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HIGH GEAR/JULY 1978

LIVING WITH LONELINESS

By Mitchell Menegu

It began like a typical bar conversation. To his "How are you?" I responded, "Good. Not superb but good." I expected an equally meaningless answer to my echoing question that was a necessary part of the ritual. Instead, he said, "Incredibly lonely." I could think of no response in my arsenal of smail talk adequate to that admission and confided, in turn, "That's really what I mean by 'good.' I keep reading that it's the most common condition of life in our society."

There seemed to be nothing more to say. "Incredibly lonely": I remembered speaking the phrase aloud to myself at various times over the years when being alone seemed to be more than I could bear, when speaking the phrase aloud at least broke the silence that was seeming to suffocate me. What could I say? I knew that I as well as he was in the bar to escape loneliness. We are friends as people who talk to each other in bars with any regularity are friends. To the extent that we know each other, I think that we like and respect each other, but there's probably no sexual attraction between us. I don't think either of us thinks of himself as a "hot number," but talking to each other would provide an indication to some stranger in whom either of us might take an interest that we are at least not completely anathema. Only the "hot number" can sit alone in a bar and not feel completely undesirable. He asked me, "How do you bear it?" I was not sure how bear it, but I answered, "You get used to it. I've been dealing with it longer than you." There is, I estimate, probably fifteen years' difference in our ages, and, although I was certain that I had felt the loneliness just as acutely as he was feeling it I had the evidence of time to prove to me that i could survive the pain. Still it was a pain that I was feeling that very night, even if to

a lesser degree than he was, and I didn't want to be reminded of it. I found some reason to move away and talked for a while with others.

Later, I could see that he was suffering the pain even more intensely. He looked as though he was struggling not to cry out. I knew that struggle even though I had never permitted myself to show it publicly, and I laid a hand, comfortingly I hoped, on his shoulder. Suddenly he asked, almost angrily, "How do you go on?"

The question stung me. It seemed almost as though he were telling me that I had no right to have lived with loneliness over so many years, that I should have put an end to it, even if necessary by putting an end to my life.

I offered the only answer that came to me then, telling him that i can go on because I'm still fascinated by the possibilities of what may happen next, if not to me, to other people whose lives I enjoy observing, but preferably to me. i admitted to being essentially an optimist who, despite what might seem to be monumental evidence to the contrary, still can believe most of the time that I may find and recognize that I have found that indefinable person -whom, in fact, I have often defined in precise detail -who will make me forget what loneliness is.

My answer was probably not useful. In succeeding days the question continually rose to my consciousness. "How do you go on?" I've considered some of the attitudes and actions that I've taken to cope with loneliness that might serve him most of the time as they do me.

I've come to appreciate being alone. Admittedly, the positive feeling of being alone is sometimes replaced by the negative feeling of being lonely. Neverthless, sometimes I can enjoy not having to answer to anyone for my whims. I can listen to whatever music appeals

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to my mood without regard for anyone else's tastes. I can eat the food that suits my appetite at whatever hour of the day I am inclined to enjoy it. I can always sit in the easiest chair. There are even surprising advantages to having to face oneself without the buffering and support of other people; doing so, I recognized attitudes and patterns of my life that I had no choice than to change.

I eventually came to accept responsibility for my feelings of loneliness. Although I wish often that someone would take the initiative away from me, I don't expect other people to call me. I don't spend time waiting for the phone to ring. When I need companionship, I swallow my pride (a foolish pride, I'm convinced) and call friends to try to arrange some social activity. If all else fails, I go to a bar; I've gone to local bars often enough so that I can usually find someone that I know to talk to at least.

If I can possibly avoid doing so, I never turn down a social invitation. (Surprisingly, I feel more confident turning down close friends who I am certain

will not mistake the refusal for rejection.) I sometimes almost dread fulfilling some of the engagements that I accept, but none has ever been so bad as my worst imaginings (at worst, they have been reminders of how pleasant being alone can sometimes be). I don't feel that I can afford to turn aside any proffers of friendship, even from people that some of my closer friends choose to ridicule.

If I have to make a choice between sexual gratification and friendship, I always choose friendship. There are friends for whom I continue to lust, but my ardor for others has cooled into a mellow sense of good feeling when we are together. The point of importance is that we can be together, that we both then are not lonely. Too often-on the basis of casual observation, I'm almost prepared to say "most of the time"--a trick is nothing more than a physical release and a momentary salve to one's ego as proof of the one's continuing desirability. The episode may be repeated, but I've heard many people swear adherence to the "three times and they're out" rule. Unless, as seems

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rarely to happen, a trick becomes a friend, the aftermath is renewed loneliness. Among some gays I know, even acknowledging a former trick with a "hello" is considered improper, definitely "not cool."

I don't blame my loneliness on my being gay. In recent years, I've come out to a few members of my family and to the straight friends who are important to me. If any change has occurred in our relationships, it has been in the direction of greater closeness and increased ease in one another's company. I do recall, however, the intense loneliness that I felt in my. closeted years when I led a life of pretense with family and friends and could not conceive of being so open as to have gay friends, if there were anyone else in the world besides me who was gay.

Finally, I can go on because i do not allow being gay to be all that defines me as a person. I ́ make the satisfaction of doing my work weil an important goal in my life. I give attention to and develop my knowledge about interests and hobbies that can fill, time pleasurably and meaningfully.

In these ways I do go on, usually quite cheerfully. Being cheerful is important, I think. Some of the friendships that I have developed are the result, I'm convinced, of my making it... easy for people to be with me. I'm not a Pollyanna, and I occasionally drop the burden of my loneliness on friends; they take up the burden because I've shown them that it won't be on them for long.

Yes, I do go on and want to continue to go on. I'll bear the moments of loneliness so that I can enjoy the anticipation of change. But more than anything I want the change to come, to know the security (even the turmoil, if that is what it should involve) of a mutual commitment. I don't forget that I too was at the bar that night because I was lonely.

See America. Find a friend.

WITH BOB DAMRON'S ADDRESS BOOK '79

BAGS BATUS DISCUTS HOTELS BEACHES RESTAURANTS USA PUERTO RICO VIRGIN GLANDS GUAN-CANADA

BOK DAMRON ENTERPRISES PO BOX 14-877-SAN FRANCISCO CALIFORNIA 94114-1415) 626-4812