​Built a fortress of solitude with my own two hands. Now I’m stuck inside.

You never know true loneliness until you are actually, literally alone. ​I know what you’re thinking. “Oh OP, come on, that’s not possible. I’m sure you have someone. A quirky coworker? A low-maintenance succulent? A single, depressed goldfish named "Bubbles”. Shakes head emphatically. Nope. I have absolutely nobody, and that also includes fake plants and animals of any kind.

Sure, I have biological individuals in my phone contacts who technically carry the title of "family," but that is where the contract ends. We have zero connection. We aren’t close. If I were a character in a movie, my backstory would just be a blank screen with dial-up internet noises playing.

​So here I am, living my best (worst) life of absolute isolation. But the truth remains; I did this to myself.

And do you mind if I’m real with you for a minute?! I am 100% the villain of my own story here. I am the one who chooses to stay isolated from others and treats the outside world like a toxic ex I’m avoiding at the grocery store. I can’t even be mad at anyone else because I literally built this fortress of solitude with my own two hands.

​But man, the rawness of doubt hits different at 8pm on a Saturday night. The loneliness just seeps into my pores until it feels like a second skin I can't unzip. What I actually want.. it’s not rocket science.. the connections I’m looking for are so aggressively simple. I just want: To be seen.​ To be heard. ​To genuinely believe, for five minutes, that I am worthy of existing. It sounds easy on paper, right? But finding it; is playing life on hard mode. Why? Because apparently, the woman I am is not the woman any man actually wants to build a life with. I am nothing more than a woman men desire for a fleeting second before they bounce. It’s not like I’m a robot; I actually have feelings. But honestly, having emotions might be the exact reason I keep getting left behind.

However, the irony of being an emotional woman is that men absolutely love that intensity and passion when it’s happening in the bedroom. It’s great for them. It’s exciting. But the absolute second they step back out the door? That same passion suddenly becomes "too much," and they drop it like a hot potato. Turns out, they want the heat, but they can't handle the fire.

​So, once again, the passion gets left at the door, and I’m left with exactly what I started with: my old pal, Loneliness.