loneliness

It was Sunday yesterday.

I remember when I first moved to Melbourne from A Little Place. I had only one friend and Sundays were the loneliest day of the week.

I was great at finding things to do. I said yes! to invitations from people I hardly knew and I filled my time with activities I might not, otherwise, have embraced. I kept busy. But I found myself turning away from couples reading the newspaper over coffee. And I hid from happy families playing in the park. Because to look at them would bring up an empty, choking wave of loneliness, which I had nowhere to put and was almost too much to bear.

Now, six years later: it’s me reading the paper with My Lovely One; it’s me playing footy in the park with my gang. And when I’m walking alone, I am held in the knowledge that the comfort of connection is only a reach away.

Still, yesterday, it swept back in. Out of nowhere, almost. No warning, no invitation, no explanation.

I sat with it for a while. Uncomfortable. I went for a run. And then I visited my original, (still brilliant!) friend. We sat on her sofa, drank wine, talked and talked and treated ourselves with a beautiful, cooked-by-us dinner.

The loneliness subsided. It pulled its head in. But not before reminding me of that prickly truth: that as much as I fill my life with heart-expanding love and soul-enhancing friendship, I am, ultimately, alone.

I’m glad it’s Monday.