How to Be Lonely

A recipe for disaster.

First, you have to get dumped.

It’s best if you’ve been dating for a long time, and it was serious. About two years should do it. You should really love him, at least most of the time. You should probably have had discussions about moving in together and whether you’d be okay with your future kids being raised Catholic. You’re pretty agnostic, but you mostly love this man, so you say, sure, we can raise Catholic kids, as long as we teach them that birth control and abortion and being gay aren’t sins. Your boyfriend, he’s fine with that. (Obviously, birth control isn’t an issue — it’s 2007. You’re 30, and kids are a long ways away.)

It’s okay if the relationship is toxic and you fight all the time, because if it weren’t, it might not end. But one day you need to get into a fight so bad that there’s no coming back from it, so bad you have to fly home the next day because you’re on vacation and you can’t bear to look him in the eyes. 

Your rage is fully justified; of course it is. He told you he wasn’t sexually attracted to you the way he used to be because you’ve gained some weight over the past year, even though there’s been no change in your (excellent) sex life. He says he’s “worried about your health.” You are currently a size 8 to 10, instead of the perfect size 6 (except for pants; your hips were never small) you were two years ago. You’ve been trying to quit smoking — of course you’ve gained weight! It definitely has nothing to do with the wine you’re now drinking almost every night. But you picked the fight, you made it worse and said unforgivable things, and now you’re stuck with the results.

Second, you have to ignore the facts.

Okay, fine, you broke up. It was bad. It was dramatic. You were very, very drunk (and so was he). But you’ve broken up before, so many times. You’ve always gotten back together. It is imperative that you continue to pretend like this time is no different.

You were in the process of moving to the city where he lives, and since you don’t have a job (long story) or any better ideas of what to do, you decide to proceed as though nothing has happened. You will move to his city, you will get back together, everything will be fine.

You decide to rent a slightly larger and more expensive apartment than you originally planned. By this point, you know that not only will you get back together, but after you do, you will surely move in together, so you need a place with space for him, too. 

Is this completely delusional? Yes. But also, no — you have broken up and gotten back together, like, a lot a lot. Also, he just slept with you again after a beer festival, and that has to mean that he’s not over you, right? Anyway, this is all part of the process. It takes a lot of steps to make a recipe this complicated.

Third, you have to plan to get him back.

Your plans involve, over the course of a couple of months (and in no particular order):

• Going to his favorite bar even though you hate it (but not on nights where he might be throwing darts, so it’s clear you are not stalking him or anything)

• Going to the same grocery store at which he shops (which, to be fair, is also the grocery store closest to your home)

• Crashing the 40th birthday party of a former president’s daughter (she’s friends with your ex’s roommate) because the party is in his apartment building

• Going to neighborhood festivals because you might run into him

• Finding every excuse possible to go to the restaurants you used to go to together

• Texting him about football

• Calling him to come over and help you assemble IKEA furniture

It is essential that none of these plans work and that you do not run into him more than a couple of times. (He does, however, help you build one piece of furniture.) Everything you try must fail, so that you will end up on New Year’s Eve at a party in his apartment, having not seen him in a month, literally throwing yourself at him, with absolutely no response. (Well, he kisses you — it is New Year’s, after all — but then he pulls back and tells you he has a new girlfriend.) You need this night to not only end in tears, but to end in such abject misery and humiliation that even your completely delusional mind can finally realize that this time, it’s truly over.

Fourth, you drown your sorrows.

They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. But you’re crying way too much for that. Okay, there’s the guy you hook up with after a Super Bowl party, but you know nothing will come of that because he’s not over his divorce, and you are definitely not over your ex. So you turn to the second-best (but really the best-best) option, which is wine. Wine has never let you down; it won’t this time either. There are so many new wine shops to explore in Atlanta. Even Kroger has a fancy selection. And Whole Foods sells six packs at a discount! You like this so much that when you create an online dating profile a few months later, you list this as a thing you like to do: “Get six-packs of wine at Whole Foods.” No red flags there! On the other hand, you’re young, and a lot of people have comments about their favorite booze in their dating profiles. (Clearly, a bourbon guy is a much better option than a tequila drinker.)

But you haven’t gotten to online dating yet. You’re just drinking at home, alone. Sometimes, over dinner in restaurants alone. Very occasionally with friends.

That brings you to the next step — you have to lose almost all your friends. 

Dating someone in your friend group is great when you are still together. When you break up and your friends choose him over you, it’s isolating. Yes, they were friends with him first, and also they are mostly guys and he’s a guy, and also he’s now part of a couple again with his new girlfriend and they are all part of couples. And sure, you’re not that fun to hang out with anymore, because all you do is cry and complain about him and drink too much. But you had been friends for seven years, and it hurts like hell not to get invited to things.

One girlfriend takes pity on you, and you go out for Thai food and see a few movies — Rachel at the Wedding, some others you don’t remember. Then she ghosts you, too. Years later, at a wedding, you will ask her about this. She will drunkenly scream at you about what a terrible friend you were and how you don’t remember her brother’s name (which, at this point, you legitimately do not). She probably has a point, although the delivery leaves something to be desired.

Now for the hard part: You must find new friends.

You try:

• Going to college and grad school alumni events

• Going to see bands play

• Going to new bar and restaurant openings

• Going to art openings

• Going to networking events

• Going to yoga classes

• Hanging out at the pool with your neighbors

• Meetup.com meetups

• Watching soccer games in bars

Mostly, you meet no one and talk to no one. You stand in the corner awkwardly at events and wish you still had friends. But you do start hanging out with two people you vaguely knew in college who are also new in town. They don’t drink like your old friends do — no more closing down the bars, no more raging parties. This is good, you think, it’s grown up. You need to drink less anyway.

The next step is self-improvement. 

Every breakup requires a refresh. You get a haircut, dye your hair a darker shade of red. You do a detox at the yoga studio. You start going to a personal trainer. You will never get a revenge body, because you just aren’t that motivated, but maybe it will help to get some exercise.

You decorate your apartment just so, because if your home is perfect, everything else will be too. You get a galvanized steel planter for your front door and Marimekko Unikko curtains for the giant windows and your first couch ever that didn’t come from a thrift store. Does this involve spending a lot of money? Yes. You must spend a lot of money. This part is crucial. But you’re worth it. The economy has been great for years. You’ll get a job soon and finally be able to pay off your credit cards, you’re sure of it.

You get older.

Death, taxes, birthdays: inevitable. You are 31 today. A few months from now, a singer you love will release a new album with a song entitled precisely this. The chorus goes, “I thought my life would be different somehow, I thought my life would be better by now.” You play it on repeat all summer.

You attempt to throw a raging party for your birthday, a 1997-themed party, as if you’re turning 21 instead. You invite everyone you know (except the ex, obviously). People come. It’s a good time. But the people you had thought were once your closest friends? Most of them don’t show up.

Okay, fine, it’s time to try dating.

You should sign up for the online service of the moment, or maybe three of them. A friend just got engaged from eHarmony, so maybe it could happen for you. You match with a teacher and make plans to get pizza. You’re so nervous about the date that you have two drinks at home and are an hour late to meet him. You have three drinks over dinner and try not to talk about your ex. You think it goes decently — and you definitely look hot — but by the time you have gotten home, he’s unmatched you. You cry, not because you wanted to date him, but because he’s not your ex.

You should repeat this pattern a few more times with a couple of very nice guys who don’t deserve you showing up late and tipsy and leaving the date to go home and cry. You finally come to your senses and delete your profiles.

Next, you get a job.

Freelancing is hard in the best of times, and these are not the best of times. You decide maybe you should give up on writing, try something new. Retail seems like a good idea — you love clothes — and restaurants are always a classic. You shouldn’t take just any minimum wage job, though. It needs to have the veneer of cool over the reality of shitty, underpaid work. A hipster clothing chain and a wine bar sound like good options. 

Surprisingly, working at the wine bar decreases how much you drink, because you aren’t allowed to drink on the job, and you’re too tired to drink when you get home. But being on your feet all day at age 31 hurts much more than at 20. The pain feels validating in some way, like you’re proving to the world just how committed you are to the bit. (The world, it turns out, does not care.)

You give up.

Does this step have to happen? Only if you really, truly want to succeed at being lonely. Teetering on the edge of the abyss — anyone can do that. You need to fall.

You have to run into your ex and his new girlfriend eventually. It’s not that big a city. It happens at a cookout on the Fourth of July. You cry a lot and smoke a lot of cigarettes, and everyone at the party just kind of ignores you — who can blame them? And, well, that’s that. 

You go through the motions at work. You go through the motions of living. You just want to die. You are so tired of being sad and alone and the wine isn’t helping anymore and the Klonopin isn’t helping and the Ambien only puts you to sleep for six hours. You just want it all to end. You think about floating off to sleep in the saltwater pool, but you don’t want to create that kind of trauma for your neighbors. They’re all so lovely, even if you never became actual friends. And you can’t leave your dog. She needs you. So you keep waking up and you keep pretending like everything’s okay, like you have this glamorous single life in the big city. But nothing is okay.

Eventually, you go online.

At some point, you start playing Scrabble on Facebook with someone you went to high school with. He’s always online, always looking for a game. You can sense his loneliness through the ether. Or maybe you’re projecting, because you need him to be lonely, too, so you don’t feel alone. Anyway, you play these games every day, and he beats you almost every time because he’s really, really good at Scrabble, and you are just decent. But just having that one next play — that means you can’t quit it all. You have to finish the game. You have to keep trying so that the next time, the next day, maybe you can win. 

You start writing occasional posts for a popular sports blog. People start leaving comments, and you start replying to them. It doesn’t take long before you are sucked into the online community of commenters: witty, profane, some lonely just like you. People who will comment all day long. All night long. If you can just stay in the threads, you’re not alone. You don’t know anyone’s real name or where they are or what they look like, but these avatars are there for you.

It’s not much, but it’s enough.

You try dating, again.

It’s been a year since that blowout fight. You should be over him, right? You meet a nice girl. She’s intelligent, pretty, successful, financially stable. She owns a lovely house and an adorable dog. She invites you over to watch football one Saturday. It turns out to be one of the worst games of all time, historically terrible football from which you can’t tear your eyes away. You are drinking excellent wine and snacking on fancy cheeses — it should be a dream date.

Then a friend texts with the news: A famous writer he loves has killed himself. You haven’t ever read his blockbuster novel, but you’ve read most of his essays. You’re stunned. He was sober! He had everything going for him! How could he let depression do this?! You feel not quite Elliott Smith-levels of sadness, but you’re shaken up. You text the friend all night back and forth.

Your sadness ruins the date. You don’t go out again. 

Finally, you give in.

It’s time. Time to capitulate. You’re still not over him. You’ve been laid off from waiting tables — the recession means no one wants to spend money eating out. Everyone around you is talking about “hope” and “change”; you wish you felt it, but you don’t. So you take the final step: You succumb. You are lonely and always will be, and this is what adulthood is.

You embrace the loneliness, wrap it around you like the duvet under which you’ve spent so much of this year, and you find it fits surprisingly well. This is what you were so afraid of all those years? You can, it turns out, eke out an existence without a boyfriend, without a large group of fun friends, without a career, without a plan. Once you’ve discovered how to kill time this slowly, it almost becomes a superpower. 

You are lonely. So what? You thought you would die, but you didn’t. You can take this power with you and move away to another town in another state where you know no one. When that doesn’t work out, you can do it again. And again. Sure, you’ll fuck a lot of other things up, but you’ll wear your loneliness like your favorite DVF wrap dress, confident in how it makes you feel, as long as there’s a bottle of wine somewhere nearby. 

Nothing can hurt you. Nothing can touch you.

These steps work, I promise.

Thank you for reading my first monthly essay! Does it work quite as well as it could? I’m not sure. But did I meet my self-imposed deadline? Yes! Next’s month’s essay will be much more fully formed, I promise. And if you like my work, please share it with others and/or subscribe. If you don’t want to pay Substack, there are other options.