I don’t know how to write about being lonely.
Strange really, I suppose, when I spend so much time writing and writing, because here, someone will listen, and care, and understand. I write because I have something to say, and no one to say it too. But that doesn’t make me lonely, as such. Except today, when it does, and I am.
I feel bad saying that i’m lonely. I have close to 1000 followers on this blog — a number which both overwhelms me, and almost scares me: to think that, in some absolutely tiny way, I am influencing people, and reaching Internet-readers from all around the world, across the continents and the cultures, is purely insane. I have close to half that number of Twitter followers, which truly is terrifying. If you thought my blog posts were traumatic, you should see my Tweets!
The communities and social interaction linking to both my blog and social media — although they do intertwine regularly — is wonderful. On most days, it’s the highlight of my waking hours, filled with the people who make me smile, who make me laugh, who make me feel. On others, it’s the only thing that keeps me going: you wonderful bunch of individuals, each with your own unique way of making me feel just-enough better to make the rising of tomorrow’s sun an act of hope, and not one of dread.
And, of course, I can only hope that, in one way or another, I can do the same for each and every one of you. I hope beyond all else, and try to the best of my limited abilities, to somehow, somewhere, improve somebody’s day — even if it’s just fractionally so. I write to say what I think, what I feel, what I am; but I write for others, too. I write with the hope that someone out there can read my kaleidoscope of mismatched words, my lines and lines of raw thoughts, and appreciate them, or relate to them, or find something in them that is helpful, or needed, or good.
How fitting it is that, upon writing a post about feeling lonely, I’ve written about anything but, to make the words flow easier, and the sentences fit together like the neat jigsaw I wish them to be. I am still lonely, however sickened that makes me feel.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I will always feel this way. My words and my voice have been sent far and wide, both in this realm of blogging and social media, of Internet friends and personalities, and in my outward-facing life: the angry blind ‘campaigner’ (as one newspaper opted to put it), determined to show that for every disability-related struggle, there is something better, another option, another fight and another victory to be had.
But maybe that’s not enough for me. Maybe the fire inside of me, started with the spark of that first like, the flickering glow of that first comment, the leaping tongue of warm, bright flame of that first share can now never be satisfied, never be whole. Perhaps, somewhere deep inside, deeper than I ever dare to look, there is a drive, pushing me forward, making my voice louder and louder, because I want to be heard.
My perspective on things has changed and evolved with age. Of course, as a naive 13-year-old know-it-all, I knew that my opinions and perspectives would never change, that i’d be this way forever, and that was that. How wrong I was — and still am; somewhere inside my fucked-up brain, I still think this is true, that these new perspectives are the sticking point of my personality. They’re not.
The idea of having my voice heard, of sharing my thoughts and feelings, opinions and perspectives online — or through any medium — used to make me shudder. Even when starting this blog, I was happy — only happy, even — if my posts, containing some of the most honest words and sentences I’d ever written, stayed in this close-knit circle, circulating no further than the walls in which they were written, and read, and published. Maybe now, I want more. Maybe now, I’m proud of what I’ve done, of what I’m doing. Maybe now, I want these words to be read, this voice to be heard, this face to be seen, because I want — no, I need — to say these things. I need to have these words, read to have them fill these figuratively empty pages to form sentences and paragraphs, with stories and thoughts and feelings and memories and opinions and smiles and tears and laughter and heartache, because I need people to know. I don’t know why, and maybe there is no reason at all, but I need it, just as I need to write these words, to release the things in my head, in order to find them a new home, somewhere outside of me, but still accessible.
Am I making any sense? I doubt I am, and that’s OK too. Maybe this is where it all leads to in the end: a desperate longing to have my words not only available, but to have them read, seen by people who can relate, and who want to find a friend, someone out there who they can laugh and smile, sob and hurt with. I want to be that person, because I want to share those things with you.
Perhaps this post has gone too far. Perhaps it’s late, and I’ll wake up tomorrow and wonder what I was thinking, or saying, or wanting. I guess if I do, you’ll never read this. If I don’t, then welcome, and enjoy the ride.