I feel as friendless as friendless can be.
Isolated. Lonely. Separate. Separated from most around me. Disengaged. Unengaged. Left behind and left alone when I needed not to be.
Utterly and completely alone -in the unhealthy and isolated sense. Alone I don’t have a problem with. I feel on the brink of something horrible that I don’t want to happen but eventually will happen. Rather is likely to happen.
Isolation is the most severe punishment that can be inflicted upon a human being. Yes, there are cases where humans do live in isolation. The proverbial monk on the mountain. Or the severely mentally deranged criminals, for example. But they’re the exceptions. The lower end of the bell curve of social creatures that we supposedly are. Supposedly we’re born to need our mothers. Or fathers. Or primary caretakers. Supposedly we’re born needing that connection, that bonding.
What happens to us deep inside when that isn’t there?
+ + +
What happens to us when we’re forced into isolation in early childhood, in infancy, by a caretaker’s intent or by negligence? The first is born of malice and the latter of lack of caring. Which is worse, really? Which does more damage to the psyche of the child?
I think they’re equal. I think that malice — intentionally ignoring your child through hatred or “I can’t be bothered” or “I don’t care” — is as harmful and damaging as the parent who simply ignores the baby’s cries for warmth, comfort, feedings and holding. Ignorance is no excuse — no excuse whatsoever — for bad parenting. The burden lies on the parent, not the child.
Sadly, it is the child who bears the brunt and burden of parental negligence. It’s never the other way around.
+ + +
I’m essentially friendless here not because I’m a bad person. I am not In my youth, I was spirited, lively, engaging and adventurous — to a fault!
Now I’m a 350-year-old person trapped in a 58-year-old body.
+ + +
My zest for life isn’t what it used to be. Not even close. Depression has become my roommate. My doppelgänger. My soul mate from the dark side. The albatross around my neck that I can’t shake off. The thorn in my heart that I can’t heal. The weight of the world upon my shoulders and back that exhausts and ultimately, I fear, destroys me.
+ + +
When I envision my life when I”m 63 — in five years — I do not see a happy, carefree, fulfilling and rewarding life.
I see a bag lady. With her cart, extremely well organized. Meticulously so. No detail is overlooked. It’s exactly how I am in my life. Some things never change.
I see myself pushing this cart. Guarding it fiercely from the other homeless who would steal from me. Yes, it happens. The homeless do steal from one another and from one another’s carts! You’d think it’d be otherwise. You’d think that those with so little would be the most sensitive and thoughtful about not taking what is not theirs.
But it’s not true. What is true is that there are bad people EVERYWHERE. Even in the homeless population.
+ + +
I see myself pushing my cart, protecting it fiercely from the homeless with cold hearts who would and do steal from one another. People are rotten.
I see myself healthy — for a while And then I take ill. Slowly. I don’t know the cause of my illness. Perhaps it’s just disappointment in life and in people. I think it’s sadness. Grief. Grief for all the things that never came to pass in my life. The dreams weakened, crippled and then destroyed — as much by myself as by others. No. More by others. By human beings who never saw that I was a writer with potential. A writer with at least three novels in her.
But no one gave me a chance. No one listened.
The most deadly sound of all is silence.
I do not mean the silence that is sitting atop a mountaintop. Or inside a forest. Or inside of a swimming pool. Or in the middle of a desert.
Those are natural sounds of silence.
I mean the silence when no one is hearing you. Seeing you. When no one says you matter. When you grow up knowing that you don’t matter because that’s what your parents taught and told and showed you.
You’re invisible. We don’t see you. You don’t matter.
The sign-off signature on a death sentence.
+ + +
In this sunset chapter, I think much more about the things I wish I would’ve done differently … “if I’d known then what I know now …” “if I could turn back the hands of tie, I’d do this very differently …” “or not at all and I’d do that instead.”
But they’re not really regrets. That is, I feel regret for certain roads taken and others not taken. But for me, deeper is the sense of remorse. That is different from regret. Regret is for those things we didn’t do. I lived a full life, well, an adventurous life for sure.
It’s really remorse that I feel. Remorse is deeply of the heart.
Sadness for the child within me so battered and beaten up and hated so early in life by a mother and in ways later a father.
Remorse for my inability to heal myself from the damage done. I wanted to. I really did. I tried. I really did.
But in the end, the damage and darkness were greater than I. Somehow they took hold of my life force itself and sucked away. Life vampires sucking my life force.
+ + +
I have nothing more to say tonight and little to add except that I don’t fear death. I fear *coming back* — reincarnating by karmic necessity. But I really don’t fear death.
It’s life that hurts a fucking lot more.