Since the lone wolf has been glamourized beyond realistic boundaries, I thought I’d bring to light what it really is like to be alone and lonely.
It isn’t being a sharp-mouthed, black-toting, misanthropic, mysterious creature of the night.
It’s breaking piggy banks as a five year old to buy friendship bracelets to hand out at school, and returning with empty wrists. It is feigning illness as a child to avoid going to the park, because you can’t tell your mother that nobody would play with you.
It’s inviting people to your tenth birthday and having nobody show up at all. It’s sleeping through the rest of your birthdays because there’s nothing special about them.
It’s being in a group but feeling left out, as if you’re not really a part. It is having so much on your mind but nobody to discuss it with.
It’s busying yourself with chores and schoolwork and art and music, because there is nobody to hang out with. It’s knowing that your talents are a by-product of your loneliness.
It’s going days, even weeks, without having any interaction with people other than your family. It is the nagging reminder that even your family is stuck with you without an option to bail.
It’s going through preschool to graduation without having any real or lasting friendships. It’s telling yourself that all of it will change in college.
It’s watching people enjoy with their friends and wondering what it is about you that repels friendships and close relations. It’s seeing the relationships between friends in books and movies and wondering why you can’t have any even half as good.
It’s an everpresent anxiety about your appearance, the thought that maybe there is something wrong about the first impressions you put across.
It is having regular breakdowns and crying into your pillow, wondering what is wrong with you.
It’s putting other people before you, only to watch them leave and accuse you of indifference. It’s believing people when they tell you you’re toxic. It’s pretending like you prefer being left alone because you don’t want people to pity you.
It’s typing out texts to the people on your contacts list but not sending them because you don’t want to seem too desperate or needy. It’s waiting for people to want to talk to you, in vain.
It’s remaining forgotten till someone needs a favour. It’s never being able to ask for favours because there is nobody you can ask who would be willing to help.
It’s constantly feeling like a black sheep, an outsider, a misfit and an imposter. It’s the inability to share your secrets and the musings of your mind. It’s being flippant and making jokes to cover up how you really feel.
It’s brushing off any attention you might get, for fear of getting used to it.
It’s making long internet searches on mental illnesses, begging for an explanation as to why you are as sad as you are. It’s the crushing amount of courage it takes to keep yourself from giving up.
It’s the inability to get a load off your chest. It’s nothing like you’ve been led to believe. It is just you ending up putting down the things you feel onto paper, reminding and convincing yourself that this is not a cry for help.