Small Joys

by Elvin James Mensah

In my teenage years, I’d developed a habit of talking to myself. I’d ask myself a question and then answer it. I’d known I was only doing this because I was convinced that I’d never have any friends, so I had this idea of being one to myself. I could be honest and loyal and supportive. I could listen to myself and make myself laugh. But when life grew cold, I couldn’t exactly be honest. I’d had to tell myself lies to function: everything would be okay, so I would be too. But in the good days—and there had been good days—my own company had been my most treasured possession. How satisfying, I had thought, how reassuring, to know you could save your own life from loneliness. I’d built a foundation on which I could stand. I could reap the fruits that life bore when it was aware that you had someone in your corner, someone who loved you. But in the bad days, I’d felt compelled to believe how pathetic this all was. I would feel the loneliness as if it were an ulcer on my soul.