the thing that doesn’t kill you makes you weird at parties

the thing that doesn’t kill you makes you weird at parties

There is an inherent loneliness nestled under my ribcage, and I would love to pass blame — my teens, the pandemic in my youth, capitalism, the recession, male emotions, my phone, childhood molestation — and the thing I probably fear most is that the issue is just me.

I am standing in mismatched socks on the white tile of your kitchen floor, staring at the shape of your cupboards. There is a mostly-finished fourth drink in my hand but a limited amount of vodka in this flat, so my focus is on that instead of the tall ginger I am making laugh. It’s one of those parties where both liquor and sandwiches are welcome gifts, and I got a full tour of the bathroom before I took my jacket off. There is no background music, but the neighbours are enjoying my confessions tossed out of an open window, and we can hear the rapid beeps of the pedestrian crossing barely across the street. I spend most of my small talk almost immediately, because as funny as I am I still carry the compulsion to spill my darkest secrets into a porcelain sink. Don’t get me wrong, I love a house party — the intimacy of strangers crammed into your bathroom, the comfort of your sofa, with your bed so close to you. Nevermind, I also see how an apartment can ruin the moment. Read: buzzing yourself up, being quiet in the hallway, the seconds after you knock on the rented door when the caverns of space and time open up to swallow you whole. It does seek to kill the vibe before you even get to see the host.

Did any of you guys think Jared Fogle was a cannibal, or was that just a weird dream I had?

Once the anxious trembles are replaced by the false smoothness of tipsy-drunk, I am allowing myself to undo the stitches of my stomach and have strangers fondle the scars left there. It’s a fun introspection I bring to the room — not only do I not care what you have to say, I am also so intently focused on how this moment will become a memory, the way I will retell this night to someone else. My goal is not friendship or a fun night. It’s a story I can tell on another night, to a different stranger, with the same bitter, drunken sadness in my eyes. I am here to farm for material. That kind of nostalgia for the next month, if I get there — I can see the headlights before it makes the turn, I can sense it gaining on me — gets to ruin a moment by draining all of the joy out of it before it can slide between my ribs.

Let’s shift tabs back to the moment. My best friend clocks out from her hosting duties to drag me into the bathroom, the voices muffled with the turn of the lock into a plywood frame. We tumble into the enamel tub, me after her, sixteen again just for a moment. Our feet swing over the bathroom rug, which I’m pretty certain is the twenty three year old version of seeing how high you can go on the swing. She talks about university and biology and the boys on dating apps. I tell her about all the people that I love so much, even though I am sure they tell strangers horrific things about me. We both think the other deserves better, and no matter how much we hear it, it will never hammer home. She fixes my lipstick and traces the blade on my sternum. I wonder if she knows that there is a universe crammed into the chestnut of her irises, but the door is swinging open before the words leave my throat.

I don’t know, I think I’m more of a Marnie.

I let myself freefall back into the living room, bouncing rudely between conversations, making bad jokes. A fleeting second of the afterlife of the party. I think I am just pretty enough for my presence to be tolerated, maybe even enjoyed, which is one of the reasons why I make them approach me. There’s a reason why you are most likely to find me, at this point of the night, sitting down on someone else’s tiled floors. Almost anyone, their legs crossed, both hands wrapped around a — sloshing, but stable — red solo cup, eyeliner eyes shutting, looks gorgeous. It tends to drag people down to your level.

Why on earth are you wearing a Florida State sweatshirt?

A pretty girl with a boyfriend is taking the bait, and I have to bite back a smile. It’s actually sickening, how well rehearsed I have this routine, all those lonely nights as a kid when I nailed down my timing in an empty bedroom. I can lure you in, and by the time you realise there’s nothing behind my vapid smile I’ve already moved on the next. But don’t think about that. Look at how sparkly my eyeshadow is! Listen to all the fun and wild things I’ve done, and ignore the fact that it’s all in the past.

And then, one of those quiet moments when your brain decides to speak up — I am a little too drunk for this room. It’s weird I bought a nice bottle of wine to a night like this. I am the least interesting person in the room.

I take a bigger gulp and try to push past it. My harlequin smile is stretched wide, just toeing the line between genuine and aspartame. It’s not too bad, mostly because I can play most things off. Yes, I was a compulsive liar as a child and also a teenager and also last week, how could you tell? Most chinks in the armour can be fixed with a quick deflection and a feigned interest in a singular, upper arm, fineline tattoo.

I think all of your friends are laughing at me.

As always, the sadness hits me faster than the alcohol ever could. Nothing, not even a hint of foreshadowing, and then all at once. The pit of my stomach tells me to run. I am saying my goodbyes through clipped breaths, using hugs with strangers to bury my tears. My smile is so wide, Pearl-y white, splitting up my cheeks into pale pink shards. You tell me we should do this again soon. I promise that I can’t wait. My breath chills up in front of me, mixing with cigarette smoke.

I don’t even think I’m the voice of this alley.

My stumble-walk home is through a city trying to sleep. Shop shutters sit on flagstone pavements, fast food establishments dim their signs, apartment lights flicker off. I turn up my earphones and clutch my keys between my fingers. The starlight guides me where the streetlamp falters, and I trace my fingers against flodden walls. Grounding. There is a draft of tonight already running in my head, a highlight reel re-winding itself like a fresh VHS tape, the comedy coach in the back of my mind picking out my best moments. The success rate leaves me almost giddy, everything in my system putting off the shame until the next morning, when I will hate myself again. The cherry blossoms glow in the twilight, sucking up the smoke of my cigarette.

My apartment mimics the layout of the party, minus the lights and the volume. I find myself stripping off my pretty girl costume in the hallway, pouring a glass of wine in the kitchen, unscrewing a water bottle in the living room. It’s nice to kid myself that I enjoy my own company. Soon enough, I am curled under strawberry sheets, some sitcom filling up the double bed, a once cream teddy bear wrapped in my arms.

I am just a touch less lonely than I have been in months.

bibliography

Klinenberg, E. (2018). Is loneliness a health epidemic?. The New York Times, 8-L.

Snell, Keith DM. The rise of living alone and loneliness in history. Social History 42.1 (2017): 2–28.

Watson, J. and Nesdale, D. (2012), Rejection Sensitivity, Social Withdrawal, and Loneliness in Young Adults. Journal of Applied Social Psychology, 42: 1984–2005. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1559-1816.2012.00927.x