What It’s Like To Feel Alone In A Relationship

I have always felt alone in romantic relationships. I have always felt like I was never truly theirs and never truly my own. It just felt like a sickening limbo of emotions sucking the life out of everything in its path. I was just a space traveling within the corners of my mind, wandering like a flightless bird. I’d clip off my wings right before they even could so that I didn’t have to anticipate the pain that came along with it.

I was the giver countless times without feeling any love in the same form. I’ve always been with takers, energy wasters, convenience seekers, liars and cheaters, soul beaters, and joy feeders. I have felt like no one has ever loved me completely, or as much as they say they do. There is always a cut-off of some sort. Some unsaid thing that doesn’t get me to their finish line. It never occurred to me that I was attracting these people because of something I gave off, or rather, something I was missing within myself. What was I missing? Why did it feel so far from my reach? Even when I came to terms with my emotions and sensibility, it seemed like it backfired more times than not. I’d give myself up freely to the first person to utter the words I love you, then they’d leave me more confused than when I even initially agreed to meet them.

You can only meet people as deeply as they’ve met themselves, right? That’s the universal thing people tell themselves when someone they meet doesn’t align with everything they anticipated. But what if you encounter yourself enough times after giving to someone without reciprocation that it undid the human need for validation? What if, in letting people go and being alone, you found a newer and self-fulfilled version of yourself every time? That’s how I started to feel after a while. I began to need less validation and less of everything. I became free of the needing. Coincidentally, that was also when God was able to make an impressionable appearance in my life. The thing is that sometimes we, as humans, fail to see that in desperately searching for someone to complete us, love us, or give us anything, we eventually end up at the same conclusion: we are born alone, and we are born complete.

But what if my healing isn’t enough? What if the pain never goes away? What does it matter, then, if I date another person? If I take a risk on love? What does it matter if I break my heart again? My parents have done it for years; they taught me how to reopen and reseal a wound a thousand times a hundred. Once I sat with those thoughts, it became more evident. That is why it started to feel gut-wrenching when I kept giving all of my good parts to people without a second thought. God created our good parts to do good things. And by that, I mean that almost unfamiliar joy we feel for everything before someone we love breaks our heart. That version of us exists to remind us that there was a time when we were unknown to the pain the world brought with it. But that’s what we’ve been used to—heartbreak. I think dating for me quickly became a pattern of brokenness and short-lived feelings over the years because people made me feel detached from the fact that love is a beautiful thing. I felt torn between how I felt in a relationship versus when I wasn’t sharing myself with anyone. Why did it feel better to be by myself?

We have designed this idea that to be loved, you have to be willing to give up so much of yourself to get it back. We all deserve love, but what if the one God gives us is the one that transcends all pain and heartbreak?

After my first relationship, I felt like I was always more in my head than physically present in every relationship. I knew I needed time to be by myself; I needed God more than ever at that time. But the oxymoron with knowing too much sometimes comes with unbearable dread. Before I knew it, I had once again willingly chosen to trade my healing phase for anybody that made me feel an ounce of love and affection because I knew that somewhere deep inside me, I didn’t trust that I would heal. That fear started to creep in that I’d believe everything someone could say, but not what I knew was best for me. The only thing I seemed to reject with my whole damn body was loving myself. That half-lie half-truth was roaming in my head that I’m too broken for any sustainable healing to happen. That none of the love I give myself would ever be enough for all the pain I have endured throughout the years. I started to believe that “self-love” is not immense and could never be big enough to cover up the giant world-sized holes within me. That is until I found God’s love for me and realized that he’s why I have always felt so different from the world. I still know nothing, but if there is one thing I believe with every nerve in my body, God’s love is the only thing that can heal us till we’re whole again.

I think, though, that different types of love do exist. The one found in a relationship is powerful, I must say. It’s more foolish not to believe it’s out there, to refuse to accept that someone was perfectly crafted for you by God. I don’t believe in soulmates, but a person meant for you? Definitely. Either way, love hadn’t been kind to me for years; why would it start now? Maybe that’s why the love I have found with Jesus has been the strongest. The one that has never left and always stayed.

In every relationship, I have stayed for the wrong reasons and left for the right ones, a song that never misses a beat. I’ve gone through every overbearing thought that crushes the spirit before making that decision. And for some of those, I’ve gone through days cursing the night for existing. Did I love them? Aren’t I supposed to want a relationship as badly as everyone else does? I’ve gone through the negative self-talk, the self-doubt, the belief that maybe there is something wrong with me, that there always has been. The thought that my aloneness is pushing everyone in my life away. I wondered for hours, only to return to the same comforting thought: I love my own company. I still wonder how many heartbreaks it takes to develop this strong sense of self. But also, is it something to be proud of or something so heart-breaking? I don’t feel anything anymore or expect anything from anyone. Is that why being alone makes me feel whole?

And then, after all that, there is also this loud yet peaceful silence. Silence is good. Silence is the only place where I feel okay. The silence of my aloneness being sufficient rings in my ear until it reaches every part of my body. It pierces the coldest nights and brings me back to myself when I feel too alone for the world: the expectations, the job requirements, the status, age differences, the friendships, and relationships. The silence I feel when I am hurting. The silence I feel when I don’t think of anyone. The silence I feel when I sit alone to talk to God. This silence has taught me to understand myself in ways no one has ever understood me. It has been the sole reason why I speak less and do more. The reason I leave without letting anyone know. This silence has taught me that I have reasons for doing certain things, which is enough to do them.

But all you see when you meet me is the girl with a big heart. The one that lets things go so quickly. The one that doesn’t seem to care about anyone or anything. How can she be so naive? How can she just let them hurt her again? How can she see life through rose-colored glasses all the time? But you know, it’s because this version of her is the one God created, not the one the world has tainted. This version is so light; this version of her is so happy. This version of her is the happiest she’s ever been. You see, this version of her is more understanding of what life gives and what he takes away for the better. This version carries an internal source of joy that is not dependent on the outcome of anything. Maybe that’s why I’m in love with this version of me I’ve created for myself—nothing could ever break her heart. Perhaps this is why I feel okay with feeling alone because I know this place is where I feel at home. The place where I am alone, just God and me. This place where I am not striving, I am not fighting, I am not seeking. Maybe this is what life is all about. Entrusting God with everything you are and are yet to become.

My story is only a reminder to you reading that you can heal. If you feel this way or have before, know that God has a plan for you, and the only way to heal is through him.