Perhaps because my only sibling is an older brother by several years, I spent most of my childhood entertaining myself. Sure, I hung out with other kids in the neighborhood, but when I couldn’t, it was often me, myself and my Barbies.

I believe that this is one of the main reasons I am very comfortable being on my own much of the time. I don’t often seek out my friends (new or old) to hang out with, mostly because I honestly forget that they are an option for entertainment. I forget that they might want to interact with me, as I often don’t have the pressing need to do so with them. We will each other when we see each other.

I would like to think that this is why I find myself alone so often. But then, on a Friday or Saturday night, I see photos on Instagram and Snapchat, of laughter, of groups going out or staying in. And I want to be with them. Sometimes after I’ve turned down those same laughing people that night.

Sometimes, on these nights, even as I try to remind myself that I do have friends that I could be with, or who care for me, I find myself feeling cripplingly alone. Dark thoughts fill the corner of my studio apartment, where I lie in a fetal position, facing the wall. Against my pillow, my head rings with heavy-handed loneliness. As I long for someone to reach out to, it tells me that this is how it has been and will always be. There is no person in this world who will want to (or be able to) understand me enough to truly know me. Know me at my best, and at my worst.

This is not homesickness. The nature of these nights is the same as it has been for years. Maybe being so detached from the world I know best amplifies the pain, but only by degrees.

Admittedly, after so many years, I am exhausted. It is the same story, time again and again, with no resolution. I bear it until it ends and then try to enjoy happiness until the next time it comes.