Sometimes when we touch...

We are all lonely, a friend once told me. It felt like a confession. Admitting to one’s loneliness becomes somewhat difficult as one moves towards their late 20s. This is, of course, based on mere observations and experiences.

Admitting that you are lonely is somewhat easy when you are in your late teens and even your early 20s. It’s easy because you either claim you are a lone wolf and prefer being by yourself or you still have some hope that these difficult years will lead to better times. There’s somewhat of an invitation in that “I’m lonely.” You are inviting people into your life, challenging them to prove you wrong.

There is also the difference between feeling lonely and being alone and the line is blurred when we are younger.

But when you get past your mid-twenties and move towards those years where people expect you to settle down, get married, or start a family, admitting that you are lonely is more a confession.

It can be an admittance of failure of some kind. It’s a plea for something to work out, someone to come along. It isn’t easy to admit to being lonely because, quite frankly, it feels like there’s something wrong with you.

How is it that all your friends have found someone but you struggle to catch someone’s attention, talk to them, make a move? Why is this mating ritual so darn hard when you are human?

But perhaps loneliness is something we all feel regardless of our relationship status because it isn’t always permanent. It comes and goes. It increases in intensity sometimes. It is caused not only one factor.

There has been a lot of talk about loneliness among my group of friends. Some find it easier to admit to these feelings outright. But for others, it takes long conversations into the early hours of the morning to admit their loneliness. You can hear it in their voice. And because you must now rely on applications and software and technology to communicate with each other, you can’t walk over to them and offer some comfort.

I’ve been thinking about my own loneliness these past few weeks. What is usually a passing feeling of regret or desire once a month for a romantic or sexual relationship has been a common occurrence as of late. I do blame the pandemic for it, but I haven’t been able to figure out exactly why.

My friends are still my friends. I still love them with the same intensity and they love or care for me the same way. So why was this sufficient before in hiding that need for something else, something more intimate or romantic, but isn’t anymore?

And I think the answer is the physical aspect of any relationship.

Physical contact comes in various forms. You shake hands with a stranger you are being introduced to. You may instead opt for a quick hug. This hug lasts longer when it’s a friend. When you sit next to someone, talking about life over drinks, your leg rests against theirs. Hands touch.

For me, this has always been enough, especially at this point of life. I don’t want sex or anything leading to sex. Or perhaps, it is more accurate to say that whatever needs my body had were being met with by these moments of mostly platonic body contact.

But take all that away from me, like the pandemic has, and I’m left with nothing. I’m left with needs and desires that are not being met.

And this is why the loneliness has been worse than before.

 

Two years ago, I could watch one person in the room walk up to another, strike up a conversation and let out a sign of relief as they realise the attraction is mutual. I could watch my friends fall for people who fall for them. I could watch relationships slowly mature over time.

This could happen around me and not bother me significantly because I, in turn, looked around at my friends, people I love with all my heart, and be content with what I had. I could be content with life because I had something.

 

Quite a few of us met right before Sri Lanka went into its first lockdown. At that point, we were already concerned about the pandemic. A few were working from home. But I don’t think any of us knew what we could really expect in the next few weeks, months, and perhaps even years. That day, one of my closest friends hugged me, despite it not being something we do every time we meet.

This got me through so many moments in the following weeks. The loneliness and isolation that came with the pandemic could be tucked away in a corner and ignored for the most part because that moment, for me, was one of such joy and love and connection.

A few days before the second wave, we met again. We danced that night, again, something we never do. The happiness we felt that night was uncontainable. Anything could follow and it wouldn’t matter.

The third wave wasn’t so kind. It’s been over two months since I last met a friend. It’s been over six months since I spent time with a group of friends. The love, affection, support, encouragement, and kindness I continue to receive from them keeps me afloat. But I’d be lying if I say I don’t miss the physical aspect of those friendships.

What this long, pointless rant comes to is this: If I ever say I miss my friends, I am not implying that those friendships couldn’t make it through the pandemic. They have and I am eternally grateful to my friends. But what I am saying is that I miss their physical presence in my life.