A Letter on Loss and Loneliness

When I think back to all that I lived through in my teens and into adulthood; the trauma, the depression, the anxiety, the otherness — sometimes I am proud and other times I am furious. Proud because I learned how strong I am. No one was going to “save” me. I had to save myself. I have come all this way because I put the time and effort into healing. Though I am furious because I had to do it alone. I did not have a choice.

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Few professionals (therapists, counselors, etc.) would take the proper time to listen to me and hear what I was telling them. My family listened even less. It did not take long for me to stop speaking all together. I spoke only when spoken to or when absolutely necessary. Conversation rarely moved past small talk. And if I’m being frank, I didn’t want it to. Conversation meant questions and questions meant I would need to provide answers — answers that remained palatable to the present company. I feared sharing too much. Sharing details that were not anyone’s business, that which would only make matters worse. Yet despite this silence, this fear of telling others how much I was truly hurting, there was also this deeply embedded sense of longing, of wanting someone to see through the walls and the mask I had built. But the one thing I feared above all else was letting someone into my life only to end up…