Six Years Is Too Long To Feel Lonely

Last week, I wrote about how friendships change.

Originally, I was reflecting on something I’d noticed with my parents and experienced myself, but the next few days changed that.

My birthday was on Monday. When Hannah asked what I’d like to do, I said I’d like to have a meal with a few favourite people, but who am I actually close enough to invite?

Not because there aren't people I like. I met with one couple on Wednesday. The problem was something else entirely.

Eventually, I settled on a couple we’ve grown close to over the last year and genuinely enjoy spending time with, but it was ridiculous. I’d been chatting with one all week, had multiple opportunities to ask, but couldn’t do it. Intense anxiety kicked in.

Hannah stepped in and invited them.

The evening was brilliant, enjoyable, and a reminder of why I value them in the first place.

So why had I spent days tied in knots over a simple invitation?

I spoke to Hannah. She asked a hard-hitting question.

“What’s up with you? Why are you being so insecure? This isn’t like you.”

She was right. This isn't like me. Yet I couldn't explain what was happening. I spent all night talking to God to untangle thoughts I hadn't really examined for years.

Part of that reflection took me back to a misunderstood friendship fifteen years ago that has left a lasting mark on how I viewed friendship, boundaries, and relationships. I realised I still carry some of that experience around with me, despite nothing in my life today resembling that situation.

I've learnt and grown. My understanding of relationships, mental health, and myself has changed dramatically. Hannah is nothing like my first wife, and our relationship is built on trust, honesty, and communication. Yet that situation lingered long after the danger was gone.

Reflecting further highlighted how much my social life changed when I became a permanent powerchair user. I used to meet people for coffee or dinner, play snooker, go fishing, camping, swimming, watch live bands, attend church events, and generally spend time with people face to face. Then accessibility, travel, and distance started becoming barriers. Within a short period, those friendships and activities quietly disappeared. At the time, it didn't feel like a huge loss. I still had close blogging friendships. Then Covid arrived.

People stopped blogging. Life changed, communities faded, friendships drifted, and I retreated behind my guard. Then it hit me. Six years since I had a proper friend. Six years since I went for a coffee, exchanged pointless messages, or sat opposite someone who wanted to spend time with me.

On Sunday morning, everything finally caught up with me. I was in church and I looked around and realised how many friendships had changed, drifted, or simply ended. The songs spoke about belonging, family, friendship, and community. I felt disconnected from all of it.

The months of jokes about Hannah stealing my friends, comments about wanting friends, trying to find ways to do more, wondering why people connected with her more easily than me, or her confusion about why she was friends with someone when I had more in common. I just hadn’t named it.

I’m lonely and isolated. 

A few days later, a church friend reached out. They’d noticed my upset on Sunday and wanted to check in. We talked through everything. They agreed with some conclusions, but challenged others.

Yes, I’d put barriers up and sabotaged opportunities and friendships, but it wasn’t necessarily sabotage. It was self-protection.

I was trying to protect my marriage, avoid being hurt again and repeating mistakes that haunt me fifteen years later. I took that too far, but it didn’t come from a bad place.

They also reminded me to be me. Just because social dynamics suggest focusing on male friendships, I shouldn’t, as it’s not straightforward for me. I have too much trauma there. Male friendships aren’t impossible, but female friendships are more natural. Friendships shouldn’t be forced or manufactured to fit social convention, someone else’s expectations, or the barriers I put up.

The problem wasn't that those concerns existed, but that I allowed them to become walls.

This isn't entirely my fault. Disability, Covid, life, and fading friendships changed things. At the same time, I have played a part in it.

I stopped reaching out. I expected rejection before it happened. I convinced myself it was protection when I was simply isolating myself.

I miss friendship, laughter, pointless conversations, the ease of feeling connected. I wish rejection didn't carry so much weight and I could believe people genuinely enjoy having me around. I know I can't recreate the past, force friendship, or make people choose me.

What I can do is stop letting old fears make decisions for me. If friendship appears, I need to let it, and risk being truly known because six years is too long to feel lonely.