Are You Lonesome Tonight?

Being lonely is a strange beast. You can go years without realizing you're lonely, but once you do, it's impossible to unknow it. It's like a hymen; once that innocence is lost, you never get it back.

I've been lonely for years. Since childhood, when I would play with my dolls and wish they could talk to me because no one else would. I don't think I recognized it for what it was until that night in college when I realized that Cerebral Palsy wasn't ever going away, that it was forever, that being a good girl wouldn't make God or the universe take it away. I was going to be like this, fighting with my body and hiding so much of who I was, forever and ever, amen. I had a rousing round of hysterics that night, and the next morning, I got out of bed and went to class because that was the only choice.

One would logically assume that the obvious solution to loneliness would be to make friends. It doesn't work for me. Oh, I like making friends, and I very much like the idea of friends, but I find the socialization required to find, nurture, and sustain them awkward and exhausting. I'm a dreadfully boring conversationalist--even Roomie, who adores me so much that he willingly cleans up my bodily exudations on a regular basis, lapses into a boredom coma the second I open my mouth, and I hate going to loud parties and other social events. I'm so accustomed to solitude and solitary pursuits like reading and writing that I have no idea how to conduct myself when faced with other people. I freeze and become quiet and timorous because I don't want to draw attention to my physical frailties. More social people interpret my silence and reticence as either disinterest or assholery and move on to more engaging pastures. I can't blame them, and part of me feels a guilty relief. If I don't have a friendship, then I cannot disappoint it.

Perhaps that is why the few friendships I have are on the Internet. I can offer support and conversation, and no one has to see my shadowed eyes and spindly limbs, and if I start to feel overwhelmed or crowded by the presence of someone else, I can walk away from the computer until I can handle myself with some semblance of aplomb. If I'm engaged in conversation online and have to go to the bathroom, I don't have to leave my companion twisting in the wind for thirty minutes while I wangle with a cramped public stall. If I disappear from the Internet, they can chalk up my sudden absence to a network failure. On the Internet, I don't have to worry about spastic flailing or slurred speech or being rudely and publicly haunted by the ghosts of baked beans eaten. On the Internet, I'm just a set of keystrokes.

I'm lonely, but I don't necessarily want to be surrounded by people. I simply want to feel a sense of connection, to know that I'm more than just a prenatal ghost, biding its time in this ramshackle temple of flesh. I don't necessarily want to converse with other voices, but I would like to hum in concert with them now and again, and to hear them whispering on the wind.

Are You Lonesome Tonight?

Being lonely is a strange beast. You can go years without realizing you're lonely, but once you do, it's impossible to unknow it. It's like a hymen; once that innocence is lost, you never get it back.

I've been lonely for years. Since childhood, when I would play with my dolls and wish they could talk to me because no one else would. I don't think I recognized it for what it was until that night in college when I realized that Cerebral Palsy wasn't ever going away, that it was forever, that being a good girl wouldn't make God or the universe take it away. I was going to be like this, fighting with my body and hiding so much of who I was, forever and ever, amen. I had a rousing round of hysterics that night, and the next morning, I got out of bed and went to class because that was the only choice.

One would logically assume that the obvious solution to loneliness would be to make friends. It doesn't work for me. Oh, I like making friends, and I very much like the idea of friends, but I find the socialization required to find, nurture, and sustain them awkward and exhausting. I'm a dreadfully boring conversationalist--even Roomie, who adores me so much that he willingly cleans up my bodily exudations on a regular basis, lapses into a boredom coma the second I open my mouth, and I hate going to loud parties and other social events. I'm so accustomed to solitude and solitary pursuits like reading and writing that I have no idea how to conduct myself when faced with other people. I freeze and become quiet and timorous because I don't want to draw attention to my physical frailties. More social people interpret my silence and reticence as either disinterest or assholery and move on to more engaging pastures. I can't blame them, and part of me feels a guilty relief. If I don't have a friendship, then I cannot disappoint it.

Perhaps that is why the few friendships I have are on the Internet. I can offer support and conversation, and no one has to see my shadowed eyes and spindly limbs, and if I start to feel overwhelmed or crowded by the presence of someone else, I can walk away from the computer until I can handle myself with some semblance of aplomb. If I'm engaged in conversation online and have to go to the bathroom, I don't have to leave my companion twisting in the wind for thirty minutes while I wangle with a cramped public stall. If I disappear from the Internet, they can chalk up my sudden absence to a network failure. On the Internet, I don't have to worry about spastic flailing or slurred speech or being rudely and publicly haunted by the ghosts of baked beans eaten. On the Internet, I'm just a set of keystrokes.

I'm lonely, but I don't necessarily want to be surrounded by people. I simply want to feel a sense of connection, to know that I'm more than just a prenatal ghost, biding its time in this ramshackle temple of flesh. I don't necessarily want to converse with other voices, but I would like to hum in concert with them now and again, and to hear them whispering on the wind.

I Can Do This, But I Shouldn't Have To

My mother called this morning to inform us that the garage sale she has intermittently been threatening to hold for years will be a two-day affair instead of the one we had anticipated. It would, she informed us loftily, take place Friday and Saturday and be an all-day affair. We would be expected to provide drinks for her and PC throughout the day, and Roomie would be on call to help them set up and shift the merchandise.

My friends, it is entirely possible to suffer acute rage toxicity.

My stomach and chest have hurt ever since she dropped in to inform us of this redneck Ponzi scheme secondhand rummage sale of tacky Florida kitsch crap and rusty tools quality goods, and I'm afraid that if I have to deal with her holier-than-thou swanning and childish sniping and bullying for two days, then I'm going to wind up in the hospital with stress-induced hypertension and anxiety or a fury-induced stroke. I'd leave the house for the duration, but I'm afraid that if we left, we'd return to a barren house. She's already asked about the sunroom chair, my old desktop, a donated Aussie laptop, and the shelved armoire that houses my Stephen King collection. I don't feel well. I feel helpless and besieged. I hate this.

There's nothing to be done for it, though. There is no appealing to her maternal mercies. She has none. The only choice is to survive. So tomorrow, Roomie and I are going to the store to stock up on beverages and crappy, nutrient-lacking processed garbage. If we're lucky, we'll get through the weekend without me vomiting blood from a perforated ulcer or Roomie beating my mother into bloody unconsciousness in the yard.

The best part? The power company came out yesterday to inspect the underground lines and investigate reports of flickering lights. They spray-painted numerous colored lines in the neighbor's yard and made mention of returning in a few days to effect the repairs, which could result in a lot of noise and a loss of power for several hours. They never said precisely when this might happen, but I'm betting they'll start their repair job just as my mother is setting out her shingle for her beloved garage sale. The levels of righteous butthurt would be apocalyptic, and the thought of her frothing tantrum would be hilarious if I weren't sure that she'd take it out on me.

I Can Do This, But I Shouldn't Have To

My mother called this morning to inform us that the garage sale she has intermittently been threatening to hold for years will be a two-day affair instead of the one we had anticipated. It would, she informed us loftily, take place Friday and Saturday and be an all-day affair. We would be expected to provide drinks for her and PC throughout the day, and Roomie would be on call to help them set up and shift the merchandise.

My friends, it is entirely possible to suffer acute rage toxicity.

My stomach and chest have hurt ever since she dropped in to inform us of this redneck Ponzi scheme secondhand rummage sale of tacky Florida kitsch crap and rusty tools, and I'm afraid that if I have to deal with her holier-than-thou swanning and childish sniping and bullying for two days, then I'm going to wind up in the hospital with stress-induced hypertension and anxiety or a fury-induced stroke. I'd leave the house for the duration, but I'm afraid that if we left, we'd return to a barren house. She's already asked about the sunroom chair, my old desktop, a donated Aussie laptop, and the shelved armoire that houses my Stephen King collection. I don't feel well. I feel helpless and besieged. I hate this.

There's nothing to be done for it, though. There is no appealing to her maternal mercies. She has none. The only choice is to survive. So tomorrow, Roomie and I are going to the store to stock up on beverages and crappy, nutrient-lacking processed garbage. If we're lucky, we'll get through the weekend without me vomiting blood from a perforated ulcer or Roomie beating my mother into bloody unconsciousness in the yard.

The best part? The power company came out yesterday to inspect the underground lines and investigate reports of flickering lights. They spray-painted numerous colored lines in the neighbor's yard and made mention of returning in a few days to effect the repairs, which could result in a lot of noise and a loss of power for several hours. They never said precisely when this might happen, but I'm betting they'll start their repair job just as my mother is setting out her shingle for her beloved garage sale. The levels of righteous butthurt would be apocalyptic, and the thought of her frothing tantrum would be hilarious if I weren't sure that she'd take it out on me.