SHOW ME THE MEANING OF BEING LONELY

I had to quote the Backstreet Boys, I really had to! Ok back to more serious stuff now.

As far as I can remember, I have always been quite the lonely person. Loneliness has been my faithful and inseparable partner since I was born, and it moulded my life and my perspective of the world since then.
I grew up an only child, and since my parents relocated from their respective hometowns to Milan, on top of not having any siblings I also didn’t have any close relative nearby, so I spent endless days by myself playing with my toys and my imaginary friends.
Oh, I had plenty of imaginary friends.
I used to dream about this crazy, amazing, wealthy life, with all these famous people on my side, being important and desired.

me by myself as a kid

Growing up, things didn’t really change much. I was the weirdo girl, the tomboy, I didn’t really fit with girls because I despised everything they liked, and I didn’t fit with boys because well, I was not one of them since I was a girl. It didn’t really bother me, though: I was used to be alone most of the time, I had plenty of things going on in my head to truly care about what was going on outside it anyway. I remember those poor attempts some school assholes had at bullying me: they quickly realised that I was not giving a remote fuck about being called ugly (because I was convinced I was ugly anyway, and it was ok with me), tomboy (because I wore that badge proudly), or weirdo, stupid… and when the metal t-shirts started to be more than just a one-off in my wardrobe, I was even less bothered than before – I was part of something exclusive that only myself and those like me could understand, and whoever was not in this “club” was automatically someone I was not remotely interested to get to know and listen to.

Reflecting on my past, I can tell you right now how, despite my strong and “no fucks given” attitude, I craved my very own gang of friends; I so wanted a best friend to share my secrets with, a local group of trusted peers to go and get an ice cream with, spending summer afternoons together. Later in my twenties, I longed for a crazy, inner circle of women like me, pretty much like the Sex and The City quartet: you know, drinks and food catch-ups in cool places, free to talk about anything without being judged or considered an hysterical freak of nature. But, despite my desires, at the end of the day I kept being with myself, by myself, and to be perfectly honest I never exactly did anything or put any effort to tackle the status quo and get these friendships in my life. In my head, the constant mantra was “it is what it is” and “there is nothing I can do about it”. Besides, I just had to turn my computer on to talk with “my friends”, since most of what I regarded as such were people I met in various websites and forums; to a certain extent, nothing has changed: most of my friends are still those same old friends I met “on the web”, and since I live in another country, technology is the only way to have a constant contact with them.

Moving to the UK didn’t change things much, and it didn’t help that I desperately glued myself to the only person who seemed to have an interest in me (which then became my now ex-husband). Subconsciously, I created the same “family” of lonely people for my son: both myself and my ex-husband relocated here, my son is an only child (with not great chances of having a sibling, not from me anyway) and we have no relatives whatsoever in this country. By the way, it is not a good idea to try and overcome your loneliness by being with someone just because they seem to give you the attention you need. I learned it the hard way by marrying the most unsuitable person, and I only realised that when the damage happened already. The end result was a broken, fragile, tired woman, survival of suicidal thoughts and post-natal depression, desperately lonely, in a constant fight with the world and herself.

Oh, I had plenty of therapy sessions to discuss how my loneliness has affected my behaviour in ways that, sometimes, I never even realise. It is the reason why I became a rescuer, the one who helps everyone, and lends money to everyone, and takes care of everyone, and it’s the mother of everyone because “if they need me they’ll keep me”; it was the reason why I picked the wrong relationships (“at least he seems to want me”), it has been the poor excuse I gave myself to avoid getting out of my comfort zone and try something different (“what’s the point, I’ll be lonely anyway”) and the poison that ultimately made me land arse flat on the ground, at my lowest of the low points in life. And I hated myself. Desperately. And being lonely exacerbated this hate, because being all by myself meant being alone with the person I hated the most in the world, something I was ready to do anything in order to avoid it. I was not good enough to have friends because, reality in my head was that I was not good as a person in the first place. I was too focussed on the exterior consequences of what was going on inside me, thinking “I am ugly, I’m stupid, I’m not worth love, I’m useless…” rather than have a deep look at my life and go “hold on a second, maybe I should start looking at what’s in my heart (and head) rather than out and about”.

Where do you start getting out of this loop? Hand on heart, it was not an easy ride. Admitting to myself that I needed people to fill my own void, in the hope that their presence and their “fake” love (because, of course, they wanted me just for the things I’d give them, not for the person I was) would make things better, was not an easy thing to do… and yet, it set me free. I had to learn the hard way to love myself, to appreciate who I am, to build the person I always wanted to be from scratch. When I finally got to the stage where I felt not only enough, but a beautiful world by myself, I discovered that I was not lonely anymore: I had myself, and that was not something I wanted to run away from, but the exact opposite: I wanted to get to know myself, talk to myself, discover what I like, what I don’t like, what clothes look good on me, what things are ok with me and what other things are a no-go. Guess what? Once I feel in love with this new person I am, I discovered a world of friends, real friends, who loved me just as much as myself. Being “lonely” is now a space I create for myself when I need to just be with me, myself and I: call it if you like “a date with myself”.

The only things I’m truly missing, right now, is having a proper family here. This thought came to light lately after spending few evenings with my boyfriend’s family: witnessing the love, affection and a proper family interaction made me think of how I really do miss being cuddled and cared for: you know, the coming back home with food, the little gestures and thoughts, the sitting for a cup of tea and a chat, the “I’m coming for dinner!”…

Susanbano in all its glory

I have been extremely touched and honoured when my boyfriend’s mum gifted me with a beautiful plant she brought from Iran: oh, that was such a truly special gift, and yes, it gave me a bit of “family love” too (I called it Susanbano in honour of my boyfriend’s mother and grandmother). Unfortunately, I cannot relocate my family here, or change this situation anytime soon, but one thing is for sure: I will do my best to create a family for me (and my son) that’s vibrant, caring and loving!

SURGERY PARTY INVITATION

The dreaded letter I was waiting for has finally arrived – my hospital admission confirmation is currently in my hands, together with few forms that I have to fill and send back to finalise the whole thing. Even if the envelope was plain and anonymous, I recognised it as soon as I saw it. I must admit, I opened it with a very heavy heart: I knew that, the moment I had that paperwork in my hands, the whole thing would have been immediately more “real” than before.

The wonderful Spire Harpenden Hospital, my home for the surgery day

Now, not only I have a date, but also an admission time which, by the way, it’s 7:15am, like… seriously? Do I need the pain of waking up at 5am on top of the pain of going through this? Jeez…. And then, no eating from 2am (fine, I’ll be sleeping anyway, I hope) and no drinking from 6am. I can already see myself awake at an ungodly hour in the night, hugging my coffee machine, unable to go back to sleep, sipping espresso whilst trying not to run to the airport and hide in some remote island in the middle of the ocean.

I am honest here, I feel slightly less brave than when I shouted “BOOK ME IN!” on my surgeon’s face few weeks ago.
Ok, to be truly, truly honest, I’m crapping myself with fear as we speak. I still am 100% wanting to do it. I don’t have a choce anyway: I have to do it, don’t get me wrong, my shoulder is bad, my movements are substantially impaired on a normal basis, let alone when that frigging bursitis decides to be even angrier than average; at my company’s party I have barely been able to get dressed, and after dancing like crazy, the next day I woke up in a world of pain. The pain wakes me up in the middle of the night, multiple times, and there is so much paracetamol I can take. I need that shit out of me to go back to lead a normal life, no questions about it. However, having said that, I am quite…. Anxious? About the whole thing. Yes, I’ll be in amazing hands; yes, I’ll be spoiled rotten; yes, I’ll have all the support, mental and physical, that I’ll need; I know my surgeon and his team will be on my side when I’ll freak out. But… but yeah, it is not exactly going to be a spa retreat, right?

Filling the admission paperwork triggered a variety of weird feelings.
Have I got a next of kin? Yes, my son, but he’ll hardly be answering the phone, chatting to a hospital about his mum… so I suppose the answer is nope.
An emergency contact? Ehm…. Nope.
Any adult or carer that will help me when I come home? Aaaand again no.
Have I got any phobias or fears I would like to discuss? Dude, I need more than a little text box here….
Anyone that will sleep in my house the night I’ll come back to ensure I’m safe? Aaaaand no, no and no. No. I will be alone before, during and afterwards. Just like last time. There is nothing I can do to change this situation, so I’m not even moaning or crying and pulling my hair. Plus, the last thing I want is someone wandering the house, annoying the shit out of me: I’m kind of looking forward to a week of me time, ass glued to my bed, having a threesome with SkySports and BT Sports (and, sometimes, Eleven Sports when AC Milan is playing), doing absolutely nothing but chilling. I plan to stock my freezer with ice cream and I’ll do everything I can to make the most out of this forced staycation.

Having said that, let me shout it loud and clear: what a pain in the ass this thing is. What a frigging pain! Seriously, what the hell.

Yes, at the moment my brain is taken over by the child in me, who is having quite a good moan about the whole thing. You know what? it’s fine. I don’t want to bottle up these feelings. Writing them down is making me feel better already. Suppressing feelings is very similar to when you need to go on holiday and you overfill your suitcase: you sit on top of it, you push as much as you can till you close it, and just when you think “yes, I did it” BAM! The suitcase explodes, and your shit is all over the place (if you are wondering: been there, done that). There is really no point of ignoring or trying to push these feelings as far as I can away from me. The more effort I put in trying to get rid of them, the more importance I allow them to have, so I just stand back, observe them, acknowledge their existence and then, once the storm has settled and the tantrum is over, the adult will take over again.

Schumy in all his glory, currently chilling on my pillow

I am very anxious (ok, scared as fuck) about the anaesthesia, in particular. The thought that I’ll be put to sleep fills me with horror.
And yes, I don’t want to do this alone. I would LOVE to be rolled back in my room and find a friendly face there, waiting for me. Or some flowers. Ora little card. Since I know there will be no one, I plan to go there with my Ferrari teddy bear Schumy (I suppose I don’t need to explain his name, right?) to pretend I have company. Djeezus, I sound like I’m a desperate nutcase here.

You know what I was thinking? Maybe I should order myself some nice flowers – not a box of chocolate though, I am a pain in the ass when it comes to chocolate – and maybe some other little treats for when I will be back home, in the comfort of my bed. Last time I bought myself a very cuddly blanket, but for this time, I may opt for an ultra-soft pyjama. I have at least two weeks of pyjama catwalks, I might as well make the most of it right? Yes, I know I have the Dollhouse photoshoot to look forward to, but in the immediate “I’m in pain, I hate the world, I feel so lonely and sad and miserable and I can barely scratch my arse” panic, I will have something that will cheer me up a bit. Sounds a bit pathetic, I know, but do I give a fuck? No, not really.

So, any recommendations for a post-surgery treat? 😉