“You never realise how lonely you are until it’s the end of the day and you have a bunch of things to talk about and no one to tell them to.”
It’s 10:18pm and I can’t even think about attempting to sleep with all of these thoughts rushing around in my mind.
It’s always okay during the day. Well, mostly.
There are those days where I can’t get out of bed all day. The days where I am so numb inside that I don’t even know if I’m alive anymore.
I want to live. I want to laugh so much that I cry. I want to feel adrenaline pumping through my veins. I want to feel what it’s like be with someone who genuinely loves you for you. I want to wake up one day, 10 years from now, next to my husband and having our kids jumping on our bed before we all make pancakes in our pyjamas and spend the weekend watching films together.
I want to love someone. I want to do so many things, but I can’t.
I’m trapped in between these four walls, in a new unknown place.
I don’t know anyone here.
I reach out to people. They say they’re busy. I reach out again. They cancel.
I tried to let my walls down for someone. They used me and left.
I’m trying so hard. So hard that my eyes are stinging as I write this.
I’m sick of crying.
I keep hearing people say they’ll be around if you need them… But when you do need them, where are they?
I get up. I put my hair into a ponytail and I wash my face.
I put on a nice jumper and some jeans.
I spray some perfume onto my wrists.
I work. I scroll through my phone. I work.
The hours pass, I get back in to my pyjamas, the perfume lingers on my wrists like a constant reminder that no one else has smelt it all day.
It’s Saturday. The last time I was around someone was on Monday.
“No one cares that you’re here” circles around in my head like a song on repeat.
I begin to believe the things I hear, as they are the only things that I’ve heard all day.
Maybe I am the things that those people keep telling me.
Maybe I am unlovable. Maybe I am disgusting. Maybe I’ll always be alone.
I am lost.
I spend my days applying my social media mask onto my face and making other people happy.
“Go out and join a club!” They say. “Go to cafés and meet people!”
When your mind is isolated to the point of believing that there is simply something wrong with you because of the way your life currently is, you don’t even want to go out to meet people, because you feel like they will take one look at you and see you as all the twisted things your head tells you that you are.
Swallowing the lump of anxiety in my throat, I apply my makeup, brush my hair and walk outside.
I walk to the café and I sit there alone.
Everything in my body is telling me to run. Leave. This is pointless. This is embarrassing. Everyone here knows you’re alone. Everyone thinks you’re weird. Leave. Now.
I push through it. I order my tea, making sure I give a friendly smile to the waitress.
She doesn’t make eye contact with me as she writes on her notepad and swiftly moves on to the next customer.
Don’t look at your phone. Don’t look anti-social. Look open. Look friendly.
God, this is so hard. How come people never talk about how hard it is to make friends and meet people when you’re an adult?
I drink the tea. My hands are trembling at this point.
The tea spills onto my hands, burning me. I try not to make any noise so that no one stares.
My hands have turned bright red. The physical pain joins the party with the emotional, and it all becomes too much. I silently get up, leaving the tea behind, and I swiftly walk out of the café.
I’m back in my room. Scrolling. Scrolling. Scrolling.
I compare myself to a girl on instagram with big boobs and a tiny stomach. I decide to get up and eat some chocolate. That’ll make me feel better. Before I know it, the wrapper is empty, and I feel worse than I did before I started eating it.
I don’t know what to do.
I speak to the friendly strangers online. They tell me I’m beautiful and that they love me. I read their comments as though they’re speaking about someone else, because how could someone think that about me? It doesn’t make sense.
My brain replays the memories of the only person I ever loved, to provide me with a sense of company. I re-live all the moments when I was blissfully happy, I remember all the times I looked into your eyes and felt like I was truly alive.
And then I wake up.
I hear the birds outside. I remember the sounds the wood pigeons made when I would ride my bike to school every day when I was 10. I remember coming home to see my Mum had a cup of tea and a few biscuits waiting for me on the kitchen counter. She asks me how my day was, she plays with my hair and I feel completely safe. I’d put my coat on, walk outside to our chicken coop, and look up at the sky.
This was my home. This is where all my friends were. This is where I belonged.
It was now a few days after my 12th birthday. I remember the smell of fish fingers heating up in the oven as my parents sat me and my brother down and told us we were leaving England to move to Australia for Dad’s work. I remember the first time I experienced depression. I remember actively choosing not to speak to my parents or answer them back when they spoke to me. I remember crying into my Auntie’s arms as I was telling her about how much I wanted to stay. This is my home. I don’t want to leave.
High school is a blur.
A blur of being thrown into lockers, being told I wasn’t good enough.
She’s a freak. She dresses like such a weirdo. I literally don’t understand a word she says when she speaks.
I found myself standing in front of the mirror every night. Repeating the words. Forcing myself to have an accent like the girls at school.
It’s now 10 years later.
I spread my wings, I trusted my gut, and I flew back to my home.
But is your home a place, or is it the people that make it a home?
Something I’m yet to understand.
Welcome to my mind. A place even I can’t understand.
I can’t wait for the day that this all starts to make sense.
I hope that day arrives soon.
PS: I’m meeting about 4 new people in the upcoming weeks which should be really lovely. This whole experience is without a doubt the hardest thing I’ve ever been through, and it is a really nice feeling to type it all out there into the open. Although I cried about 5 times whilst writing this, I’m glad that I did.
PPS: If you are the boy who is still checking up on me after you screwed me over and screwed up my head into this dark place, close this page and stop. You’ll never understand what you did to me.
PPPS: Boys are overrated. Pugs are forever.