On loneliness

Loneliness is an awful beast. I'm not shy of being alone; give me a long, empty road to run or a cosy corner and a massive book - these are some of the greatest things life can offer me. But being alone and being lonely are two different countries. Since moving to England, I've lived longer in the latter than I care to remember. And this despite being happily married to a wonderful, supportive man. No, loneliness is an odd disease that strikes anyone, anywhere and without warning. It forces you so deep into your own skin that no-one can penetrate and though you might rail and try to tear yourself out, you are simply standing in a crowded room, screaming at the top of your lungs in mute. As if you have relinquished your own power to some unseen hand that stops your mouth and presses on your chest. And so, cycling home from Soho after a dance class and an evening at the theatre last night, I was amazed to realise that the weight is gone. I don't know why it went, or when, but its no longer there. I can breathe again, and speak myself to the world. I only wish I knew how I threw it off, because I know that this malaise is far more common than is given credence in our society. All I know is that it feels wonderful to be so light again.