Questionnaire for the lonely
by Louise Hurrell
Photo by Pixabay for Pexels
TW: Depression, self-harm, suicidal thoughts
For each statement, please put a tick in the box underneath the answer which best describes your thoughts and feelings.
Never Sometimes Often Always
1. Little interest or pleasure in doing things
I stare at the statement for a long time, trying to catch my breath. Why the university decided to plonk the therapist’s office on the top floor is anyone’s guess. Already feeling pathetic at being unfit and stuck on the first question, I glance up at the empty waiting room as though the answer might be etched along the wall, or bobbing inside the water cooler. I even eye up the months-old magazines on the coffee table, wondering if they could offer any inspiration. The truth is, I’ve been ‘doing things’ for so long I can’t remember if I had any interest in them to begin with, or if I just did them because everyone else was. FOMO even before the acronym was created. I’ve just cruised along with no destination in mind, kept to the same routine. Lie in bed. Try to study. Stare at nothing. Chug wine. Google mental health quizzes and complete them. Cry myself to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat, day in, day out. Aware that the therapist will be arriving soon to scrutinise my questionnaire, I quickly tick ‘Sometimes’ and move on.
2. Feeling down, depressed and hopeless
Again, I pause. Feeling down seems a matter of perspective; I’ve never really felt ‘up’. I’ve been sad since secondary school, but the sadness rises and falls like waves, a phenomenon I have no control over. So ‘always’? Or ‘often’? Often, I’ll go with often. As I tick the second box, someone enters the waiting room. I see their scuffed converse as they slide next to me, but when I glance up I can’t see their face, hidden behind a curtain of hair. I don’t stare too long; I don’t want her to see me, judge me. Not that she would have noticed me anyway – she is already halfway through the questionnaire, clipboard firmly pressed on her knees. I wish I knew the right answers, knew my thoughts and feelings, my ups and downs. I hover the pen above the paper, unsure if my answer of ‘often’ is as accurate as I had first guessed. Meanwhile, my sofa companion is racing through the questions, barely stopping to breathe. I would be impressed if her assuredness didn’t reinforce my own general ineptitude.
3. Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much
Yes, always. I remember last night, hearing groups of party goers staggering outside. They whooped and hollered, screamed and shrieked like birds circling a harbour. It sounded fun. A part of me wishes I could join them, run out into the cool air with no jacket or hesitation and join them in the hunt for some late-night munchies. My stomach rumbles at the thought of food. But another, greater, part of me knows I cannot be with them, be like them. I remember every embarrassing encounter I’ve ever had; my shyness, my awkwardness. My inability to dress nicely, or go in the shower or, some days, get out of bed. I remember their sneers, their stares, their glances over the shoulder just to sneak another peek at that weirdo who is sad all the time and doesn’t speak to anyone and goes to Spar in her pyjamas. God, how I wish I could be like them but I can’t. I can’t, I can’t I can’t. I blink away tears and try to focus on the statement, try to recalibrate my thoughts back to the present moment but’s it’s hard, so hard with the floods of shame and self-hatred crashing through my body, covering every inch of my flesh until I shudder.
4. Feeling tired or having little energy
Always. Always, always, always. Tired because of lack of sleep, tired of being sad, tired of being lonely, worthless, hopeless. Tired of this life. I thought once I arrived at university my life would be better. Everyone at school said so – university was the place where you found yourself, grew into your skin. Yet I feel more lost than ever, unmoored, a ship stranded on the sea slowly sinking with no one to save it. Maybe it’s better if it’s not saved, instead letting it slip down quietly beneath the horizon, a burden no longer. The tears start to slowly weave down my face and I discreetly wipe them away. Always, yes.
5. Poor appetite or overeating
My stomach rumbles again, and it’s now I realise I’ve not ate anything since yesterday. I try to think back to what I had last – a Pot Noodle maybe? I’m about to tick ‘often’ when I feel a nudge at my elbow. I look up and am face-to-face with the girl. Now I can see her face clearly, she looks vaguely familiar but I cannot remember where from, and the usual sense of dread starts to bubble in my brain. She offers me a pack of Rolos, one of the sides torn off.
‘Hi,’ she nudges the pack towards me again, ‘Sorry to bother you, but aren’t you in my English class? I recognise your face.’
My memory kicks into gear and I remember her, outside the lecture hall with a group of friends.
‘Yeah, that’s right. You studying English too?’ I mentally kick myself. Stupid question – why would she be in a class she doesn’t study?
‘English and philosophy, but I dunno if I’ll do both at Honours. Want a Rolo?’
I smile and say thanks, picking a melting chocolate out of the golden wrapper.
6. Feeling bad about yourself – or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down
I wonder what she knows about me, if she has seen others laughing or heard about the strange girl who barely comes out of her room. Hell, she might be one of the people laughing. Maybe the second she leaves, she’ll open Whatsapp and start a group text: ‘You’ll never guess who I just saw!!!’ and giggle with everyone. How sad, how pathetic I must be. The poor therapist who needs to deal with her. My eyes dart about the room, desperate to find something comforting to cling on to. I am even more wary when she says, ‘So…you not been doing great either then?’
There seems no point in lying.
‘No, not really.’
‘It’s hard I know, starting somewhere new. It can feel overwhelming at times.’
I blink. Finally someone said it. ‘Yeah… Like, everyone else is coping just fine, why can’t I? It just feels…I dunno…maybe I’m just a loser who needs to get a grip.’
Someone walks past the open door, and we both look in that direction in silence as the footsteps slowly die. Happy that we won’t be heard, she looks back at me.
‘Nah, you’re not a loser. Some people are great, land on their feet or whatever. But a lot more don’t. Doesn’t make them any less . This your first time at uni?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s my second. Dropped out last year because it all got too much, and I didn’t realise I could get help. At least you’re getting help when you needed it. That’s brave, reaching out.’
Bravery isn’t a trait I associate with myself, but I’m flattered nonetheless. I look down at my questionnaire, my pale, shaking hand clutching the sheet. Try and take deep breaths. Focus.
7. Trouble concentrating on things, such as reading the newspaper or watching television
‘Oh, I know where I know you!’ she announces, ‘You’re in my seminar! You were talking about Sylvia Plath with whats-her-face.’
I remember that day – it was the last time I had been able to drag myself to a class. I had figured it wouldn’t be too bad. Poetry is shorter, more compact than a 500-page novel and felt doable. Or that’s what I thought. Instead, Professor Brown, probably getting revenge on me for not showing up to the last two lectures, decided to barrage me with questions, my opinions on Plath’s various techniques, and ‘what did I think of …?’ I just blurted out the first things I could think of, rambling on until I finally ran out of things to say. The guy in front of me had swivelled in his chair, eyes bright with sympathy. I didn’t believe anyone was actually listening to me.
‘Really? I thought I was just talking nonsense.’
‘Nah, it was really good, really interesting. I know nothing about Plath.’
‘I thought Brown was going to kill me.’
‘To be fair, she’s like that with everyone. Like, she actively hates students. I don’t know why she works at a university.’
I smile, feeling the knot in my stomach unwind.
8. Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed. Or the opposite – being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around a lot more than usual
We sit in silence for one, two, three seconds. When ten passes I surprise myself and I say, ‘Some days I think life actively hates me. Like, I always see people moving forward with theirs and I –’ I swallow the lump in my throat, ‘I…feel stagnant. Like no matter what I do, I can’t seem to get on with life the same as others, whether it’s uni or relationships or anything. I’m a hamster on a wheel, going round and round with no end.’
‘I know what you mean,’ she says slowly, letting the words roll around in her mouth before sliding out, smooth as a pebble, ‘And it’s hard. It’s hard to get out of bed and face a world that feels like it despises you. But you keep going, hoping that someday there’ll be a breakthrough.’
I stare. I never say how I feel. The emotions seem unspeakable; to air them unthinkable. So I keep them in a little box in my brain, stuff them tightly in and drop it into the ocean, watching as they sink to the bottom, out of sight, out of reach. Yet here I am, dredging that box up, wiping off the residue and examining its contents. And I don’t feel a sense of dread. The little box actually didn’t seem to be that overwhelming or intimidating – it just seemed like a box, same as any other.
‘Do you’ll believe there will be a breakthrough?’ I ask, cringing at the neediness in my voice, my own desperation.
‘Yes,’ she gives me a small smile, ‘Like you.’
‘Like me?!’
‘Yeah. You wouldn’t be here otherwise, would you? You wouldn’t get help if you didn’t think it was possible.’
9. Thoughts that you would be better off dead, or of hurting yourself
‘I guess that’s true. I think I always believed I was beyond help…’ I trail off.
The girl is silent for a long time, staring at the questionnaire in her lap, twisting her sleeves over and over in her hands. Finally, she takes a deep breath and turns to me.
‘Promise you won’t tell anyone this.’
‘I promise. I won’t tell anyone I saw you here.’
‘Not this,’ she sweeps her hand around the room, ‘I don’t care about people knowing this. No, I mean –’
She trails off and rolls up one of the sleeves. I see the scar, a ridged crescent moon gleaming on her wrist. I stare, struggling for words. What could I possibly say? I open my mouth and close it again, and again, a goldfish desperate for water. It’s only when she rolls her sleeve back down and the scar disappears am I able to say, ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Not your fault,’ she says matter-of-factly, though I see tears prick her eyes. ‘Just…don’t ever think you’re beyond help. No one is. Even me,’ she smiles sadly, ‘So yeah… promise me you’ll never tell anyone what you just saw, and that you’re not beyond help.’
‘I promise I’ll not tell anyone.’
‘And you’re not beyond help.’
‘And I’m not beyond help.’
‘Good.’ She seems satisfied and relaxes, ‘Don’t ever do what I did. Because there’s always a better way out, even if you can’t see it righ –’
I hear my name.
10. If you checked off any problems, how difficult have these problems made it for you at work, home, or with other people?
The therapist stands in the doorway, smiling as I jump up, clutching the questionnaire to my chest.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? We could get a coffee afterwards?’ the girl asks.
‘Yeah, that would be great! I’ll see you then.’ I collect all my stuff and trail behind the therapist as he marches straight to his office.
Once he closes the door, he asks: ‘Do you mind people you know seeing you here?’
I pause. ‘No, not really.’
‘That’s good,’ he nods, still smiling, ‘Some people do, so thought I would just check. Please, have a seat.’
He gestures to a couple of leather chairs close to another beige wall, with a small coffee table and a box of tissues wedged in between them. The only thing decorating the office, the only thing exuding any kind of personality, is a small portrait of a ship gliding through water, calm and content. I plonk myself down on one of the chairs and he sits down opposite.
‘So’ he begins, taking my questionnaire and having a glance through it, ‘What would you like to talk about today?’
Louise Hurrell (she/her) is a writer based in Scotland. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Heartbalm Lit and Healthline Zine. When not writing, she is also interested in cinema and cross-stitching (badly).