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I don’t love solitude.
It’s dark and dreary, like the eyes of a person I so desperately wanted to love me who never did.
They say to befriend this solitude, but I think I may have overdone it.
You see, solitude is my only friend these days.
The thought of anything else, and I panic.
I sweat in every Zoom session. And if I hear my name at the grocery store, I stand frozen, pretending that I heard nothing.
Solitude: I hate it. And yet, it’s familiar. It’s safe.
It’s my only friend.
They say time heals all wounds, but this wound carved into my soul has only expanded in solitude.
Call it depression. Call it social phobia. Call it borderline. Call it whatever you’d like.
No label will change how I feel. No label will change what happened to me. No label will help me heal.
Only solitude of a different kind will help me, and that solitude is with my selves.
Tomorrow, I’m crawling out of this hole.
Tomorrow, I will only look into one set of eyes, and those will be mine.
I’ll say hello to those beautiful girls inside me and tuck their hair behind their ears.
I’ll be alone but never truly in solitude because I’ll have them.
They are all I need to heal.