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The unexpected virtue of being alone
2 months ago · · Stress, · Explicit
I’m sure I’ve had a lot of good nights in my life. I’ve been out with friends, taken girls home, had some laughs. But they all fade in my memory. The nights I remember are the nights that were ruined. They were ruined by my family, or my closest friends, or general loved ones.
The night Jodie clung to me in a pub and demanded to know what she had done for me to break up with her. The family dinner with visiting relatives that ended in my brother dragging me (and the chair I was sitting in) down a set of stairs, by my neck. The night my brother threw my father into a table and I had to sit up with him all night wondering if he had had a stroke; trying to remember that stupid symptom acronym from TV. The night I had to come and find my mother because her friends had left her in a drunken stupor – her nails permanently scratching the leather in my jacket in my efforts to keep her standing. I thought to myself then that I’d never forget that image, so vivid, and I never have. Nights spent sitting up on the phone to my father, his loneliness killing me and killing him quicker. Nights by distinctly bi-polar uncle has spent calling me, messaging me, keeping me up with his fascinating insights on the nature of addiction, life, the world, the universe.
How many times have I wondered what it’s like to be alone? I’ve felt alone my entire life, even when I’m with people, even if we’re close. But to be truly alone, would that help? Would that ease this feeling? Is ignorance bliss? I’m starting to feel like having no one would be an end to obligation, an end to pain, an end to me taking on their shit and carrying it through the world with me.
I’ve always been happier left on my own. I can’t make relationships work because I’m too in love with my own space. Maybe if I was alone, truly, I wouldn’t feel so alone.