loneliness dry rot -- a reflection on friends and having none

Up until recently, I couldn't remember a time when I wasn't alone. I know (instinctively) of times when I wasn't alone, like the time I infiltrated a pre-established trio in kindergarten, or the trio I infiltrated in middle school, or even the trio I infiltrated in high school (all groups with established relationships and hierarchies that I was adopted into)! But I can't actually remember not being alone, even with those people

This means that despite being someone I think is incredibly present and noticeable, very few people have witnessed my existence. I have the social life trail of someone who switched identities and moved countries to evade the law. I didn't seem to exist on this Earth until approximately 2 years ago. I'm envious and hurt by this loss of witness to my adolescence and growth because I know that whatever sense people did grasp of me was marred and inappropriate like a bloodied soldier's uniform passed down to someone who's never seen the fog of war (All Quiet on the Western Front, anyone?).

Because of this, it's been incredibly difficult for me to be someone who exists in the lives of other people. I spent so much of my life wanting to be someone whom others thought of positively, wanting to be the person confided in, wanting to be the person who is in on the joke, and more than anything, wanting to be the person that people went to when they experienced that inexplicable ache in the middle of their ribs. But I had spent so much time alone that I didn't understand what that ache did.

Loneliness is kind of like dry rot. The structure is fully intact, and it's incredibly difficult to see anything wrong with it at first glance. However, the object holding the dry rot cannot be used as intended. If it's a shoe, it buckles under the bend of the foot's arch. If it's a book, the pages turn to dust every time you flip the page. Humans are mortal creatures, but that kind of mortality of the physical body and the soul is a sickness that I am morbidly afraid to bear witness to.

Moving to New York City gave me the chance to learn how to be a person. Maybe a little too late (some pieces of my moldy neurosis fell off when I tried to move) but allowed me to stretch my wings. I may have mildewed in the phalanges, but I could still work my limbs and joints.

But now, I’m leaving! Every time I cry, my face goes red like the tears stained my cheeks that way. I did not, for a few days, understand why this hysteria was gnawing at the perimeter of my skin, but it recently hit me that I am petrified to revert into a solitary being. To have no places to frequent, no people I know, no activities to share. Learning my struggle anew, fighting off the decay and crumble. I am realizing that being alone was not a choice made in strength but a state of being that I had to contend with. The choice to revert to recluse is much scarier because I fear its permanency.

It is not lost on me that I am not a good long-distance friend. Certain kinds of dialogue can only breed from the commonality of physical space. Without it, conversations about daily life become repetitive. Insecurity sets in that I'm not being entertaining enough, that I am not being engaging enough, and therefore not being good enough of a friend. It kills me to know that I will one day testify to God about how I let my hard-earned, hard-prayed-for friendship slip through my fingers because I could not respond to a text.

Rest assured I will pay for it.

I will spend my nights wondering how often you bring me up in conversation with your travel abroad. I will think of you every time the Wallows plays and wonder if you still listen to the playlist I made you. I know that to you, I have become synonymous with New York City. I also know that a betrayal caused by a forced hand is a betrayal nonetheless.

What can I do to ward off the spoil of ossification?

I need to be put to good use.