The following post I wrote in early 2016, in a particular mood resulting from a particular time and experience. It does not reflect my normal state, nor a state which I tend often to find myself in. But part of me writing this blog is striving to be genuine to myself. If this were a normal journal, it would be over because I’ve already written it. But this is a blog and, having written it, I felt like it ought to be shared. Nothing of note happened this week and I think enough time has elapsed. I mean no disparagement to the friends and family I hold very dear. I simply reflect on my personal experience as an individual often alone, rarely (but occasionally acutely) lonely. Anyway, here goes.
Who do you talk to when you’re lonely? The first people that come to mind–close friends, confidants, parents, siblings–are out. If you felt like talking to them, you wouldn’t feel lonely, would you? I’m an introvert, distinctly so, and I don’t often feel lonely. I once saw a little comic explaining introverts and one frame said, “Often alone, rarely lonely.” And that’s very much true for me. But sometimes, usually in the evenings, often when watching a show or reading a book with a particularly poignant friend moment, I’ll feel a low ache in my chest. Perhaps cry a couple tears. Sigh. Lie awake.
It’s unfair to my friends to say that I lack a solid friend relationships. Because my friends are the absolute coolest. They outshine other friends by many units of whatever scale it is that measures the brightness of stars. Sorrynotsorry to everyone else’s friends.
But still. Every once in a while I’ll get a feeling that I can’t shake. That I lack the quintessential ‘best friend.’ Or even the non-quintessential one. There are a variety of things that go on in my life and I’ll think, “Ah, I need to share this with X.” A funny quote (or a depressing one), a conversation, a feeling, complaint, or joy. Other things, though, I’ll think, “Ah, I need to share this with….” and no one fits the bill. It’s not that I need to share everything with someone, necessarily, but that I want to be able to share anything with a particular someone. Maybe that’s a byproduct of my voracious consumption of story-media. In stories, there’s so often the friend character that the main character knows is the one. Their relationship isn’t perfect, but it’s clear. And when they’re upset late at night or excited about good news or just bored and want to chat, there’s no hesitation. It’s obvious who they’re going to call. Maybe it’s my own inadequacy in not knowing who to call. Maybe the people are actually there and I just can’t see them properly.
Then there are other lonelinesses where I know who I want to talk to, but they’re thousands of miles away and electricity is an insufficient parody of real life-to-life contact. Sometimes the distance, the pixels of written words easily deleted, makes communicating hard things better, softer. But other times every mile is like another fracture in an already tender heart. And it’s not homesickness exactly, but an alonesickness that strikes, perhaps, even deeper.
I don’t know. Probably these words won’t make it to my blog. But I’m writing them all the same. Sometimes the only person I can talk to when I’m lonely is myself. And so I’m here, writing. Writing words that can’t take away the hurt, but can soften it. Make it intelligible. Baring darkness can be painful and scary, but it can also be a release. A freedom. And even if I never publish this, having real words–at least, pixels on a screen–is a way of revealing. Sometimes loneliness is crushing, paralyzing. And here, even though I’m still alone, I’ve summoned up another spirit of myself to talk to and for now, that is enough.