I’m not a therapist or doctor, but as a hospital chaplain, I’ve seen the terrible and awful effects of loneliness on mental health. The problem is that it’s tough to admit, almost embarrassing to say, “I’m hurting from loneliness.”

Loneliness is a double-bind in that in order to find comfort, it requires reaching out to people or for people to be near. But some of us have been alone so long, it’s unthinkable that we can connect with another human without risking rejection—which fuels more loneliness.

The unhelpful reply I hear to “I’m lonely” is “Why don’t you just make friends?” But that’s like saying, “Why don’t you just get rich?” or “Why can’t you just go to the gym?” We’re already in deficit, a lap behind, because we fear connection in proportion to how alone we feel.

It’s difficult to make friends and keep them. It’s hard to have real friendships that are not just functional transactions. Even when someone is surrounded by crowds or well connected, they may be the loneliest people on earth, because all their “friends” are transactional.

I don’t know the answer to loneliness. But I know what the answer is not: We can’t just snap out of it. We can’t just cure it with a party, a bar, a church, a dating app. It requires intentional investment and yes, the risk of rejection. The opposite of loneliness is courage.

Friends, this week may be lonely. This season can be brutal. They can remind you of all that’s missing. As trite as it sounds: You may feel lonely, but you are not alone. May you find the courage to reach out, to enter the possibilities of love in all its heaven and heartache.

Don’t do it, especially if you plan on using the results of this experiment to determine once and for all whether anyone actually cares about you. 

I have a client who, in a session earlier this week, was telling me that she’s always the one to initiate with her friends and it doesn’t bother her. It used to, she said, until she realized that was silly because people show they care in all kinds of different ways. Now, when she wants to talk to or make plans with someone she just does it. And it’s always great. 

You know what a lot of my completely miserable clients have in common? They’ve done exactly what I told you not do up there. 

When you decide to find out whether anyone will reach out to you if you stop reaching out to them you will inevitably be disappointed. You believe that no one cares about you. And, depending on whether you tend to internalize or externalize, you will wither think that you’re inherently worthless and unlovable or that your supposed friends were actually selfish assholes. 

Don’t do it. Don’t turn yourself into a lonely, miserable recluse and your friends into villains. Don’t assume you’re unlovable. Don’t assume no one cares. Don’t assume a friendship in which you have to initiate isn’t real or worth having. Your friends aren’t awful, they’re just people who get busy and forgetful and sad and socially anxious and overwhelmed with what they have going on in their lives. Ask yourself: Is this friendship enjoyable? Does it fill me up and feel mutually edifying? Is this person there for me once I have reached out? 

Helping loved ones who deal with anxiety/panic attacks, ptsd, or even just depression can be difficult, but here are some really great pointers.

Pain is not a lesson. It doesn’t always serve a purpose. Not everything happens for a reason. Not for a good one, anyway. Sometimes the reason behind pain is because someone decided to cheat you, abuse you, run you down, push you around. Pain is pain. It’s the byproduct of a broken, fallen, unfair world. Too often, no good will ever come of it. There will be no silver lining, no bow-tie, no song at the end.

When someone tells me that “God is testing me” or “God is using this pain for my growth” or “This is God’s will”—no. I don’t believe in a God who does that sort of thing. I believe in a God who is just as mad as you are when it hurts. I believe in a God who weeps.

Earlier this year, I called the Suicide Lifeline. I was in pretty bad shape. My depression has been a lifelong street fight and it’s always been ugly. It’s not romantic or glamorous or poetic or anything like that; it’s the kind that makes people leave. But most of the time, nobody can tell I’m hurting just by talking to me. I tend to smile real big and laugh just as loud. Only in small quiet moments, when I‘m not “on,” not performing, there‘s a shadow across my face. A fog. I can pretend to be okay for a long time.

I’m glad I called the lifeline. I didn’t talk to anyone. The phone started ringing and I hung up. But it was enough to get me moving again. Even the possibility of human connection, sometimes, is enough.

There is a moment after crawling out of an episode of depression where I can hardly believe it happened. It seems silly, even. I think it’s because life is so filled with wonder and goodness, it’s hard to imagine giving it up. But when depression hits, it’s hard to imagine why I should go on.