October 2nd, 2012 by louise50
Loneliness. A physical pain in my chest and stomach. A sense of privation. Others have what I never will. Makes me do crazy things. Like launching myself into a relationship with a psychopath who showed me a little affection. I have friends, but never enough to keep the wolf from the door. I have a severe mental illness. Surely any normal person would run a mile once they find out.
I live alone in a two bedroomed house. A house that was designed for two or three people to share. Sundays are particularly empty. In the week I have places to go and people to see. I’m so scared to face myself. With all my cowardice. All my folly. And this dread of the future. Of growing old like this.
It doesn’t take long to describe loneliness. It takes far longer to experience it fully, and it isn’t for nothing that solitary confinement is a punishment in prison. It’s a slow-acting form of torture. Sometimes it just gets into my bloodstream along with the depression and I find that wherever I go, whatever I do and whoever I’m with, it just doesn’t go away.
We humans were not made to live alone. Were not made to be alone. Were not made to be alone. These words echo around the walls of my empty house and empty life. Full of ghosts, devoid of warm, living, breathing humans. Don’t tell me to get a job, a hobby or some more friends. I’m already doing the best I can. And I won’t always feel this way. It comes and it goes, but it always comes back and the message is always the same. This is wrong. Being born into a separate, individual identity is wrong. Unity is everything.
I would be far happier being a leaf on a tree or an animal, limited by instinct but not alone. Alone makes me do things I later regret. There is no permanent cure. It is loneliness, even more than depression, which will finally kill me. Though the two often come together, like a pair of conspirators.
Whether happy, sad, connected, or cut adrift I want one thing and one thing only. To be finally released from this torture chamber that is my own body and my hated separate identity. I’ve tried so hard, no one could have made more effort or recovered from more setbacks, but I will never be comfortable in my own skin. I’m needy and desperate, an outcast, I don’t like myself and have difficulty accepting that anyone else could like me.
There is no happy ending to this story. But thank God the end will come. And I can be absorbed back into the Universe, leaving no trace of this existence ‘I’ hated so much.