It’s creeping in. The loneliness of single life is starting to rear its head. The realisation that this is it. For years and years ahead of me. Just me and my laptop. And my overactive mind. With occasional glimpses of happiness when I have the girls.
It’s so tempting to say fuck it and run back to those arms that are still so desperate to hold me. But deep down I know it won’t help. I’ll still be lonely. And unhappy. Because that’s how I felt in my marriage and that’s why I left. Out of the frying pan and into the fire maybe.
On New Years Eve I ignored my phone and walked. For two hours, avoiding people, hiding away in abandoned areas of the town. It was my last chance to finally end this.
But the sun was shining, the sea sparkling in its reflection and the world looked too beautiful. Despite everything I could see that. So the razor blade stayed in my bag and I took pleasure from the burning blisters on my feet instead, reminding me I could still feel.
It didn’t stop the tears though. They continued to pour out of me like a broken tap. But the respite of a couple of hours with the girls helped before the loneliness of my first new year alone kicked in properly.
I tried not to think about it. Just another night. Nothing special. Only interrupted by messages of love and happiness for the year ahead. By those who already had it. Who have no idea.
And then rudely awakened by fireworks. So many fireworks. Each bang reverberating through my delicate skull. Painfully reminding me that I was still here, still alive to see in another year. Too many new years. Too much sadness.
None of my so-called friends contacted me to check I was OK. The few that know. I remember taking a mini bottle of fizz round to a friend one new year when she’d just been dumped by her new man. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone and that someone was thinking of her on the loneliest night of the year. But no-one was thinking about me.
I’ve come to expect that now. I’ve never had friends that are anything other than fair weather. The thought of having someone to turn to and talk about how I really feel is so alien that when my ex starts spending time with friends I assume there’s more to it than support.
I am so used to my own company and dealing with this shit by myself I wouldn’t know how to open up and ask for help anyway. And therein lies the issue. I can’t communicate or talk when things get tough. I hide it away inside me, letting the anger and hurt eat away at me like a cancer. But never asking for help. And letting relationships fail because I am so critically unable to utter those crucial words that admit I’m fallible. And not as strong as I make out.
I will soldier on through it, becoming stronger with every strike, becoming weaker by the minute. So pathetically weak I can’t even end this misery. And the overarching loneliness endures.