And Its Name Is Loneliness

I don't feel it nearly as much as I used to. My son is in his third year of college, so I've had two years to adjust after that first paralyzing one. Things are different now. Looking back, the Universe was fairly kind to me about this transition into post-single mom life, and I am grateful. Oh, don't get me wrong. It hasn't been easy, and I still have hard days - both to be expected in any grieving process - but I’m okay, and being alone in the house feels normal. Now.

But at first. I didn’t even recognize it. Then, I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. I knew I had felt it before, but it must have been a long time ago, because I couldn't remember the details. When it finally did shake hands and introduce itself, rather matter-of-factly, it gave no indication of how long it would stay or that I had any choice in the matter. It moved its stuff in, made itself at home, and materialized in a numbing fear and sadness.

It had an endless supply of excuses not to get out of bed each day. It understood the necessity of work, but it loved naps. It loved television, especially things it had already seen dozens of times. It hated quiet, but it hated noise. It hated solitude, but it hated people. It hated having nothing to do, but it hated plans. It hated not getting anything done, but it hated doing anything. It hated time passing, but it wished the days would go by faster. It loved a reliable Tylenol PM, because it forced sleep. It craved sleep - time to not be angry, sad, lost, unnecessary, or alone.

It loved the phone ringing, but it hated to answer because it didn't know what to say, and it was scared that if it did start talking, it would say too much and explode. It loved to see others living and playing and having fun, but it hated the idea of interacting. It seemed to want to dream, to escape, to live, but only in the future, not in the present. Sometimes, it acted like it might want help, but it was helpless in knowing how to ask.

Then, it felt guilty. It wasn't cancer, for God’s sake. This was no tragedy. It was being too dramatic and giving itself too much credit. It was just the result of too much time. It just needed to find something to do, to shut up and get on with life. Read a book or go to the bookstore or window shop at the mall or go for a walk or rake the leaves or get a chai tea or take a vitamin or pray. Or volunteer, contribute, give back, or think of others.

If only there had been five spare minutes from feeling sorry for myself, maybe I could have distracted it. I told it every night that I would leave the house tomorrow. For over a year, it didn't let me, but I kept hoping. Hope. Consciously putting one foot in front of the other for just a little while, hoping that everything would be fine soon. It was just loneliness, after all. I didn't know it at the time, but it never stood a chance in the ring with hope.