I hated being alone as a child. I hated the nothingness that would envelop everything and the sound of silence that would settle over me like a heavy blanket, swirling around, pulling me inward. I hated the empty feeling deep inside of me as I would sit and stare out the window, my only vantage point to a world outside, waiting for someone to come home. I hated the hauntingly endless ticks of the second hand on the clock, their repeated ghostly rhythm mocking me, echoing the pattern of loneliness thumped by my aching heart. Being alone was as terrible for me in a sense that no other feeling was – a time when the world spun on without purpose, devoid of human interaction, when the colors and shapes bled into one another into seamless bewilderment. My thoughts were somehow transformed into meaningless preponderances of unimportant dribble, even more so than on ordinary days. But more than anything, I think, I hated that there was no one with whom I could share my laughter and joy, my excitement and zest for life, the desperation to be loved and paid attention which seemed distant and inaccessible, making my own home seem very un-home. I hated being alone for it made me feel the aching corners of my insecurities more deeply, even if it was only when my mother went to check the mail.