Hello, friend

"Just admit it," I tell myself.

"You're miserable. You hate Saturday nights. Saturday nights are always the nights you feel the loneliest."

Heck, the entire weekend reminds me of everything I don't have - family and friends to spend a lazy weekend with, Sunday morning breakfasts at the coffee shop next to church, and a big hearty lunch out with friends after church.

But Saturday nights are the worst and the quietest. Everyone back home is sleeping in or at church; everyone here is spending time with their own families.

I think to myself that if only I had someone to keep me company, everything would be okay, and instantly a voice in my head retorts, "No it wouldn't."

"It's wonderful to have people in your life, but you shouldn't make them your crutches," I tell myself.

"You shouldn't let their presence - or absence - dictate your happiness. Isn't that what you're always telling others?"

I sigh. My heart is empty, and my body aching to be wrapped into a cuddle. But the voice in my head is right: I can choose to make myself happy.

So I tell myself that if no one else is going to pamper me, I'm going to.

I clean the toilet, a chore I have been procrastinating for almost a week, so that I can enjoy the rest of the evening without a 'to-do' hanging over my head.

And then I make myself a comforting, indulgent meal - Aglio Olio. Some boiled spaghetti, a few dollops of olive oil - extra virgin, a sprinkling of dried basil and oregano, and chopped garlic. It's my favorite type of pasta - simple, light, minimalist, and yet satisfying - much like the way I like to live my life.

After feeding myself, I hop into a sparkling clean bathtub for a quick shower.

Freshly showered, dressed, and full, I decide to scrap my plans of doing some writing for uni work and treat myself to a movie. I finally give in to a temptation I'd been resisting ever since I bought my Mac and become a criminal by downloading µTorrent and subsequently Chocolat and Eat, Pray, Love.

Just as I am about to hop into bed and treat myself to my first ever solo movie night in the UK, a chat message pops up from one of my favorite girls at uni.

We spend about an hour chatting and I tell her about how much of a hard time I'd been giving myself for well, having a hard time dealing with living abroad. I also bring her up to speed on my woeful tales of love, attraction, and boys.

I tell her that I am such a contradiction - I need to be free, untethered, and independent, and yet I am so helpless without a steady anchor in my life. And she tells me I am my own steady anchor.

She tells me to look back at the quiet girl who sat in shorthand class and didn't say a word to anyone, and to look at how open I am now, and how many new experiences I've had and friends I've made. She reminds me I didn't accomplish any of that because of any of the boys my head is filled with thoughts of. I did it on my own.

And I realize she is right.

As much as it's easy and appealing to hide behind other people, to revolve my world around them and stake my happiness on them, it's not fair to them and it's not fair to me. It's not fair to put the burden of knowing and being exactly what I need on someone else - when no one else can do that but me.

It's difficult. It's easier to be around other people than yourself sometimes, because being with yourself means facing the truth about who you are. And the truth about me is I'm more scared of being alone and I need more affection than I would care to admit.

But just as real friends accept you when your true colors are revealed instead of judging or criticizing,  I can choose to accept who I am. I can be a friend to myself. I can be what I need.

So tonight, needing some company, I curl up under the covers alone, say to myself, "Hello, this movie is going to be fun!" and put on Chocolat.

Two hours, plenty of giggles, and a few tears (I am a sentimental sap that way) later, I feel happier, lighter, and less alone.

In fact, I even feel inspired to bake again - a feeling I haven't felt in a long time, perhaps even as long as a year. I don't remember. But that's another post for another day.