25-12-2024

The last 12 months, I’ve read a few self-help books. Who am I kidding? I haven’t read a few; I’ve read a shitload of self-help books. And in every single one of them, there’s been one common thread, one golden rule they all seem to agree on: if you want to get better, you need love.

Love from a partner. Love from family. Love from friends. Every single book points to this magical solution: having someone there to support you. It’s presented as the key to breaking through, to healing, to resolving whatever mental health struggles you’re facing. And yes, I get it, having a loved one by your side can make all the difference. Studies back this up. The recovery rates for people with strong support networks are significantly higher.

But here’s the thing those books don’t talk about: what if you don’t have a loved one?

What if you don’t have a partner? What if you don’t have close family or friends? What happens to the people like me, the ones who don’t have a support network to lean on?

Let me paint you my picture. My family and I, we’re not close. Sure, we’re bound by blood, but that’s it. If we weren’t family, we wouldn’t be friends. I care for them because society says I should, but they’re not the people I can turn to when life gets hard. They’re not the ones I can confide in.

I did have someone once. Someone I trusted, someone I could open up to. But she’s not here anymore. And in my time of need, when I was drowning and needed her most, she abandoned me. I never abandoned her, not once. When she needed me, I was there, even if I didn’t always have the right words. I showed up. That’s who I am. But when the roles were reversed, she left.

So now, here I am. No partner. No family I can turn to. No one to pick me up when I fall. And the truth is, there are a lot of people like me out there, but their stories aren’t in those self-help books.

Loneliness isn’t just silence; it’s the weight of carrying everything alone. It’s feeling like your thoughts are too heavy to hold, with no one to help lighten the load. And yet, somehow, we keep going.

That’s what I want to talk about. What does healing look like when you’re the only one in your corner? How do you move forward when there’s no hand to hold, no shoulder to cry on?

Hope plays a role in this, too. And hope is a strange thing. It can be the light that keeps you going, that small flicker that says, maybe things will get better. But hope also has a darker side. Because when you put everything into that hope, when you believe with everything you’ve got that something will happen, and it doesn’t, hope can feel like a betrayal.

What do you do when the thing you were clinging to crumbles? When the hope that kept you alive is the same thing that drags you down? It’s a delicate balance. Hope can save you, but it can also break you. When the thing you’ve been hoping for doesn’t come, it leaves you feeling like a ghost. You’re part of the world, but not really. You’re there, but you’re not.

So what then? When hope feels like it’s failed you, where do you turn?

Here’s what I’ve learned: when you have no one, you still have you. It’s not a magical fix, and it doesn’t make the loneliness disappear. But it’s something. You become your own safety net, your own cheerleader, your own support system. You learn to sit with yourself in the silence, even when it’s uncomfortable. And god, it is so uncomfortable. There have been times I’ve wished I never existed, and I know there’ll be more times like this.

But there are also small things that help. Writing has been one of those things for me. Putting my thoughts down on paper helps me make sense of the chaos in my head. Reading, too, has been a lifeline, it gives me a sense of connection, even when I’m physically alone.

If you’re in this place, where it feels like you have no one, I want you to know you’re not really alone. There are people out there who understand what you’re going through, even if we’ve never met. Our journeys might be solitary, but they’re shared in spirit.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s still a sliver of hope worth holding on to. Not the kind of hope that depends on someone else, but the kind that comes from within, the hope that you can make it through, even if you have to do it alone.