Behind the Independence
March 3, 2023 at 1:39 AM
I've always told myself I'm content being alone. That I don't need many friends. It's become my mantra, repeated so often I almost believe it. Almost.
But here's the truth I've been avoiding: I'm lonely. Not the kind of loneliness that comes from being physically alone - I have people around me. I'm not isolated. It's a deeper kind of loneliness that sits in your chest even when you're surrounded by others. The kind where you want to reach out, but can't seem to hit send on any of the messages you type.
I want friends. Real friends. The kind that plan weekend adventures and share inside jokes. But something holds me back from turning the people around me into those kinds of friends. My mum says I overthink everything, and maybe she's right. I analyze every potential text message like I'm debugging my code. Should I send it? Is it too much? Will they get tired of me? The fear of inconveniencing anyone feels like a physical weight on my chest.
There are so many moments I've let slip by because of this fear. Concerts where I would've loved to sing along with someone. Movies I wanted to watch while mixing mocktails. Restaurant openings where having a friend would've made the experience complete. It's not that I can't do these things alone - I can. I do. But sometimes being by myself feels heavier than it should. Like when you see something hilarious and turn to share it with someone who isn't there. Or when you accomplish something meaningful and your celebration is a quiet moment alone.
The irony of it all? I long for connection - even something as simple as a hug - but everyone knows me as the person who hates physical touch. So if I ask for comfort now, they'll know something's wrong. I hug my pillow at night instead, but the pillow doesn't hug back. There's something deeply lonely about that - wanting comfort but being too scared to ask for it.
I joke about never keeping friends longer than three years, but the truth is, it hurts. Each lost connection leaves a mark, a lesson in what not to do next time. But maybe that's the problem - treating each new friendship like a potential disappointment rather than a possibility. I run to escape these feelings, listen to music, stare at string lights, anything to feel less alone. But these are all just temporary fixes for a deeper wound - this fear that I'm fundamentally unlovable, that there's something about me that makes people eventually drift away.
Maybe admitting this vulnerability is the first step. Maybe somewhere between the independence I claim to want and the connection I'm afraid to seek, there's a middle ground. A place where I can learn to reach out without fear of being too much or not enough. Where I can stop treating loneliness like a secret and start seeing it for what it really is - a sign that I'm human, that I'm capable of wanting connection, even if I'm still learning how to ask for it.
SK
