You asked when I felt lonely - I answered, almost always.
I feel lonely when I’m with you, on the couch, talking about fun or funny things or about hard, sad things and we aren’t touching. Touch from someone known and loved makes joy more joyful and pain more bearable. It makes a space feel safe to me. I feel lonely when we watch a movie and I feel the absence of your hand or arm resting on me.
I feel lonely in the middle of my work day, even with the company of the dogs (though they help, they are my anchors in each day), devoid of human connection - in the house I feel alone. I look to my phone, where my friends live near and far, and pop into chats full of funny dog videos, or relatable content for a millennial woman - share laughter with my friends. I check the community boards of my membership groups and connect with gorgeous, creative souls the world over on expansive, generative, spiritual, intellectual topics in chat threads. Each connection a small spark, but not enough to sustain a fire in me.
I feel lonely in the night - alone in bed in the dark - unable, at times, to sleep. I long to be held together, arms wrapped around so firmly that my seams no longer strain. Once, in high school, I felt myself held in the hand of God - curled up in his cupped palm - a transcendent, embodied experience.
These longings to be touched, seen, and held are also longings to be loved. To feel valued and worthy of the time and attention of those I love, admire, and respect. Even as I’ve grown into confidence of self (for I can tell myself these things now) - a melancholy remains - a longing for The Other.
You asked if I feel lonely when I take my many drives, almost always alone - I answered no. The drives have felt purpose and meaning. They are meditative, restorative, an escape from the suffering rather than suffering itself. The drives feel like solitude. There is an important distinction between loneliness and solitude. One depletes and the other gives. Solitude is a gift, a respite.
I said I thought the other side of loneliness is hope. Hope for connection: physical, intellectual, emotional, spiritual. Connection drives my relationships, yes, but also my art. I make art to connect with others. Sure, others seeing my art helps me feel seen, but what really drives me is to create that experience for others - to contribute the kind of magic in the world that comes from encountering a piece of art - a zine, a photograph, an illustration, a handmade sculptural piece - and seeing yourself in it: unlocking deeper knowing and understanding of yourself, or others. To transcend the corporeal forms that separate us and shift into oneness of spirit - to feel “I am not alone. Someone else has felt this too.”
This is why I write, make art. This is why I nurture, this is why I listen, observe, talk, touch, reach out. I find the divine in these spaces - in those moments when things become blurred between ‘you’ or ‘I’ and there’s a felt sense of closeness we can rest in together. This is what I hunger for when the loneliness comes.
I said it felt like a companion. You suggested perhaps that’s its intended purpose - not something to wish away. I admit, when I heard you say it I didn’t want it to be true. Loneliness is melancholy on the precipice of pain, sometimes slipping into suffering. But - on further reflection, I think you’re right. Without this quiet companion haunting me, where would I find my drive to reach out, connect, create, and seek out ways to love the world well? It’s not unreasonable to wonder if the loneliness is in fact a mystical intervention… a reminder that so many of the thin spaces where I’ll brush up against Divinity are in the context of connecting with others.
