Shame of Loneliness

I wrote, deleted, and rewrote a text to one of my closest friends feeling incredibly raw and vulnerable. I told her I didn’t want to be alone on Thanksgiving. 

I soon felt a familiar immense shame rise within me. I call this my vulnerability hangover. The part of me that deeply fears revealing my heart. The part that says, “Oh shit. Now what are they going to do?” As it braces for rejection.

It’s a shame that claws at my heart, whispering in its cold harsh tone that something is wrong with me for even being lonely. That if I were “better” in some ever elusive way, I wouldn’t be alone and lonely. It essentially attempts to blame me for my loneliness. 

AFTER thirty-five years, I know this egoic fearful part of me is full of shit and is a liar.  But it’s a part of me nonetheless. So, I do my best to feel it, love it, and soften its edges. 

I will admit, I’ve also learned to hide it really well. I’ve learned beautiful ways to connect inward and cultivate love for myself, by myself. Often hiding the truth of my hurting heart.

I hide it through pictures of big smiles and by prioritizing care of others. I’d rather inquire about how you are rather than take space to tell you how I am. I have abandoned myself for years by doing this because I learned my emotions were often too much, seen as untrustworthy, and not welcomed. 

So hiding became a useful and reliable strategy. 

MOST often, we haven’t been taught how to respond to pain, grief, heartache, and fear. We aren’t shown how to meet people with compassion for where they are in their journeys. We become uncomfortable with strong emotions, confused by our own empathy that causes us to feel sadness when others are sad and pain when others are hurting. So we react to dismiss another’s experience in order to relieve ourselves from the heartaches of feeling with them. (You may want to read that again…)

A gift of these recent years, has been trusting myself in the deepest of ways. That whatever I feel has every right to be felt and also shared. It’s really uncomfortable sometimes. But it’s better than hiding so much and so often.

I’ve learned to risk sharing how hard this year has been as a single person, living on her own and 1300 miles away from family. Some have really blown it in their lack of responsiveness and closed hearts. But others met me exactly where I was and with so much love.

And that made every risk and every vulnerable hangover worth it.

To all my fellow single people, grieving people, hurting people, lonely people: This year, the holidays are going to be really hard. And so, we have to courageously reach out. We have to risk it. And perhaps we can help those who love us understand, all we need is company and compassion. 

Perhaps this year, we could all keep our minds and hearts a bit more open.
Perhaps this year, we can set another chair at the table and consider who may need the company.
Perhaps this year, we can all reach out beyond our comfort zones, ask for help and respond with love.