From a young age I had problems, such as anxiety, depression, and severe PTSD. These are things I was never really able to deal with, mostly, because I wasn’t allowing myself to. I did everything in my power to keep myself busy. I read, I worked out, and even I spent time with friends that I didn’t like. That made me numb. So I expressed my emotions through fits of anger, sadness and extreme abuse.

I found that being the way I was made me act in ways that made people stressed out, ways that hurt those around me. I made my mom cry, yelled at my brother and dug a deeper grave for myself. I couldn’t handle myself, I couldn’t talk because new problems would form as a result of my crappy attitude.

I then resorted to my most common tactic of coping: isolation, a silence so loud it made me deaf to anything but. I let my depression take over and followed any and all orders it gave me. I skipped meals, slept in, missed school, skipped showers, gained weight and even got sick because of it. But then I found myself laying in bed one day, it was early morning and my mom walked into my room. She sat down next to me like she often did. She was just checking in on me, even though I didn’t deserve it.

I checked my own routines. I spent hours in my room alone, but I checked in on her often. More than I checked in on myself. I made sure she had eaten, that my brother was okay. I did what she asked with what little motivation I had. I was willing to take care of others but not myself.

This was normal for me. I was not using my alone time in a way that would benefit anyone, not even myself. That was until my family went out of town for a couple of days. I couldn’t avoid my problems any longer. I had to deal with them, or they would deal with me—destroy me from the inside out and make me take what little will I had to live and burn it out.

I woke up early, showered with boiling water and worked with the one thing I could control. I cleaned my room and cleaned around the house. I took back control little by little within the few days I had to myself.

Being alone makes me miserable. It never feels like I have enough things to do, or it feels like I have too much to do. But being lonely gives me time to love myself, and it took me forever to realize that being alone does not mean you’re lonely. It just tends to make it easier to feel lonely.

Being lonely forces me to look at the problem and decide if I am going to let it fester, become bigger and begin to hurt me more. Loneliness has shown me that while I don’t have to face my problems alone, it doesn’t mean I can’t. Loneliness forces you to be strong and decide that you need to be your own hero, and look for the small, stupid reasons to stick around (like no one being around to feed the house pet for the next few days).

I got to see that loneliness shouldn’t be this great obstacle that makes every day more miserable. It should be an opportunity to move forward. To look at your flaws without outside opinions and find a way to accept them, to love them, or change them.