I’m a lonely person. And I’ve been lonely for upwards of about a decade now. At first, it just manifested as lonerism, as Tame Impala might say. But as time went on, that loneliness wove itself into the very fabric of my personality. It became so integrated I began to identify with it on a fundamental level rather than simply acknowledging it as an emotional reality.
In the beginning, I liked loneliness. I think I confused it with depth, with a strong sense of self, with solitude. I am, above all else, an intrinsic person. I contemplate my existence more than I should. I analyze my behavior more than I should. I critique my ethics and morality more than I should. I’m just drawn to soul-searching. I like learning who I am and why. I always have.
Thus, when I would get lonely as a young teenager, I enjoyed it. It wasn’t that I liked feeling isolated, but there was a certain satisfaction that came with being the Charlie Brown in the room. I was alone, misunderstood, living under these expectations that I was the storm cloud raining on everyone else’s parade. It was my thing, my gimmick. I was the pessimist, the voice of cold, hard reality. That’s not a healthy thing to enjoy, but I did enjoy it.
So when I first experienced loneliness on a profoundly unpleasant scale, I was taken aback. Before, if such sadness got too intense for me, all I had to do was find something comforting and I’d be golden. I would listen to music, read, watch a movie, visit a friend, or, if possible, I’d go some place I loved, some place pretty, nostalgic, or inspiring.
One day, a little over six years ago, my life changed completely. I can’t begin to explain what happened or why it affected me the way it has, but I don’t know that it really matters at this point. Now, there’s a lot of backstory here I won’t be able to go into for lack of time, but basically, this is what happened:
I was attending a wedding with my family and I saw this pretty girl. She was walking along, hand-in-hand with her significant other, and I was suddenly struck with the heaviest emotional sensation I’d experienced up to that point in my life. I could physically feel that emotion. I remember the vague nausea ever so clearly.
To date, I couldn’t definitively tell you why I had this reaction, but I did. What’s worse is it didn’t go away. I’d experienced extreme letdown and sadness in the past, as everyone has, but before this, the unpleasant nature of such feelings would dissipate in the morning. Not so this time around.
I tried all my regular fixes for such despair, but literally nothing helped me, nothing alleviated my mental state. It wasn’t until about three or four days later that I started to feel okay again. And from that point on, it was like the dam had burst. This was my life now and, unfortunately, I would learn to (sort of) get used to it.
Fast forward through the days and years that followed. Depression took hold and I made my slow descent into the bottomless pit of despair. If you were to talk to me or observe me during this time, I doubt you would have noticed how dismally lonely and sad I was.
Most of the time, I was functional, but every few months I would have another breakdown. And each time, I broke just a little bit further, then a little bit further, then a little bit further, until finally, I broke to point where I thought I might be beyond repair. I’m still recovering. Or trying to recover, rather.
This loneliness, this depression, it devoured my soul for years. I learned to live with it, even when it crippled me, but one day, as I rode my bike down a relatively steep hill on my way home from work, a rather disturbing thought presented itself to me.
“I could just turn real sharp into traffic right now,” I thought, “and all this might be over.” And then I realized this problem is far bigger than I’d believed it to be. I could see that thought play out and I could feel the release and it scared me.
Now, I don’t really want to get bogged down on this point (perhaps another time), but it’s important to know this to understand the gravity of my main purpose here today. So bearing all this in mind, let me address what I came here to address.
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I’m a creative. I love writing, singing, photography, film, and what have you. I work in many mediums and genres, but there is a common theme that underscores much of my work (and certainly most of my best work): loneliness. At the heart of most of the projects I’ve written or conceptualized is this melancholy longing for connection, for hope, for love, for a place or a person to call home.
This has been eating away at me for a few months now. It’s one of my deepest fears. The thought of it is enough to send me spiraling in an epic tailspin, going down in flames faster than I thought possible. I’ll stop stalling now. I’ll just say it.
What if my loneliness is a prerequisite for inspiration? What if I need to be depressed to create? What if, in order to do what I love, I have to hate myself? What if I need to be tortured, self-destructive, and broken? What if I need loneliness in order to be who I am? What if happiness will take away the very thing that let’s me write and dream? And would the tradeoff be worth it?
I don’t know the answers to any of these questions and that terrifies me. Maybe they’re completely irrational questions, but the fear of them is my reality right now. I’d like to end on a more hopeful note, but that wouldn’t be honest so I’ll just leave it here for now. Maybe I’ll be more positive next time.