On loneliness
I’m currently in the midst of reading The Lonely City by Olivia Laing and am unable to stop referencing it in conversation.
This book, in many ways, attempts to tear loneliness away from the usual pathology and medical jargons of mental illness and move in the direction of telling us that some of the brightest minds have experienced the exact same feeling.
It spells out the meaning of this sentiment through the eyes and works of some fabulous artists who once took over the New York scene including Edward Hopper and Andy Warhol. I had no idea who most were before I read the book. I still struggle to understand the true essence of their portraits.
But mostly, I did not know that they struggled with the idea of friendlessness and connection. Warhol always carried a camera around as his mask at parties despite arriving with an entourage of friends. Hopper’s painting Nighthawks showed a man in a black suit, painfully alone, in the somewhat green glow of a 1940 café at the cusp of the second world war.
Both these artists (and six others like them, I think) journaled their feelings through words, art, photographs.
The book has left me feeling distraught for myself. As someone who regularly at some point said, “I like being alone. Not lonely”, I’d like to call bluff.
I have, been lonely for years now. In school, I distinctly remember feeling like there was literally nobody who could understand the predicament of losing a parent. At that young age, I was told to mask my loneliness as a means of portraying strength.
This continued well into adulthood where the idea of living alone in Madurai (which should ideally invoke joy of independence) quickly turned into a mental health nightmare. Anxiety, depression, the whole jing bang.
Until some months ago, I could not stay the evenings at home by myself because I thought I could very well die of loneliness. I often escaped to Amma’s or met my sisters without finding the right words to describe why I’d get incredibly lost in myself in the worst possible ways if I was left alone.
This is not to say that I needed company all the time or that I was uneasy without chatter. I truly did take pride in actively seeking my space and needing deep bouts of silence. I just think that I perhaps liked the quiet on my own terms.
My evenings are busier today. I have a routine, I get out for a walk or work out. I meet Amma, talk to Anuchu about her day and giggle with Vasanth at night.
But I know that I am often in deep conflict with my loneliness.
It is so strange and brings forth deep contradictions of my personality.
I put so much of my life on social media. I’m mostly honest in my blogs and I really try hard to embrace all. But I also dislike other people who are lonely. I’m physically unable to empathise with loners because I’m scared. What if I become like them full-time.
But, how can I fear connection if I’m letting my most vulnerable parts be seen by strangers and acquaintances online? You, my reader, are in tune with my thoughts. You know my husband, my mother and my sister. You know where I’ve holidayed but also about what I feel about these holidays. You also, most importantly, know my exes.
What gives me right to feel this lonely?
What gives me the right to write this?
Idk.
