As the Flowers Bloom | ✓

loneliness: an attempt to explain

I wish I knew what it was like to not feel lonely.

It's no different on the other side. Being surrounded by people doesn't mean you're not lonely. Being loved doesn't mean you're not lonely. It's like a sickness, an epidemic I cannot rid myself of. I wish I could kill the loneliness in me as easily as I could kill every other sin: If I am prideful, I can be brought low. If I am lonely, though? There doesn't seem to be a cure.

The only way I can stave this off is by choice. Sometimes I choose to be alone, so I know I can escape loneliness for a little bit. When I choose to be alone, I am not lonely.

So sometimes I resolve inwardly to stay away from people. I open the blinds of my window. My cats come in and stretch out on the carpet, where the slats of sunlight warm the floor. I make my bed and put away my schoolwork. And I put on acoustic music and do something silly and domestic, like organizing my closet or windexing the baseboards. There is a basic pleasure I am convinced everyone feels in visibly cleaning something that was once dirty.

And when I resolve to be by myself, I read a book. I don't worry about checking my phone for text messages or the time passing. I lose myself in these words that I didn't write, so they are new to me. 

I have a secret: I write so much for others because I wish that someday, someone will write for me. Although no one has yet, sometimes I pretend that these books are written for me. These stories were meant to wrap around me, to tug me into their worlds, and to take me away from being the lonely alone girl. They transform me into a southern belle or a girl on fire or an orphan out on the streets. Books are adventure; books are oftentimes better than life.

And maybe the person I am in books is who I truly am. Maybe who you truly are is who you truly want to be, but you just can't figure out how to get there yet.

Because who I am is someone who is sick of being left here. I know people care about me, but the doubts whisper in my head: They are annoyed at you. They are tired of you. They wish you weren't here. They hate you.

And they drill and drum and beat in my head whenever I see the slightest evidence of them. I am lonely, I am lonely, I am lonely. It is a disease festering inside of me, and sometimes I have to give myself a break from it. So I eliminate any chance that I may be left alone by choosing to be alone.

I shower with scalding water that is a degree away from hurting. I shave my legs, I slather lotion onto my body, I comb my hair until it is silky smooth--and again, this basic carnal pleasure in the simple actions quiets my mind. It's not that I enjoy the act of shaving. It's that I can focus on it. Afterwards I turn on a lamp so my room is basked in a warm glow, and I read poetry and pretend to understand what it means. I finally look at my phone before I go to sleep. If there are no messages, I text the person I love goodnight and for an hour stare at the ceiling and wonder why I am so tired inside. If there is a message, I feel a little guilty for ignoring him; but I wonder how much trouble it was for him to text. I wonder if he hastily texted out of a duty, or because he wanted to be in contact with me.

You're not thinking reasonably. I know I'm not; that's why I need a break.

And again, there's that ever-present temptation to destroy myself. To set fire to every bridge and watch them burn and numb every emotion while everyone is trying to get to me. I am lonely, and in a way, I guess I want to punish people for leaving me. Even though it is not their fault. Even though these thoughts, these sick emotions, these tormentors are in my head.

I am afraid one day I will destroy myself. I will cut all of the relationships that bind me together, and I will one day walk down the street with nothing to identify me, and I will leave. There is something intoxicating about the idea. Let's go on an adventure where every moment is a surprise--the idea is incredibly tempting. I cannot be tied to anyone. There are no relationships to hurt me. It turns out that people are the deadliest weapon against you.

Did your heart break?

Does your heart break now?

My heart breaks all the time, but I think I am the one breaking it.

Or am I? 

If someone loves you, are you supposed to feel lonely?