An article came across my social media a little while ago. Please take a moment to visit the link and read the article.

This part struck home:

Neil said, “The funeral wasn’t the hardest part, the hardest part was when everybody went home afterwards and I walked back into the house on my own. For the first time in forty years there was nobody there. No conversation, no television in the background, no one asking how my day had been, it was just silence. That was the moment it really hit me that Linda wasn’t coming back.”

I’ve written about grief. I’ve written about how the sharp edges become dulled over time. What I hadn’t thought about was grief’s co-conspirator—loneliness.

When Paul died, and my body rebelled, I became rather preoccupied with simply dealng with all the crap. Having a cat helped, too. Billy-puss gave me companionship, a little furry touchstone that was there to greet me when I came home, and was happy to sit with me when I needed company.

After I lost Billy, I thought I would be able to make the most of my new-found independence. With no ties, I could pack a bag, hop in the car, and just go places. I joined a modelling club. I became a member of English Heritage. I started a ladies’ coffee morning.

I should note here that my neighbours have been nothing but supportive. If I ever needed anything, I only had to ask. They always ask how I am when we meet. Of course, I have masked most of the time, and make out I am doing well. 

All this is well and good. I am building some kind of social life. But…

When the ladies have returned to their own homes, when I get home after a club night or a day out, the front door closes and I am on my own again. Loneliness closes in once more, emptiness stretching out before me.

I can fill the emptiness with podcasts, favourite YouTube channels, music. It does help, though I find so much of my favourite music now just makes me sad. I am reminded that I am not in a relationship any more.

Some people can cope with solitude, or at least pretend they cope. I can do that, for a while. Earlier in my life I expected I would be a singleton for ever. Then, I met Paul, and we ended up sharing our lives for most of forty years. Now, I’ve forgotten how to be single. I feel the loss of my partner, companion, soulmate, all the more keenly. I want to be in a couple again. I want to be with someone so we can share the ups and downs of life.

I suppose I should just get out there and find someone. There, though, hangs an entirely different story.