Alone or Lonely?

I remember distinctly the first time I felt lonely in the big city. 

It was San Francisco, 2015, and as I familiarized myself with the route to and from my home on Jackson & Columbus to Market Street, I couldn't comprehend how I felt so lonely, so isolated, and sad at being by myself when I was surrounded on all sides by people. 

Short people, tall people, big people, small people, there was always someone out and about on the streets of San Francisco.

See, I've always been comfortable with being alone, because being alone is a choice, but this was a different feeling entirely, this loneliness.

I guess this is common in the city though. It's said that cities can be the loneliest places to live, for the opposites of being surrounded by people and still feeling this sense of seclusion is strong. 

Everyone around me is busy with themselves, their lives, and I've encountered many an occasion in which I attempt to smile, or compliment a stranger, often to be shut down or looked at strangely.

Since moving to California (again), I've once again become all too familiar with the feeling of loneliness. Loneliness is this sensation that feels like I'm shrouded in the thick folds of the Invisibility Cloak. It's often only understood by the lonely one and it feels like my body folds in on itself and burrows deep in sad realization that I feel I am utterly and completely by myself in this world.  

I know I'm not, and I know I make the conscious decision each and every day to allow myself to feel this way, but it nonetheless consumes me at times. 

It's especially difficult in an unfamiliar setting. Though it is month two of my move, I'm still trying to find my footing, trying to make new friends, and be as caught up in my journal as I can. I know that these are the steps I need in order to move forward and not let the loneliness take over. 

As easy as it feels sometimes to just wallow in self pity, I know it’s not good for me and my growth. 

I know the difference between being alone and being lonely, I just have to make the choice that loneliness is not an option.

See, I think I've been looking at this from the wrong perspective. 

Sure, I don't have an intimate relationship with a significant other. Sure, I haven't found a solid friend here who really gets me and listens to me. Sure, I'm without the loving purrs of my cat, but you know what I do have? Me.

Being lonely is classified as being "...without another person and you are sad and unhappy as a result. We may choose to be alone, but generally we do not choose to be lonely."

That being said, it's about time I looked at my situation and accepted that I do have a fulfilling relationship: my own. 

As rupi kaur so wisely puts it in her new book:

if I am the longest relationship

of my life

isn't it time to

nurture intimacy

and love

with the person

I lie in bed with each night

Society makes it seem like loneliness is a bi-product of being single. But I am surrounded by so much more than this expected idea of a significant other. And though it hurts at times to lie in bed and cry myself to sleep over the fact that I haven't really experienced intimacy with someone else, I also know that someday, when I do eventually meet someone, I'll hopefully be full, complete, and I'll know exactly who I am.

And I'll have accepted that living alone is perfectly fine, and loneliness will be a distant feeling. 

It’s a work in progress, obviously, but I’m looking forward to that day. 

A Future Full of Writing.

Last night I lay in bed and had the overwhelming and uncontrollable itch to write.

Like a natural coping mechanism, my mind went to work forming sentences out of the myriad of thoughts swimming around in my head, trying to make sense of the many things troubling me.

Of which there were many.

There was the obnoxious voice of a downstairs neighbor who obviously didn't realize it was midnight on a Tuesday and that people were sleeping, or trying to, in my case.

There was heartbreak tugging at my conscious, the realization that I might be losing one of my best friends over an over-reacted response to a cancellation.

There were the forgotten keys of my roommate that woke me from my slumber, to allow her access in.

And then it was all tossing and turning, with the eventual lull of my silent weeping that I fell asleep, a lullaby of sniffles and wet cheeks.

But there was one situation in particular that put me in an upset state in the first place, and it had to do with someone of the male varietal. 

I can say this in confidence because I know for a fact he does not read my blog, but this particular creature has been playing games with me for the past few years. Leading me on, saying all the right things, promising possibility, all tried and true scenarios that have left me frantically in search of my journal as my thoughts begged to be on paper. 

It was during last night's texting that I finally let it sink in that he never really had the intention of following through. He could talk the talk, but was never able to walk the walk. It stung, as rejection always does, and in between my blurry blinks, I wrote with a fury I was all too familiar with. 

As each day goes by, as the disappointment of the male species continues to sink in, and as more situations pop up that warrant excessive entries in my journal, I realize that writing is my future. It's been my past, it's in my present, and I cannot imagine a future without it. 

In this particular case, and like almost any other case, I write because it's my way of healing, being my own moral support. Since moving here, I've found it difficult to confide in anyone, as I'm not exactly surrounded by good listeners. I have so much to say, so much to ask, and no one to share it with (except Mom, who's always just a phone call away!).

When I'm not writing, I'm constructing stories in my head, blog post beginnings, and my fingers itch to get ahold of a pen or a keyboard. It's the strongest feeling I've had in awhile and if there's one constant, one comfort in this turbulent and whirlwind ride, it's that I have the ability to write about it. 

In the above instance regarding this male individual, it reminded me of my wise and forewarned journal entries I had previously made, of which I had so prudently ignored. 

It took a couple read-throughs of past entries for me to come to terms with the fact that I had it right all along, that this guy was an arse and that I deserved better.

It also made me appreciate how quick I was to write it down in the moment, as I try to do (when I'm not two weeks behind in my person journal, like I am right now...). It's in the heat of the moment that it matters most, and I can now confidently look forward to a future without this peculiar man (really he should be called a boy).

A future free of boys who look like sunshine but are the reason behind tear soaked pillows and devastated journal entries.

Instead, let it be a future full of writing