The Lonely Empath

*trigger warning: this blogpost’s contains the subject matter of mental illness. Discretion is advised. If you are suffering with mental illness, talk to a therapist, your physician, and/or your insurance about a proper treatment plan for you. This blogpost is purely for entertainment purposes and should not be taken as professional advise.*

I got diagnosed with depression and anxiety in 2017 but with the stigmas that come with having a mental illness, often it’s easier to just tell myself that I’m a bitch with terrible emotional control. Plus, the lack of literature and studies when it comes to the mental health of women, much less women of color, I pretty much want to storm out anytime someone recommends affirmations and intentionality. Although that’s pretty hypocritical of me to say considering how much money I have invested on mediation apps, cute cards decks that have affirmations written with beautiful graphics, and books that promise to change the way you look at life.

It’s quite a cliché to write a modern love letter-esque post about your mental illness.

Not to mention Anne Hathaway nailed her performance as the young, independent gal with a zest for life who lives a double life whereby day she’s a happy-go-lucky entertainment lawyer and by night she’s secretly suffering with bipolar that radically changes everything about her within seconds.

But it makes sense. Sometimes the only thing that keeps one company is their own mental illness that they find themselves taking solace in it. One becomes uninterested in the people that are actually in their lives and the lean upon those who are just figments of their imagination.

These figments of imagination know exactly what to say and what to do when you’re at your most vulnerable; that can’t be said for others. And in those bouts, you forget that the only reason the figments of your imagination is better at comforting you is because they are you. But at that point, who gives a crap. They’re saying the right things when no one else is. And slowly you’re falling in love.

The words come from plush, hushed pink lips that make for the most beautiful smile when stretched. When you dry your tears, you replace your own hands with his slight bigger hands, and you imagine them just ligger on your jaw as he whispers comforting words in your ear. You find yourself leaning for a shoulder and find your pillow instead. You quickly make an adjustment in your head and basically lie to yourself. Ah, to finally be in love with a person who finally gets you. His only shortcoming, he’s a figment of your imagination. But what does it matter when he’s the only one who makes you feel less lonely.

He’s so entrenched in your life that every time you breakdown, you find yourself giving him The Talk.

The Talk: it’s the speech that every self-diagnosed fucked up person gives the significant other when they’ve seen too much. Mine goes something like this:

“Listen, if you want to leave, this would be a good time to do it.

And don’t stay because you think that’s the right thing to do.

I don’t want to be the one that damages you for the next person.

I’m not trying to make clones. And don’t burden yourself by staying

to help me through this. You’re only going to make it worse for

yourself. Is this what you want to deal with for the foreseen future?

I don’t want to be the person you feel like you have to be strong

for while you’re struggling about something and think you can’t tell me

cause I’m not strong enough. Please, live your life. And live a good one.”

Pretty good, right? I tweak it every now and then as per the demand of the situation. Sometimes when the words don’t come out, I just let my actions speak for themselves. Generally, the actions are more affective because people don’t even try to argue with them. They just leave. And good for them for having some self-respect. No one is responsible for another person's mental illness. Especially when it makes the relationship toxic.

It just sucks that it doesn’t bode well for me.

I create company that often makes my mentally-ill loneliness feel even more desolate. And how it oh-so often makes the real people in my lives seem so far away. Because that’s what no one tells you: mental-illness makes you think you can handle it all on your own to avoid being the burden of others and vulnerability becomes a DEFCON 1 scenario solution. And it runs like most government agencies where nothing would be put into action till the whole fucking world in falling apart and they have to start making a new, negative number. The people’s tax dollars will be put into hiring a mathematician from Cambridge or something. There is a gaping crack in Somewhere, Macedonia that is pulling people in to their deaths because of the physics of gravity while a man with an old-money name and a coat with elbow patches is looking at a bunch of equations and graphs.

There was something I read that I think about every so often which ended with the words, “while I enjoy being alone, I don’t fancy it.”

How about that?

In loneliness I create a false sense of company because it’s the identity I’ve created for myself: the lonely empath. Quite an oxymoron that plagues our society. Except, the difference with me is that I get overwhelmed by people which leads me to make my own imaginary friends whose made up emotions overwhelms me even more. But it's the pattern that I've found solace in because imaginary friends aren't real. And real people are fucking scary.