I vomited. I was alive. I was alone. There was no living thing in the universe that was more alone than me.
Or more terrible. I woke again. I had not closed the curtains and light was coming in, moonlight.
The word connotes romance. I took one of my hands in the other, tried to imagine what it would feel like if it was another person’s hand holding mine.
There have been times when I felt that I might die of loneliness.
People sometimes say they might die of boredom, that they’re dying for a cup of tea, but for me, dying of loneliness is not hyperbole.
When I feel like that, my head drops and my shoulders slump and I ache, I physically ache, for human contact—
I truly feel that I might tumble to the ground and pass away if someone doesn’t hold me, touch me.
I don’t mean a lover—this recent madness aside, I had long since given up on any notion that another person might love me that way—
but simply as a human being. The scalp massage at the hairdressers, the flu jab I had last winter—
the only time I experience touch is from people whom I am paying, and they are almost always wearing disposable gloves at the time.
I’m merely stating the facts. People don’t like these facts, but I can’t help that.
If someone asks you how you are, you are meant to say FINE. You are not meant to say that you cried yourself to sleep last night
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