Note: Please be aware that I am doing a lot better now! This was just so… raw… that I felt compelled to post it here.

So I realized an uncomfortable truth over the weekend, while we were off doing our own things– and I did mine, and it was great; I saw and old friend and we caught up in years. But the problem surfaced itself when I went home alone to an empty house. 

I played a video game, then went to bed. I talked to no one.

When weekends were talked about I kept interjecting “that sounds fun” and maybe hinting at wanting to be invited in the future. In one case, I received an “It’s not your thing.” To which I countered that the event we were going to was also not my thing, but was proven wrong with the frequency of which I went. He conceded that point.

But then I got to thinking of two things: Why was I trying so hard? And what do I even enjoy any more? What is my thing, anyway?

For the latter, that was what put me in a funk all week.  I know I’ve been in a loop of trying new things, an endless search of finding more of what I like, or what I used to like. I know what I like (sushi! sci-fi! chiptunes! writing!). I know what I do (like, my job, and sleeping in, and drinking way too much tea). I also know what I like to do and what I would like to do. And yet I feel so driftless. Because… if any of that is me, or just things I like to do? Is there a difference? Should there be?  Those few years I was becalmed really messed me up. Because the things I like now– are they genuine, or just stopgaps to keep the sadness at bay? And like the damaging habits I created to protect myself, do I need to discard them?

The real answer, as always, is a bit more complex than that. The things that kept me sane whilst becalmed are valid; I just need to apply them in a healthy and fun context. I realized I stopped writing poetry because I was tired of being in pain. But there are other things to write stanzas about, like this beautiful dream I have that’s worth living. I need to do these things not in the context of escapism, but the creativity it’s supposed to be and catharsis when necessary. 

But.

Why was I trying so hard?

The non-eloquent answer is, frankly, that I’m lonely. I wish I was invited to things, too. I wish I had more to do that aren’t solitary pursuits. And I wish I wasn’t so petrified of reaching out to people and I was more of a conversationalist and was interesting and not so scared.

When all was said and done that Saturday night, it was just me, Xenosaga III, and Pokemon GO. Not a message received (but I didn’t reach out, either). No one dropped by (but I haven’t invited anyone yet, either). My nearest and dearests were out of town, and the majority of my friends have moved away from this city or were otherwise busy (or so I assumed). 

I grew too used to being alone. But now that I’ve felt that it didn’t have to be that way, the slide from solitude to loneliness is acute.

I need to do what they’re doing– reaching out, making plans, being a little brave. But it all seems so hard.

The only thing to outgrow are these chains.