For much of my life, I’ve faked connectedness. This meant lying to family members about events and dates on my schedule—even leaving my visiting older sister behind on my couch years ago because I had a (imaginary) brunch date. Countless times I’d rummage through my purse for my stillborn cell phone (it was vibrating, I’d say) and engage in witty repartee with Myself. If I had the rare guest over (I could not allow any guest to glimpse the isolation in my life), I’d surreptitiously call my landline (from the bathroom), rush to pick it up and proceed with another one-way social charade. This often ended with me speaking the following words into the phone, “I’d love to, but today’s no good.” I won’t get into the social club I was president of at age 9, and the regular updates of my “It Girl” happenings I gave to my skeptical mother.
Medical research suggests the outlook is grim for the chronically lonely. I can’t imagine living any other way…