On being lonely.

"I'm lonely."

Words seldom said aloud easily, honestly, openly. And yet, we've all felt that aching absence of...something---a lover, a friend, a lost companion, a misplaced piece of self.

I know a thing or two about loneliness.

Oh sure, I have my history of relationships, of ex-boyfriends, of flings. And I have my tight-knit circle of friends. And I am ridiculously close with my two older sisters and, surprisingly, both of my parents. I work surrounded by good people every day. I even have a cat. And now a roommate! My life certainly doesn't lack for company.

But, well, in the last few years, I've gone through month-long waves of true loneliness for lost friends, for old loves, for that closeness I once felt with him. Back in the day, I went whole weekends holed up in my apartment like a recluse, without talking to anyone other than cashiers or delivery men. I've watched my sisters and my friends fall in love, get married, start families, and laced into my happiness and excitement for these dear souls are thin threads of resentment, hurt, fear, worry, and, yes, loneliness, because I am not there with them, in that stage of life. I don't have what they have; I am alone.

Loneliness follows you like a shadow sometimes. I moved to Boston and instantly longed for my old life, my DC friends, my beautiful apartment. Walking the sidewalks of a new city, not knowing where you're going nor having anyone to meet you when you arrive, is an exhausting lesson in loneliness, I assure you. Living with a friend who's lost in her own heartache and sadness is enough to send you to your room, equally quiet and hurting, just a little, because you want her to be happy. Driving 16 miles out of Boston each day to work and having no one to sing songs with or discuss the latest NPR report with or shoot the shit with about absolutely nothing can be devastating---or, at least, it was to me at first. I blew through my cell phone minutes with abandon and faced $200-plus bills in those early months of commuting from Boston out to the suburbs.

And sitting quietly in your head, day after day, night after night, without opening the door and releasing all the thoughts and worries and doubts you've coddled and kept in is like closing the curtain, blacking out the lights, locking all the doors. Your audience won't wait. You will stand on stage, alone.

Tonight, on my yoga mat, I thought to myself, "Am I alone in this?"

This: the feeling that the wet, weighted heat is bearing down on me like burly and thick-knuckled hands, pushing me further and further beneath the surface, until I'm drowning, clutching at air, begging silently for rescue. This: the fear that I might give in and sit down, even though I don't want to. This: the pain behind my knees, the blurriness before my eyes, the gutted and bled sensation coursing through my entire body. I wanted to tap my neighbor and ask her, "Do you feel this way, too? Or is it just me?"

And as I venture further into the dating world, I keep catching myself thinking, "Does everyone get this nervous and anxious before a date? Does everyone find this difficult? Or am I alone on this, too?"

At work, when I find myself in yet another meeting during which I have no clue what the directors are talking about or what my role in the project is or what clever points I should be adding to the conversation, I constantly find myself wondering, "Huh. Sooo, is everyone on the same page here but me? Slow, little me who's so far off this page that I'm in a whole other notebook?"

My loneliness of late is a funny breed---more like a homesickness, a hunger, for a conversation I want to have, a man I want to see, a friend I desperately want to talk to, a quick burst of my sister's laughter, a jolt of inspiration at work, a moment of common understanding with my fellow yogis.

It's a sudden pang of "I wish." It's the desire of "I want."

Yes, it's that kind of lonely, my friends.

Perhaps, we are all together in our aloneness, even if it's just a little bit, for a mere fraction of a moment. At least, that's what I'll tell myself, on this chilly night, in this shadowed and silent and still apartment.