198. The Lonely Stories – Natalie Eve Garrett
It was hard to be deeply lonely when surrounded by the hazy echoes of my former selves.
Growing up, I used to imagine that all of the past versions of myself were still everywhere I’d ever been. It was a bit like believing in ghosts and a bit like having imaginary friends, but they were just younger versions of me. I’d spend an afternoon romping through the woods alone; at night, lying in bed, I’d picture myself out there, eyes shining in the dark. Part of me genuinely believed that I was still out there, or that day’s version of me was, along withall the other versions of me that had ever romped in the woods. As an introspective, creative, and frequently sick kid, I found this vision both slightly unsettling and profoundly reassuring: no matter what happened, I’d always be there for myself.
Episodes of prescribed solitude were a constant throughout my childhood, precipitated by sinus infections, migraines, anxiety, and chronic fatigue before it had a name. In my elementary school class, I was the one who was “always sick,” although I felt ashamed when classmates would say, “You’re alwayssick,” as if to suggest that I was never really sick but instead secretly wanted to spend days home alone in bed, my hands pressed against my temples. Overall, I was fortunate: my afflictions were neither severe nor life threatening; I had two caring parents with good health insurance; my mom could take time off of work to shuttle me to doctors and help me recover from two regrettable sinus surgeries. Nevertheless, there was no magic cure. So I waited it out, in the dark, alone. When my head throbbed, there was nothing to do but lie in bed and rest. My imaginativeness was in part a product of all of this alone time, but it was also a balm. It was hard to be deeply lonely when surrounded by the hazy echoes of my former selves.
Now in my forties, with children of my own, I still get those migraines, but reclusive recuperation is harder to come by. Instead, I often find two sweet children jumping on me as I lie on the sofa with a compress over my eyes. In times like these, I’m sometimes flung back to memories of my children’s even-younger selves—the downy ringlets and squeakier voices, the way my daughter said pleps instead of please and my son hoisted himself upright by hugging my leg. Once in a while, I catch a glimpse of my former self in them, too, or spot a shadow of myself out the window, scrambling over fallen trees in the woods, calling me to me. These glimpses of the girl I once was, and in a sense, still am—wide-eyed, fragile, unsure, and brave—help me feel less lonely. Once in a while, I just need that reminder: I’m still here.
– Natalie Eve Garrett
