On loneliness

When I was a little girl, I had an imaginary friend called Madison. I can’t remember why I invented her. Whether it was out of the sheer boredom of being an only child, or if I just needed to put a name to who I was speaking to in my head or out loud when I was alone. 

Madison was a manifestation of my loneliness at that time. Any time things felt too quiet, I knew Madison would always be there, in whatever form I wanted her to take. She slowly faded into the background as I grew up and as my life began to take shape around me.

I journaled a lot when I was a teenager. Madison, like my childhood, was gone, but my imagination wasn’t. I had to write out my thoughts. At first by hand, and then with the invention of the Internet I had a trail of digital diaries all over the place. My first was on Diaryland, then Xanga - those were short lived. LiveJournal became my heartland and then I also used MySpace alongside. I’d chronicle the mundanity of my high school and college days, with a lot of heartbreak woven through, up until I moved to London.

The loneliness of my 20s was mostly fuelled by alcohol. I was brand new to city life, having spent my high school and college years in a dry suburbia. I was trying to make something of myself, hustling and partying hard in equal measure. I worked at a job that I hated (and that clearly hated me back) for too many years, so the only thing I could manage to do was soak my sorrows. 

My loneliness now causes me to spend money. A new dress is just the thing that will make the woman I’ve always wanted to be. That new lingerie will make that man fall in love with me. That therapy session will heal me. That cocktail will make me more fun. That new gym class will give me a reason to get up early. That facial will make me beautiful. Every day, an exercise in making myself a better person. A person that someone would want to invest their time with. 

This loneliness is new. It’s self-inflicted. 

When I split up with my husband, all I could think about was the pain that I’d caused him. Only terrible people can cause a pain this severe. I did this, I thought. I felt myself evolving into a different person in our marriage.

My therapist, as they often do, asks me how I’m feeling. During my separation, I hated to admit how lonely I was, how sad. I did this, I told her. Only terrible people can cause a pain this severe. I’m lonely now and I deserve this.

I like to think that my ex-husband and I still have a good relationship. We have always wanted nothing but the best for each other. We like each other. We’re friends. We’re family. After our divorce was finalised, we met up for a drink - not to celebrate, but a quiet acknowledgement of the official change in our relationship. There was a lot of forgiveness and tears and encouragement and love. Ultimately it was deeply cathartic. 

I couldn’t shake the feeling of guilt that I didn’t deserve to be treated so well. To be handled with such care after causing such a disruption. I did this, I thought. Only terrible people can cause a pain this severe.

When my aunt and my cousin died, my loneliness was a grief of a family that no longer exists. My time was best spent doing damage control and repair work. Making sure that we were doing the things we would normally do - Christmas, family dinners, celebrating milestones. But those place settings cannot be filled. What is lost, is lost.

My loneliness feels like a leak I’m trying to stop up. Each time a crack is filled, another one splits open.

My loneliness is a dull headache that I can’t seem to numb out.

My loneliness wraps her arms around me as we drift off to sleep at night. Sometimes I turn over and look at her there, examining her silently in the dark. 

At least there is someone lying next to me.  

About me: I'm Nicole, the writer of The Noteworthy. I’m also a content creator and the co-host of the award-winning Mixed Up podcast. Having been chronically online since the age of 13, you can also find me on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Pinterest. I’m working on my first book, The Half Of It, which you can pre-order here.