In 2023, I thought a lot about loneliness

Published on 10 December 2023

My sister is worried about me. I know that because she just sent me a text. “Just ringing to check in as I’m worrying about you.” I missed her call. 

I haven't spoken verbally to her this year but we’ve shared the occasional, ‘how are things?’ ‘Yep, fine’ texts. 

I’m staring at my phone, with my heart in my chest. Buzz, buzz…. She’s calling again. Buzz, buzz… It’s not a surprise – two nights ago she’d warned me she was going to call. 

But I don't answer. Not because I don’t want to.

I really want to. 

I just can’t.

This essay is about what it’s like to be affected by loneliness. Despite writing these words, I typically have nothing to say, even to my little sister.   

Loneliness is a black hole. Generally, it’s not obvious and you often can’t see it – in yourself or in others – until it’s too late. And then you feel its immense power acting on you. Loneliness is indiscriminate in its taking. It takes your ability to love, your capacity for joy, and your motivation for doing stuff you used to find pleasure in. Every day, I feel I’m less of a person than the ‘me’ of yesterday.

“You’ve lost your spark, Rich,” my friend Patsy told me last week. I nearly proposed to her a lifetime ago, back when my spark was bright. It’s not just lost now, I’ve forgotten how to re-light it. 

Loneliness has changed my perception of self worth, connection and place in the world.

I have difficulty creating and sustaining relationships. I don’t understand social cues or rules. As a child, I was a loner. I spent most of my childhood with one friend and a computer – one of whom I heard tell people that if they weren’t friends with me, who else would be? 

Today, in adulthood I can only carry a conversation in a maximum group of 3 – any more and I shut down. 

In a recent visit to an AA group, I confided that a part of the reason I used to drink almost every day was so that someone would say, “hello, how are you?” to me when I walked through the doors of my local. 

A group member approached me afterward and gave me a hug. It was the first physical contact I’d had in months. It was a lovely gesture. I’d opened up, I’d been treated with kindness but it was too much. I cried when I got home and haven’t been back there since.

When things are difficult, I’ve found that it’s easiest to push away, hard. Even the most wonderful people in my life. Claire. Rich and Verity… I don’t know what happened, but one day I woke up and started to push away, ignoring your attempts to find out why. I’m sorry. I hope you’re all ok.

It’s been about 5 years now that I’ve been without any form of close connection. There’s no one to process the day with, share a joke with, or develop a shared interest with. Not having people to confide in, mull stuff over with, be comforted by, makes any conflict in my life so much harder to process and let go of. 

In February, I ended up in hospital. Because, of course, life without an outlet will inevitably reach breaking point.

I’d gone to my local for my daily post-work drink. I sat alone in the room designed for socialising once again. I read something on my kindle app as had become my routine. But that evening in February, Grace the barmaid came over and crouched down next to me. “You don’t seem your normal self today. Is everything ok?” she asked. 

I find this sort of emotional intelligence astounding. We’d only ever exchanged pleasantries before then and the closest I’d ever allowed myself to get was to learn their name. 

“Don’t worry. This is just my resting happy face,” I responded. I’d got good at deflecting – I’ve got a lifetime of experience of it. 

But that night, back at my flat, my heart twisted and screamed so uncontrollably I was convinced I was experiencing a heart attack. All I could think was: I am going to die alone. Forgotten, loved by no one. 

As many pivotal moments are, it was excruciating both physically and emotionally. But at that time, my spark was back. I knew I didn't want to die. I needed help.

I dialled 111 and they told me to go to the hospital.

The next day, my GP signed me off work and within a month, I had virtual appointments with the Hertfordshire WellBeing Service (NHS). For an hour, every fortnight, for six weeks I’d be given an outlet. 

Things are starting to get better. 

With the NHS, and a local addiction charity, I’ve been working on lots of things. One of which is developing my sense of connectedness in the world, re-establishing the idea that I do belong. 

Getting better is hard work. For the first time in years, I’m leaving the house up to three times a week and instead of going to my local pub, I’m going swimming. I’m not quite interacting with people yet but I’m learning a new skill and practising putting myself in uncomfortable situations. 

And the necessary uncomfortableness to get better isn’t just about splashing about in my speedos – it’s about the tough emotional stuff too. Slowly, I’m trying to start doing things again, to build interests, develop new skills, find things which bring me joy – all to start loving myself again.

Only when I am comfortable with myself, and who I am, do I think I’ll be able to start making new connections, and maybe fixing ones that I’ve pushed away or neglected too. 

It’s going to take time. 

Sis, I’m sorry I can’t open up right now, this is why I couldn’t pick up when you called. Please don’t give up on me. I’m working on getting my spark back.