Lonely

There is such a loneliness in my heart: something that throbs and begs for attention. There are beautiful people in my life; but all the support and love in this world doesn’t seem to dull the ache of nothingness. The ache of what is lost. The ache of what has been taken away.
I sit, curled up in a blanket, shivering from the penace I just paid. “I am just lonely” I say to the empty room. Yet as I wonder into the world of giggling girls, I feel inadequate, fat, weird. I have so many amazing friends. But, all but one live somewhere else. If I could fill my immediate with them, I would be safe. However, There are nights I must spend alone with my art or my books. There are times I will eat dinner alone and go to bed alone and wake-up alone. These, these are the times I am filled with the ache,
I often wonder why it is still there: I have done such work. I have tried so hard to fill the hole with real things. In my disorder, I have stuffed it with food, I have starved it, I have tried to cut it away; yet it persisted. In recovery, I have nurtured it, grieved for it, cried with it, accepted, poured God into it; yet it has persisted.
I want to know what I am doing wrong. I want to know how I can at least succeed at this. It is so vital. I hate myself because that aching hole causes me feel unworthy of love Am I missing something? Was I made incomplete? Am I truly unworthy of love?