Part One: I never knew loneliness would be a consequence of my divorce

We all dream of divorce. When you’re in a marriage. I did. I’d lie awake at night and think of what my life could be like.

If I look back, I didn’t have much imagination. I wasn’t jet-setting off to New York, or flying to Positano to have a love affair. I did enjoy the possibility that I could be intimate with someone else, that’s about as risqué as it got. I dreamt of living on my own, leading my own life, making decisions just for me. I always felt my husband’s actions were a reflection of me. I wanted to represent myself and be responsible only for myself. 

Despite my limited imagination, I did believe that once I crossed the divorce finish line, healed* and was unleashed back into the world, my new life would be filled with drinks out with friends and dancing at clubs, gatherings at my apartment where my girlfriends and I would quaff wine and chat for hours, laughing our heads off, losing it at music festivals, and group beach days, and, and, and…

I have had this. And it has been fun and delicious. But it’s not all day, every day. And the reality is not like in the movies. Sometimes it falls short and sometimes it’s much, much better. But I’m spending a lot of time alone. I’m finding this decade a lonely time. And I don’t write this in a self-pitying way. Just as an experience. I thought I’d beaten the lone wolf out of me and that I was done doing things by myself. But sometimes it feels like there’s a distance between me and the world.

I like to be spontaneous. In the past three years post-divorce, I’ve learnt that some degree of planning is required to keep the loneliness at bay. I had a single friend who would plan out her weekly social calendar, and at the time I found it a bit sad. She had to have a social event on a Wednesday, for balance. I didn’t like the idea of being too structured about my social life. But here’s the difference. I’m not single in my 20s with other single friends. I’m 40 now. My friends are married and many have young children, their own families and are working moms.  

After learning the hard way, I now plan … a little. What was the hard way? Quiet weekends with little to no socialising. Making last-minute plans but no one is available. Feeling alone when I thought I should be having the time of my life.

Then, one day I was so fucking lonely, I called my friend. He picked up, he was on the beach. He’d just bumped into another friend of ours. (In my mind I thought, why the F did you not invite me!) I cried after we hung up because it sounded so fun over there. But I did end up joining them, and drinking far too much wine, sharing through my tears, how lonely I’d felt and finally having an ice-cold swim in the sea. Later that night, I met a beautiful man and we fell in love. The universe works in mysterious ways.

Your friends who are in a relationship don’t know, or forget how lonely it can be. I’ve been on the other side. Also, I don’t have children. I’m not part of a big family that is close. And I’m not a reacher-outer. What does that mean? It means when I’m struggling, or feeling lonely, there’s not a chance I’m going to message, voice note or, god forbid, actually call a friend. That is precisely the time I do none of the above. I isolate. The irony is that some of my friends have shared that they do the same thing. Some have also shared how they, at times, feel lonely even in their marriages, even with a child curling their arms around their neck. 

Part two coming next week.

Postscript: Today, I came home to my own apartment. It’s slightly messy. My nail polish is out, my one plant is thriving. I’ve got multiple handbags scattered around the entrance and lounge. There is facial mist, papers … it just feels like a lovely feminine mess and it’s mine. I know that one day I’ll look back on my light-filled apartment and what I’ll then consider an uncomplicated life and I may miss it. In this moment, sometimes, right now … I catch a glimmer of what I do have. And I don’t feel lonely. I feel full.

*It took me nine months in my dressing gown but, I know I’ll look back and realise … it’s years darling, it takes years.