It’s hard to be alone.
In the morning, I wake up at 7 before my alarm in a twin-size bed that’s far too small. Light creeps in through the blinds, and I’m not allowed to sleep.
The dog hangs off the bed; my limbs are tangled, and I’m curled into the tiniest ball to ensure he has room. Then, when I’ve given up on comfort, I go straight to the bathroom to wash my face. I move so quickly like I’ve no time to prepare. But I have plenty.
I pick out clothes as if I have someone to impress – there’s no one. After I’ve dressed, I take the dog outside. We’ll walk the block. The morning is always muted. The sky isn’t quite so blue, and the air isn’t so humid. I want to spend the entire day with him, but I know I have to go.
My studio is so tiny. Getting the dog ready for his day doesn’t take long. Everything is within reach. I take my time saying goodbye; leaving him is the hardest thing I do all day.
I get into my small car, and I drive for thirty minutes. I stop at the coffee shop. I like to pretend I’m doing something with my life. I want to give someone, anyone, the impression that I am a person with a life. I don’t have one.
I drive from the coffee shop to the office. If I have time, I sit in my car to try and catch my breath. Silence. Breathing. In and out. Pretend I’m not so hollow inside. And then it’s to work. I work alone all day. I spend an hour at lunch alone in my car. I drive home alone. While driving over the bridge, I wish I could stop and enjoy the sunset, but I can’t.
I try to quell my loneliness by talking to the dog when I get home. I ask him, who’s ready to go out? Who’s happy to see me? I walk him a little longer at night. I’ve taken him away from home, and he sits all day alone too. No one visits during the day. It’s just us.
And then, for hours, I watch TV. I’ll think to myself – I’ll read tonight. I’ll write tonight. I’ll do something. Anything. I exist, I exist, I exist. I’ll prove it in some way. I never do.
So here I am again. Another night, the same as all previous nights, leading into a day that will be the same and into a weekend where I’ll pretend I don’t regret this decision every day.
I used to think that I was worth something. I thought people liked having me around. I had self-esteem, low as it was. I had it. Now I have nothing at all. I don’t think anyone misses me, and I don’t think I add anything to anyone’s life. I’m withering away in a studio apartment. The world keeps moving.
Someday, I will die by my hand or by disease. It will be like I never existed at all. I’m not afraid of that anymore. I want it to happen. At least my suffering will end.
