I was effectively an only child at home with my elderly parents. I say ‘elderly’ without exaggeration, because in those days (the 1970s), if you had a child in midlife, you were properly over the hill. Growing up as the only child in the house was also boring as hell. Or at least that’s how I remember it. No one to fight or share the bathwater with. Camping holidays stuck in a soggy field for two weeks made all the longer for the lack of company. On the plus side, my oldest sister often carted me along on days out with my nieces (five and nine years younger than me). I remember often trying to wriggle out of going, even if my favourite activity, swimming, was on offer. Maybe because that stint in foster care as a toddler had me on high alert every time I left the house; just in case I wasn’t coming back? Just a thought.

The kids from the housing estate cul-de-sac where I grew up were often accused (mostly by me) of leaving me out. I’d often come hurtling through the front door into the arms of my mum, bawling my eyes out because I’d felt isolated by childish jibes. I can remember trying to verbalise what had happened, between huge gulping sobs. Mum just sent me right back out there for more despite my pleas for her to go and give them all a good telling off. She never did.

In my street there were three sets of siblings to make mud pies and play kiss chase with. They made me feel like the odd one out simply because of their numbers. Not one singleton among them; just endless bickering between oldest and youngest every time we played out on the street. And play out we did. A lot. Those were the days when parents kicked kids out of the front door after breakfast, grumbled like hell when they inevitably reappeared hungry for snacks and lunch, then called us back in when the street lights glowed that weird amber. I say ‘they made me feel’ left out. Actually I probably did a lot of the work on my own. What I didn’t realise until much later on, was that I’d been part of a family of four other children in foster care. So being suddenly single again was jarring. My subconscious knew this wasn’t right.

At school I found my place, sandwiched between the boffins and the cool girls. Neither camp really embraced me fully. I had lots of friends, yet was often left out when other girls were invited over for tea after school. I used to think it was because my house was boring as hell, so when friends did occasionally accept an invitation, they were affronted by the old-fashioned furniture, and even more old-fashioned parental attitudes. My parents were pretty strict, and not particularly sociable either. And they definitely weren’t cool. I remember hiding my dad’s collection of classical music vinyl just in the nick of time. All the other dads were listening to Dire Straits. Mine was into Rachmaninov. Plus, I was mortified every time someone asked why I lived with my nan and granddad.

During the teenage years, I’d occasionally be invited along to illicit pub crawls. But more often than not I’d hear all the latest gossip about who had snogged who, and who had thrown up in the neighbour’s bushes, second hand across the classroom. My answer to all of this was to get a job at the local pub where the kids from school snuck their underage pints of snakebite and black. This was the way to win friends, it seemed. The landlord turned a blind eye as I pulled pints and smoked at the end of the bar with the girls from school. Cool as you like, for once.

At university I spent more time on the train back south than I did on campus, or that’s how it felt. I was lonely and isolated at the other end of the M1. Yet when I was at home it didn’t feel comforting. I was stuck in no-man’s land. Neither truly belonging, nor a misfit as such. The truth of it was that having a boyfriend who lived 200 miles away at another college made me restless. It’s hard to settle anywhere properly when you’ve always got one eye on the door.

After university I moved to London, and moved in with the same boyfriend from home I’d been on-off seeing over the four years as an undergrad. I was out of step yet again with my work cohort; they partied and rinsed every last drop from early ‘90s London life while I played homemaker at least a decade too early. Now, I can see I was just trying to make up for never feeling at home anywhere. I needed to create my own little family nest. It’s all so obvious to me now as I connect the dots from the vantage point of midlife. Hindsight really does afford the opportunity to see things more clearly.

Right now, I’m living in a marriage that’s more lonely than I would be on my own. I’ve been wrestling with this for some time now, trying to put into words the way I feel about being a stranger in my own home. By chance I recently discovered the most true-to-me way of describing the loneliness you feel when you’re in the wrong marriage (or a marriage that no longer serves you). The words of the wonderful Elizabeth Day when she guested on Davina McCall’s podcast, Begin Again are gold. Here’s what she said about the demise of her first marriage:

“It’s so painful knowing you’re in the wrong marriage. There is no loneliness quite like it. Many people, understandably, are terrified of being on their own, of taking that step and of ending a relationship. But the loneliness you’re feeling as part of a couple is the worst kind. Because you feel alienated from the person who should be the one to make you feel loved and safe and secure. When do you know? I had a period of feeling deeply unhappy but not knowing why. Feeling numb. Part of the process was allowing for it to happen. I allowed my body to take over. I couldn’t mentally think my way through this. I had to allow myself to feel it. And then suddenly – it felt sudden even though it had been gradual – it was “I need to leave”. It was an instinct. A primal, bodily instinct that took over. I heard myself loud and clear. It was a gut feeling. I’ve got to go. It was an emotional safety thing. I need to get out or I’m going to lose myself. Trust the process and your body will tell you”.

Yes! Elizabeth. You’re absolutely, viscerally, totally right. It is the worst kind of loneliness in a way. But loneliness, real and imagined, has haunted me for too long now. Don’t get me wrong, this isn’t an ‘I hate my parents’ rant; they loved me in their own way. I didn’t want for anything in either material or physical terms. But, sadly, emotional understanding and connection were not things they were able to offer me thanks to their own issues and upbringings.

In all of this, there’s one big caveat. I’m not actually lonely, and probably never have been. There’s a huge difference between feeling lonely and being lonely. I’ve always had a bunch of lovely friends who I value beyond life itself. My best friend and I have known each other since we were two years old. We still see each other regularly. I’ve come to realise that, probably if a therapist were to analyse my life, the loneliness I often feel is partly down to being neurodivergent. That feeling of being an outsider. The otherliness of it all.

As I get older, I’m finally starting to unravel the threads of what this all means. And it’s high time for this little-girl-wrapped-up-in-a-55 year-old-body to say enough; to offer myself the hand of friendship and the warmth of love I so desperately needed as a child.

With love (to me, and to you)

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