when the bass drum hits

loneliness hits in my brain like a low-level bass line in a distant song. sometimes i can barely hear it, just imperceptibly nodding my head to it's rhythm as i go about my day. other times, it's loud and pervasive and it's all i can hear, thumping through my ears and my brain and my heart and my body.  i can't do anything to escape the thump, thump, thump of the bass, playing a song i can't quite hear but still can't escape. 

loneliness has a funny way of showing up, i think for everyone, but it feels especially laughable as a part-time working, married mother of three small humans, who lives in the middle of a suburban cul-de-sac in white America. Even amid the quieter quarantine months of COVID, days are filled with: bus stops, lunch packing, yelling out the windows, pick ups and drop offs, endless virtual meetings, text messages, distance-filled masked parties and cuddling on the couch next to a husband. the irony of it all is that despite the constant activity, the cloud of loneliness hangs over and even the busiest moments are overshadowed by something i can't quite put my finger on but can't ignore.

combating loneliness, i turn to working out. pounding loud, dancey music through a speaker and throwing heavy weights around until the sweat pools under my arms and in the creases of my legs and i forget that no one sees me because i'm lost counting to twenty, over and over over. i ride the bike, over and over and over, listening to denis tell me that 'when the bass drum hits, the same leg kicks'. despite the sweat, music, and exhaustion, the same leg keeps kicking and kicking into the fog of loneliness.

sometimes i turn to friends and social media. losing myself in posting the perfectly snarky, humorous post to prove to everyone else, but mostly myself, that my life is full of people and things that matter, and people are actually paying attention or care for me. texting or dropping off baked goods or gifts to win over the affections of friends. on the surface i look like a caring, thoughtful friend that remembers your cat's death or the hard work at week you had. i look like my life is polished and sheened- just messy enough to be obviously imperfect, but perfect enough to share. underneath, i am desperately reaching for attention. importance. returned affection. craving for the details in my life to become important to you too. the unreturned text messages, un-liked or unviewed photos tell me i'm not important, i haven't quite got it yet. loneliness prevails and the bass hits on. 

most often i turn to drinking. drinking is a perfect escape; and six months into a pandemic fraught with political tensions and racial division, memes and jokes and moms tell me it's ok to drink at all times. so my drinking goes unnoticed by most, and encouraged by many.

i am a good drinker, if you consider being able to consume a mass amount of poison while still maintaining functionality, a skill. i can drink a bottle of wine alone over the course of two hours or so, and still hold a conversation, still put my kids to bed with coherent story reading and prayer time and tuck-ins. i can stay up and paint my nails or paint a bedroom after drinking- anything goes at this point because the loneliness has finally quieted down and i have nothing in my brain except the desire to do, do, do to keep the lonely thoughts, the desperate thoughts, from returning. when i drink, i can be numb on the inside and present on the outside. i don't shirk any duties or take any time off, so i don't have to pay any tax or penalty for the time i've been gone. it's an ingenious solution, a perfect meld of both worlds of numbness and presence.

until it's not. binge drinking takes it's toll on me quite easily, and i swiftly spiral into a downhill race between self-hatred and self-pity. i never cry or get outwardly emotional when i've been drinking. but after a few days of blissfully numb evenings, my head gets the best of me and the thoughts swirl around and the best thought i can grasp on to tells me that i'm better off not around, the world is unsolvable, and self hatred wins the race. the bass line of the loneliness breaks through even the haziest of wine nights, and kicks a deep, resounding groove in my head that tells me, in fact, you ARE so horrible, your loneliness is real and no matter how much you try, you'll always be alone. 

when i stop drinking, avoid social media, and ease up on the rigorous exercise routine, the pounding of the loneliness fades a bit. i become less obsessed with myself, more aware of the small beauties of the world. i can practice presence and appreciation, compassion and permission. 

yet i can still hear the faint bass line kicking around in the background. without the numbing, overwhelming effort to drown it out, the thoughts are amplified by the quiet and empty. i am left with unanswered texts, un-liked photos, and relationships that feel untended by anyone but me. are those measures of connection? probably not. but if they aren't- what is? 

sometimes, on brave days, i try to step into the loneliness by trying to kick a different foot in response: i voice my needs, share a feeling, contact a friend one more time. but the same bassline returns: lonely, unmet, unseen. i don't know how to step into this fiercely uncomfortable space. after some time here, i don't know what is real and what is made up in my head. my thoughts tell me i am overreacting; yet my feelings hint that i'm still alone. my relationships tell me they are here, and going nowhere, but my experience tells me that i need too much, expect too much, too much. 

i am now trying to sit with this bass line of lonely. learning not to turn it up, and not drown it out. i'm not even trying to control what foot kicks when the same bass drum hits; i'm just noticing which foot kicks, and how that feels. every song has a bassline.