There are worse things than being alone. There are worse things than being alone. There are worse things than being alone. I said it over and over again as tears pooled near the bridge of my nose. Underneath the covers I was in a tight fetal position with my arms wrapped around my chest, my right hand cupping my left cheek wiping away the tears that rolled in that direction. The phrase became something of a mantra. There are worse things than being alone. Over and over again I whispered those words to myself as I lay in total darkness waiting for something, for sleep or peace or stillness or acceptance. Something. Someone. I must have laid like that for nearly an hour. The moon was especially bright as it tried to wiggle it’s way through my blinds. My phone told me it was 2 a.m.

Not an hour earlier, I was sardined in the middle of a crowded bar pulsating with loud music and sweaty human bodies vibrating in the throws of joy. Whitley, a DJ friend of mine with a fairly sizeable following in the city, was playing that night. People make it a point to go to her dance parties. She spends an awe-inspiring amount of time planning and executing fun. Fire-eaters, fog machines, coordinating motifs, body paint. I had yet to make it to one of these locally famous events but I pictured Studio 54 or lower Manhattan in the 80’s.

I wasn’t there for her though. I was there for him. He was one of Whitley’s best friends whose picture online caught my eye. He looked kind, intelligent, fun, and adventurous, all things I concocted for the sake of the story in my head. It’s impressive what kind of narrative gets built up around a stranger’s picture. In a moment of bravery I texted Whitley for details. To my delight and surprise, she confirmed my original assumptions. Kind, intelligent, fun, and adventurous. She even took it a step further and suggested that we meet. A casual set up. That Saturday night she’d be hosting one of her dance parties. It was the perfect opportunity as he was certain to be there. Just like that, I was put on some list somewhere to get in the door.

My nerves were in high gear as I stood outside a nondescript black brick building that Saturday night. Its walls were rattling on beat with the music coming from within. Ellen was going to meet me there in case I needed social backup. We worked the same shift at the restaurant earlier that night and I begged her to accompany me to the bar. She agreed under the condition that I pay her cover and get her moderately drunk. It was an easy negotiation. We both went home to change and would meet at the venue.

I assessed the scene while I waited outside in my meticulously selected outfit of khaki shorts and blue gingham shirt. Like a social anthropologist I observed a pack of friends smoking outside the entrance. They were effortlessly cool and aloof, a multi-racial, co-ed, tattooed, not-really-hipster-but-still-kinda-hipster group of millennial club kids. They wore clothes as nondescript as the building behind them and their power seemed to be sourced from a complete lack of trying to be cool. I made mental notes. That’s when my pocket buzzed.

I didn’t need to look at my phone to know that Ellen was bailing on me. She was already late and I just had a feeling. Her text said she was tired from being on her feet all day and would I hate her if she took a rain check. I replied that it was totally fine. I lied. So with a rising heartbeat and no more reasons to procrastinate, I walked toward the bouncer to meet my fate.

I tried to channel the club kids from outside as the bouncer looked for my name on a handwritten list. With a stamp on my hand, I was in. My eyes needed to adjust to the darkness and fog. Bodies filled every nook and cranny of the bar that lay before me. I tried not to panic. I forgot that it was 80’s night as a Whitney Houston club mix blasted my ears. I thought it was just fortuitous that How Will I Know was on when I walked in. A good sign. Whitney was always a comfort. The rest of the night would be filled with Madonna, Bon Jovi, Journey, and Michael Jackson. I sang along in my head as I meandered through the densely packed crowd. Before I could even make my way to the DJ booth, I stopped for alcohol.

“Gin and tonic, please!” I screamed to the hipster bartender. She appeared to comprehend. As she poured cheap gin over too much ice, I wondered how on earth this poor girl wasn’t deaf.

With piney liquid courage in hand, I pushed and shoved past exuberant millenials toward Whitley. She was covered in every kind of neon color and seemed to be deep in a DJ trance. I wasn’t sure what the protocol was to get her attention. Was it rude to pull her out of her groove? Is that a DJ pet peeve? When she saw me though, she practically ran out from the booth to give me an excited hug. Maybe it was foolish to be so nervous. I told her how awesome it was to hear to her play and what a great crowd it was. She cut to the chase and told me that her friend (the one whom I decided I was to marry some day) was “around somewhere” but she needed to get back to the booth.

“I’ll hang near the bar and let you play!” I yelled as I raised two overly enthusiastic thumbs up. I already felt like an idiot.

I returned to the not-deaf hipster bartender who poured me another gin and tonic as I chugged the remainder of the first one. I stood there and looked through the crowd. Where was this guy? What would I do when I saw him? Why was I so nervous? I surveyed the scene. The median age was maybe 24, definitely younger than me. The guys wore shorts shorter than the girls. The energy was kinetic. A sea of arms suddenly shot up into the air as Like A Virgin came blasting through the speakers. Everyone was clumped together in groups of 4 or 5. What on earth was I doing there?

Person after person bumped into me, this stationary object at odds with the rhythm of the room. I tried to take up as little space as my 6’0” frame possibly could. My arms were pinned by my sides with my drink held tight into my body. I scanned the mob for Whitley’s friend. I would have recognized him given how much I studied his face ahead of time. No dice. It was doubtful that I could have spotted my own mother in that mob.

Each sip of my drink led to more and more regret. I felt like a fool. How did I think this would work? This wasn’t the right environment. The music, dancing, drunkenness, all became overwhelming as I pictured myself actually trying to have a conversation with a man here. How would we exchange numbers? How could we hear each other? Would his friends just stare at me? Why was I overthinking this? My heart started beating harder and harder. It felt like something was wrapped around my chest.

I looked up and saw that I was outside again. It was all too much. My ears throbbed as I tried to get my bearings out on the street. What a pathetic loser. There was no way I had been in that bar for more than 10 minutes and I was already ordering an Uber to take me home. I prayed it wouldn’t be the same driver I had on my way there.

I could assess the damage later but I needed to get out of that place. A minivan that could hold eight people pulled up right in front of me. I stepped into the cavernous vehicle and thought it was a cruel reminder of how alone I was. There was no posse of drunken friends filing into that van with me, no new man to flirt with, no one but my driver whose name I probably didn’t learn in the first place. The lump in my throat rose higher and higher as I fought to hold everything back.

My tiny apartment was pitch black when I entered. I didn’t bother to turn on lights as I walked toward the bedroom. The tears that accumulated under my eyelids in the van were now starting to freely roll down my face. I kicked off my shoes once I got to my bed and crawled under the covers. My khakis and gingham were still plastered to my body.

That’s when it all came crashing down. The humiliation, the sadness, the pity, the despair. One by one they all made their way into my bed with me. Humiliation kept tickling my feet even though I repeatedly ask him not to. Sadness could not stop putting her cold hands on my neck to warm up. Pity kept hogging all the sheets and Despair snored so loudly I knew I wouldn’t fall asleep. These were to be my bedfellows that night.

My freely flowing tears grew into a quiet weeping. My breath was uneven and my eyes became swollen. Instinctually and involuntarily I folded onto myself. I wrapped my arms and legs into the tightest ball I could manage. I was cradling me. I sought safety and smallness. My body was braced for tragedy.

That’s when the words came out of my mouth. It didn’t feel like I was speaking them so much as they had simply been lurking in the back of my throat waiting for the right moment to sneak out. There are worse things than being alone. At first I thought someone else had spoken them. Maybe Humiliation had given up on tickling me and was talking out loud. There are worse things than being alone. My voice startled the silence of that apartment.

Again and again I said those words. The ebb and flow of speaking helped to regulate my breath. After a few minutes my weeping reverted to a simple cry. Pretty soon my body relaxed into the mantra. With that incantation, I eventually let go of the deathgrip I had on myself. It softened into a gentle embrace. I was no longer under attack and my body finally realized it. In those moments I nursed myself like a parent soothes a distressed infant.

I felt so stupid for going to that bar. I knew better in the first place. There were just too many triggers for social anxiety. It wasn’t my kind of place to begin with. I didn’t fit in. How could anyone find someone like me appealing in that kind of situation? How could anyone find someone like me appealing in any situation? How could someone who’s kind, intelligent, fun, and adventurous ever be interested in a slightly chubby, funny man who listens to Enya and doesn’t have his life together? I’m broke, I’m loud, I try too hard, I don’t have a six pack, I don’t have a career, I’m too opinionated, I’m weak, I don’t fight for things, I make excuses, I’m not cool enough, I’m not gay enough, I’m too gay–

 

Stop.

 

There are worse things than being alone.

 

Breathe.

 

Every time my thoughts got back on that loop of self-implosion and self-desecration, I returned to those words. It calmed me and ushered me back into my body. I continued saying that phrase for an hour. I may have said it a few thousand times. Suddenly the words left as quickly as they had arrived. Without warning, they just stopped. My body had purged what it needed to purge and I took one last deep breath, rolled over, and immediately fell deep into sleep.

***

So what happened? Did I have any kind of revelation? Did I slay some inner demons and emerge victorious on the other side? Not really. I thought the same awful thoughts about myself that sometimes come to me in my sadder moments. I didn’t pick myself up by the bootstraps and I didn’t give myself an inspiring pep talk. But at the same time I didn’t just wallow in the misery. I found words that helped me stay afloat. Perhaps they found me.

I showed up for myself. I showed up in the same way that a loyal friend or committed lover or nurturing parent or protective sibling shows up. I didn’t storm the gates in a desperate Hail Mary rescue mission. All I did was show up in the face of sadness and hold my own hand. In that very moment I became everything I needed. It was complete self-sufficiency.

Were the words particularly uplifting? Not really. Some people would hear that phrase and feel worse. It was pure comfort to me though. There are worse things than being alone. It isn’t false hope. It isn’t “love comes when you least expect it.” It isn’t “love yourself first.” It isn’t “one day” or “don’t worry” or “he’s out there.” It’s not light and fluffy but it is real. It’s grounded. It’s present tense. In one sentence I was able to acknowledge my own pain without belittling it.

When I sat in that pain, I became the epitome of all things gross and unlovable. Those words got me the hell out of there. They brought me back to earth. For just a brief moment they stopped the paintbrush that made me out to be the villain of my own story. They gently placed me back into my body, back into my senses, at least until the next breath. From here on out, I can use that phrase whenever those cloaked and sinister thoughts begin to set up camp within me. Maybe that’s the gift in all of this. I’ve been given one more tool to combat the chaos in my own head. The best part, the most empowering piece of this story, the sweetest footnote, is that I was the one who gave it to me.