Call Me When the Party's Over

The value of your loneliness.

It’s barely 5pm. You grab your decaf latte off the counter and let it singe your cold fingers, too hot but not hot enough that you can’t make due. It’s an ugly day, gray and muggy, which is beautiful in its own way if you know how to appreciate it, but in that sense, anything can be beautiful. 

You write this in your head as you walk through an airport, because if you write it then you don’t have to say it, and if you write it, then it’s not the same as thinking, not really. You’re so desperate not to be alone with your thoughts, not to be alone at all, that you resort to this. 

The need to make yourself small can be tempting, and it’s one that’s been familiar to you lately. Taking up space can threaten others at times and you think it’s my fault, my fault, my fault, shrink, shrink, shrink. You have nearly lost yourself to that abyss many times, and you’re sure you’ll lose yourself to it many more times still. It’s inevitable because it’s so human. You have downplayed your sorrows and they have left you to rot.

Sugar caramelizes in the mouth of your coffee cup and you don’t think things are supposed to be this way. You know they’re not. Things didn’t used to be this way, two years ago when you were 18 and felt like you finally figured yourself out for the first time. How did you fall so far from that? And how do you get back? It’s late December and you want to know: Where do you go from here, where everything is supposed to be a fresh start, a blank page, a new beginning? If everything has been erased, if there’s nothing to guide your path, how do you know which way to go?

The idea of New Year’s is so tempting to us because we feel we’ve done irreparable damage, to others and to ourselves, and that the only way to do better is to wipe the slate. But then won’t we just make the same mistakes anyway? In Beyond the Pleasure Principle by Freud, he recounts a tale of a hero named Tancred. “Its hero, Tancred, unwittingly kills his beloved Clorinda in a duel while she is disguised in the armour of an enemy knight. After her burial he makes his way into a strange magic forest which strikes the Crusaders’ army with terror. He slashes with his sword at a tall tree; but blood streams from the cut and the voice of Clorinda, whose soul is imprisoned in the tree, is heard complaining that he has wounded his beloved once again.” Doesn’t history inevitably repeat itself? Won’t we do the same, especially if we forget? 

Maybe none of us really want an entirely new beginning. We just want to do better moving forward, without the guilt of past mistakes. Or we want to do the exact same things, and go back to a time in which we did not carry the trauma of doing those things, so we could do them with no remorse. Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, we end up rooting for Jim Carrey’s and Kate Winslett’s characters to fall in love again, to try again anyway, to hurt each other all over again, simply because they want it so badly. We root for ourselves to get the things we know will hurt us, simply because we want it so badly. 

In this airport, you’re lonely. More than you’ve ever been since you were 16 and barely knew your name except that it meant “small”. Despite the heat from the drink, your hands are cold. What do we make of this? That any hand of yours is not a hand to hold? 

Think, now, of the city. Sometime soon, somewhere near. When the confetti litters the floor and your best friend sits in the corner sullen, ready, waiting, the countdown over hours ago. There are three unopened bottles of champagne leftover, because it’s all every guest thought to bring. You’re 20, and you’ve just had your first New Year’s kiss. You don’t know if anyone else at the party has and you don’t care, because you’re 20 so you’re allowed to be a bit selfish. You wear your brilliance like a tattoo on your skin, like a gem in your teeth, baring it when you grin. It’s subtle but you know everyone can see it, and you can still feel its place on you, like it belongs. For the first time in a long time, you belong. 

But there’s your best friend on the couch, checking their watch, and you remember the sting of a hot latte. You remember, you’re not lonely now, but you were lonely once. And you may be lonely again. You probably will be. You remember, maybe they’re lonely now too. You think this to yourself, because you’re not afraid to, because you’re not afraid of yourself anymore. And you’re grateful for the memory, for the loneliness, for the mistakes. Because if you hadn’t gone through it, if you didn’t know it, would you walk to them on the couch now and lift them up? Would you take their hand and walk them home? Any hand of theirs is one to hold. You wish someone told you the same, months ago. So you tell them. 

This was a much more creative work than I usually write, but I hope it was somewhat coherent. As usual, I have a Pinterest board and a for you that matches the theme of this newsletter. Any interaction with this post is always super appreciated. Like, comment your life story, send it to your mom, post it on your story, etc.

As we approach the end of the year, I have lots of exciting things in store, starting with a paid newsletter starting next month. Don’t worry, I’ll still be doing this regular monthly newsletter for free, but paying subscribers (only $5 a month—like buying a cup of coffee for your heart) will get an additional newsletter and a podcast. More details on this will be coming soon on my Instagram.

Whether you do or don’t celebrate the holidays, I hope you’re having a wonderful time. You deserve all the love in the world.

Until next month,

xoxo,

paula <3