How to cure lonely.

But isn’t that just the thing? There’s no cure for this pit of indescribable loneliness inside of you. Sure, I’m about to try and you got it, procrastinating again. Right now, I’m sat in the library, been here two hours and all I’ve managed so far is how to secretly and quietly eat my sandwich. It’s Sunday. I’ve been at work all day; I’m tired. I’m not sure how long I’ve noticed the loneliness but lately it creeps up on me more and more. How’s that for oxymoronic?

Lonely isn’t something someone should be used to. It’s an introvert’s dream, right? To be alone? Wrong. There’s that kind of alone, where you actually want to be alone and the kind of alone I’ve been feeling for so long where you just wish you wasn’t so alone all the time. I do talk to people. Technically, half the time, I’m paid to talk to people. But, that’s different. That’s not forming a connection with someone, that’s work. Lonely is the fight inside me dying. It’s the years I was told to shut up and stand in the corner, growing accustomed to a phone that never rings, never goes off, never thinks about the girl on the other end. It’s the time I’ve spent watching my friends go out without me because they forgot I was alive or the other times when someone says they’re busy and yet you see their evening out on Snapchat. God, I fucking hate social media. It only heightens the lonely. The wall that you’re there and I’m here and we’re swimming, except we’re not. You’re floating. I’m sinking.

Once in a while there’s a glimmer. A spark of ‘omg someone’s talking to me,’ the rare ‘they like me’ the ‘oh I made someone smile today’ but it never lasts. I’m not saying I’d love to be hanging out with people I loved all the time, though in that regard there’s not a lot so might be nice, but sometimes, just some, I’d love to not be here feeling like I didn’t want to be.

Lonely is doing a three year degree and having no support, no safe system, no safety net. It’s friends who lie and family who only tell you their proud of you once intoxicated. What kind of joke is this? I can count on one hand how many people have told me to reach for the stars, they see my potential, they know how good I can be at something. Not one of those people share the same blood as me. Not one of those people have dated me, or even known me longer than two years. Okay, bar one, whose been on my side from day one. Hey, eyebrows, if you’re reading. And Hannah. You guys have always been there. Well, tried too, I suppose.

I’m not sure there is a cure for loneliness. I was told once we’re all lonely, we’re all searching to be happy. I can vaguely tell you when I was last happy but I’m not sure where to look anymore. My peepholes only have sadness or a lingering feeling of ‘you’re not enough.’ Lonely is trying to talk to people but it feels like you’re reaching out for the stars and your lifeline is cut short the second you leave Earth and you’re all alone and falling, tripping, collapsing, slapping the ground face first.

I’m trying to fill my lonely with words. But even that occasionally isolates me. I’m not in that bubble. I’m the world where it burst. Where this is reality and for now, for a while longer, I’ve just got to get used to the lonely. After all, I don’t know how to feel anything else.

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