No One Dies From Loneliness

I could see the record spinning, even through the tears, even from the kitchen floor. Covered in snot, tears, and sweat I couldn’t move. If I moved, I was probably going to throw up. All I could think about was how if I could get to the phone I call someone. Then it dawned on me there was no one to call.

The wonderful thing about nice people is that they tell you all the time to just call if you need something, but try calling one of them while you’re sobbing about being alone. They’ll ask if you’ve seen your therapist. They’ll ask if you’ve called your parents. They’ll ask if you’re taking your medicine, because heres the truth: nice people want you to say you’re fine, they don’t want to know how you’re doing. That’s what makes them nice, they genuinely want you to be okay, but they don’t want to come hand you a tissue at 7:30pm on a Thursday night.

I could hear the music, even though I felt like my brain was going to fall out through my ears. My drums would give way any minute to the warm pink brain muscle pushing on them from behind, I was sure of it. All I could think is if I turned the record down just a little, maybe one of my neighbors would hear me. What do you tell them though?

“Hi, nothing is actually wrong, I’m just so lonely to the point I can’t stand up.” Would they stay? Would they call an ambulance? Or the police? Or the state run mental institution? (Do they still have those?).

Loneliness is an interesting thing. I so desperately want someone to find me, but I would never want to be so desperate.

I’m a romantic posing as a cynic, an artist posing as a philosopher, a young child posing as an adult. I keep thinking about someone to cook dinner for, someone to hold me at night, someone to tell all my troubles to. When I was eight I wanted to be a broadway star, at 25 I just want to have a best friend. I could feel the kitchen mat pressed against my cheek, even though my face felt so hot it was almost numb. I thought about the last time I vacuumed that mat. Probably too long ago. I thought about how I was lazy. A lazy piece of human garbage no one cares about. Thats why I was fat, thats why I was alone, thats why I was single, thats why I couldn’t remember the last time I vacuumed the mat in the kitchen beneath the sink.

Some call it depression, I call it point of view. Some call it illness, I call it senseless torture. How many million Americans “suffer?” How many million Americans cry everyday?

How many million Americans can’t get off their kitchen floor long enough to call someone, anyone for help? Its just me right? Where are those millions when I have no one? I rolled on my back, I could see the light above the oven. I could almost feel my cones and rods adjust as my tired eyes soaked up the light. I imagined what I looked like. Snot running down my face, red, puffy eyes, covered in old food crumbs and dog hair. It’d be comical if I felt better. I imagined someone leaning down over me. For a second, I imagine they care, they lean down to hold me.

I cry more. Be here. Be in the present, thats what a therapist told me once. But who wants this moment? Who would want to be here?

No one I supposed. Yet there I stayed. The floor was cold. The light was bright. The music was loud. I let the music played out, and the record clicked in repetition, begging me to flip it over or turn it off. I pictured myself getting up from the floor, turning over the record, pulling my dinner out of the refrigerator, cooking it, and acting like a person.

I pictured myself sitting at my dinner table, alone. I pictured myself showering, then brushing my teeth. I picture myself laying in the center of my bed alone, staring at the ceiling… maybe I’ll just lay here until I starve to death, no one can die from loneliness, right?