The Loneliest Year: Part Thirteen

March 2021

I spent multiple days revising poetry.

Darren and I finished the second draft of our script, and we held a Zoom table read the following Sunday with a dream cast that included Michael Hitchcock and Phil LaMarr.

I discovered a script on my computer for a short film I’d started in May that I’d completely forgotten about, and it was actually pretty good.

I slept with my neighbor again, because I thought it might be enjoyable. Instead, it was incredibly painful, and I bled for hours afterward. Got me again, Universe. Ha ha, yes, joke’s on me.

The next day, I fell to the floor and cried during one of my workouts, because life felt immeasurably hard. And it didn’t have to be. If only things had worked out with Jesse. If only Cesar had moved in. If only.

I heard a beautiful chord progression played on guitar by a guy named Mateo whom I followed on TikTok. I reached out to him and asked his permission to sing over it, and he said I could. I downloaded the track to my computer, and I discovered the lyrics and harmonies as I recorded the vocals. I sang from my heart about how I wished I could be with Jesse again, and when it was done, I named it “One Wish.”

That same week, I recorded another song, “Nobody Like Me,” from a track my friend, Anthony DiMeo, remixed from the demo I made inspired by Cesar.

So many muses. So much art.

At the last minute, I decided to write and submit a short story to Vocal's Little Black Book challenge. The prize was $20,000 and the deadline was the next day. My story took me fourteen hours to write. I started around 2 PM, and I wrote until I fell asleep on my couch, and then I got up at 6 AM to work on it some more. While I was writing it, I not only laughed, but I was also moved to tears by my own words. And once I’d finished, I knew in my bones that I’d created something special. I titled it “When You Least Expect It,” and submitted it to the competition well before the deadline.

A few days later, Gaston D’Agrivieri sent me a $20 tip after reading it, and I got really emotional, because it was the first time I’d ever been paid for my writing.

I also sent my story to Jesse’s friend, and she texted me that she thought I was a beautiful writer, and it brought me to tears. It meant a lot that she took the time to read it, and later, she connected me with someone who might be able to help me get literary representation.

I coached my friend, Rachelle LeFevre, on a sitcom audition, and then we chatted and cried together for an additional thirty minutes.

I went to a restaurant for the first time in over a year with my acting teacher and friend, Crystal Lowe, because she was starving. I was a little nervous at first, but the patio was empty except for one other person, and we sat far away. I also didn’t eat anything. I just had some juice, because I was intermittent fasting, and it was too early.

And that brings us to today, March 15th, 2021. 2065 years after Julius Caesar was assassinated by 60 conspirators in the Roman Senate.

As I write this, I feel similarly betrayed.

Et tu, life? Et tu?

What a strange and brutal time. I wish spending a year in isolation imparted me with some uplifting, heart-warming lesson deserving of being featured on Upworthy, but it did not.

I find no solace in being strong, and I have no interest in inspiring others with how much suffering I can withstand. It annoys me when I see posts online telling me to be grateful because I’m “still here.” Most days the pain is so unbearable, I wonder if I might not be better off dead, and honestly, it hurts less to not force myself to think positive thoughts and express gratitude. I just show up the best way I can. I love myself, and I love my (mostly atrocious, godawful) neighbors, and I do the work—the hardest way possible. Without anyone to hold me at night. Without any relief or reward.

I haven’t heard anything from Jesse since June. I miss him every day. And I love him as much as ever. And there’s peace in that for me. Loving him is easy. It’s being separated from him that’s hard.

Cesar and I still text a few times a week, and sometimes we talk on the phone. We can talk about anything, and we have a non-romantic intimacy that I don’t take for granted. I still have hope that we’ll be roommates someday. Maybe even boyfriends. If not him, then Jesse. And if not Jesse, then someone better.

Yesterday, I got a message from a guy on Hinge named Isaac. He’s a writer. He’s cute, and he’s nice. And we’ve talked two days in a row now. I don’t have high hopes or expectations. I’m simply open to the possibility of something good. Heck. Something amazing, even. Heaven knows I deserve it.

The weirdest thing is, the Facebook post from last March was right about the theme of my life. During the bleakest year of my life, I was definitely lonely, but I was never alone. I grew closer to my loved ones, I was able to be there for my friends (who were there for me in return), and I connected with people all over the world. And I did it all as my truest, rawest, most authentic self. No filter. This is me. Here I am. Crying on the floor of The Grove. Debbie Allen REALNESS.

And even though I still cry every day—full disclosure: I’m crying now—no matter how much I’m hurting, or how many times life betrays me, I’m more than okay with being “too good” in a less-than-kind world. Not everyone has a heart that’s so big, it can break into a billion pieces each day, and a year later, it’s still big enough to love.

But I do. And not even the loneliest year ever could take that away from me.

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Note from the Writer

This is part thirteen in a thirteen-part essay series that details my year in quarantine from March 15, 2020 to March 15, 2021. If you enjoyed this essay, I hope you'll add a heart and read my other essays and poems.

Tips are not mandatory, but greatly appreciated.

Thank you for reading.