I

’ve always been told I’m an extrovert. Funny how 
you can be told something but not believe it yourself.
Typically, we think extroverts to be energized 
by social interactions to the point where they crave it 
constantly. And I do think this of myself. I love the feeling 
of being surrounded by friends, the room buzzing. Because 
of this expectation to fulfill the role of the extrovert, to be 
“on” 24/7, my perception of being isolated has been warped.
This summer, I spent many hours baking in the 
living room of my apartment in Hamtramck without 
air conditioning. It was just me, my guitar and the oddly 
specific poker decor leftover from the previous tenant. I 
started to go crazy, finding any opportunity I could to be 
around people, often standing in the corner at concerts 
where I knew no one. 
I quickly learned that just because I was “going out” 
didn’t mean I was outgoing. I felt ashamed that I wasn’t 
living up to my societally-ordained title of Extrovert with 
a capital E.
When I read Olivia Laing’s “The Lonely City,” 
everything clicked. Her part-memoir, part-art history 
lesson examining what it means to be lonely surrounded 
by people opened a part of me I never knew existed. We 
as humans want to combat loneliness because of how it’s 
stigmatized: Lonely people aren’t getting out enough; 
Lonely people are longing for someone to talk to them; 
Lonely people are just plain sad.
I finished this book at a back-alley restaurant in Pristina, 
Kosovo. No one was sitting near me. In that post-finishing-
a-book glow, I realized valuing myself by how many people 
I know doesn’t hold a candle to valuing myself by how well 
I know me.

Wednesday, September 4. 2019 // The Statement
4B
5B
Wednesday, September 4, 2019 // The Statement 

BY MATT HARMON, 
LSA SENIOR
T

his summer I learned to love silence. 
Coming from New Jersey, you could definitely 
say I have a large and quite talkative personality. 
My calm summer days used to consist of the crashing 
waves on the Jersey Shore. However, I spent the summer 
in Burlington, Vermont, surrounded by beautiful lakes, 
mountains and a quiet peacefulness. I liked the views and 
the countless Instagram opportunities, but I truly loved 
the way that setting changed me. 
Hiking on mountains alone with the sounds of nature 
became my safe place to just be me. Lake Champlain 
looked the same in person as it did on a postcard, reading 
my book as I watched the sunset over my picturesque new 
home. The silence was so present that it was loud enough 
to drown out my own thoughts — the type of mental reset 
everyone needs from time to time. 
Over my summer, those peaceful moments were the 
times I stopped to embrace and appreciate the here and 
now. I became a kinder person to myself, my peers and the 
earth. I became a better listener to myself and my friends. 
It’s like at first, the silence of Vermont helped me to clear 
my mind. By the end, that same silence was what organized 
my mind. 
As my summer in Vermont came to a close, I realized 
my newfound love for peaceful quiet did not have to leave 
when I did. Silence was not my Saturday hikes or a gentle 
lake. Silence was the clear mindset I could push myself to 
seek out and maintain, even in the hustle and bustle of Ann 
Arbor.

E

ating disorder recovery: a love story
I’ve been asking myself lately if I’m ready 
to start writing again. I can’t tell you how 
many times I’ve opened the same notebook and 
stared at the same blank page, daring myself to just 
write. Not for a grade, not for an audience, just for 
myself. I just couldn’t do it this summer. 
The few pages of writing I have from the last few 
months are jumbled and incomplete. Cursive turns 
to scribbles and lines and dark circles of ink where 
I let the pen bleed. So much has been torn up and 
thrown away. Most of it was never written.
This isn’t a love story about writing, but it is a love 
story about truth. This summer I learned how to tell 
the truth. I learned what it means to be honest in 
ways I hadn’t known were possible. I learned how to 
vocalize what I’d known for a long time. I was always 
lying through my teeth: to my parents, to my friends, 
to my doctors, to myself. I didn’t want to be sick or 
a burden. I didn’t want to be harming myself, and I 
certainly didn’t want to be attention-seeking. But I’d 
been staring at blank pages for so long that I didn’t 
think I could do it anymore. Honestly, I could have, 
but it made for a better love story to somehow admit 
the truth.
If you have no idea what I’m talking about, that’s 
OK. If you do, maybe you’ll know how hard it is to 
recover. Maybe you know how broken you feel 
looking in the mirror. How much strength it takes to 

turn down one more drink or to just eat the burger. 
But even beyond the constraints of an eating 
disorder, maybe you know how much the truth can 
burn on its way out. It is so hard not to end every 
conversation with “I don’t know.” It is hard to love 
people. It is hard to mend mistakes you’ve made over 
and over, and it breaks me to admit I’m scared. 
The truth is, I’m healing. I’m learning how to 
write again. 
I’m also stronger than I used to be — less fragile. 
I’m more whole. I’m getting to know myself again, 
and I’m trying to find the right words to say that.

BY HEATHER TORKEL, 
LSA SENIOR

BY EMILY STILLMAN, 
LSA SENIOR

Summer 

love stories

PHOTOS BY DANYEL THARAKAN

