part of those six weeks alone, backpacking through Latin America, something I’ve always wanted to do, but never had the chance to.
I received support from my family to take the solo trip. I’m forever thankful to them, how they allowed me to march ahead on my own, while my wife and kids continued on their own adventures. This separation came at cost I’ll get to later, but what I experienced during those four weeks alone was something of an epic. A deeply personal odyssey. A mental and spiritual walkabout.
I was in Puerto Escondido, Mexico, the dreamy coast of Oaxaca state, when it truly hit me. I was alone. No one was watching me. I could do whatever the hell I wanted. And so I did. I walked the beach at dawn, then made a huge serving of eggs and fried potatoes, sliced mangoes and a pot of coffee at my apartment literally steps from the ocean. I wrote for hours, then went for jogs on the beach and swims in the ocean. Late night, I walked down to Punta Zicatela to eat tacos and drink mezcalitas.
It was a lifetime, wedged into five days and four nights, but instead of living like a peaceful, happy monk as I had intended, I fell into some old ways. My high heights plummeted into deep valleys. I suddenly didn’t like myself. The therapeutic alone time had become a toxic loneliness. All the things my therapist had taught me about self-compassion and letting go of worthless rumination drifted out to sea.
I had to course correct, and fast, and so I referred to the handout my therapist gave me about cognitive behaviors. He taught me how to recognize the thoughts, urges, and negative self-talk that can quickly form into maladaptive behaviors, and how to “play the tape forward” in order to correct.
Within those days living in paradise, I devoted significant time to doing some intense psychological work to bring myself back to the real paradise: liking and loving myself alone; being comfortable with being with myself.
And that, hombres, is one of our quintessential challenges as men: can we be truly comfortable with ourselves when we have that precious time alone? When we are alone, are we longing for others because we don’t want to be alone, and if we are, how can we achieve best friend status with ourselves?
Once I did the work to rescue myself from the self-induced funk, I felt lighter, ready to fly. Looking back, it was one of a few times on that trip where I had to dig deep in order to fly higher. It was all preparation for what was to come: reuniting with my family, which, wasn’t easy—for them or me. Old ghosts returned to haunt. Attitudes and moods were stirred up. What was once a good idea to travel separately, was not so much upon return.
But that’s for another time. For now, whenever I’m alone and need a friend, I think of that man I met on my trip. The person who helped me when I needed it most. That man was me.
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This Post is republished on Medium.
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Photo credit: Unsplash