Loneliness is a lifelong state of being for me. I was a lonely child, because I couldn’t share my world with anyone. I loved my big brother, but there were so many things he refused to hear, refused to say, refused to see. I loved my best friend, but she didn’t love me back. She tolerated me, she accepted my presence, but she didn’t understand me and didn’t want to. I thought that was my fault, by the way, because I wasn’t rich enough or pretty enough or clever enough, but, and this is something I’ve only recently figured out, it wasn’t about me; which doesn’t solve anything, or heal anything, for either of us, but it’s true.
I loved my parents, but my mom was deep underwater, in an abusive marriage. And my father. Well. His idea of love was loyalty and control in only one direction. He was a bruised and broken child himself, who never healed, or ever tried to.
I lived in this kaleidoscope of broken people, always moving around each other, never fitting together into a whole. And at school, even though the other kids didn’t know any of this, they knew. They knew that I bothered them, upset them, and scared them, just for being me: for being nice to people who hurt me; for helping people who looked down on me; for showing everything on my face that they were able to hide and thought should be hidden.
I learned, over time, how to act like I was normal, or something like it. But there was still something too honest about me, and it hurt people to look at me, and so they hurt me, as if I’d done it on purpose; as if my sadness was an attack on their otherwise peaceful lives.
I’ve worked hard to make connections with people, and to chisel away at the loneliness, but it is still there, and still informs everything I do. It makes me more desperate to have my say and to be heard; and it makes me more sensitive to the pain of others; and it makes me more frightened, of everyone, because I know how badly they can hurt me.
In a way, isolation has been my way to protect myself from having to feel too much of the loneliness at once, because the feeling is most profound when I am closest to other people.
I don’t know if any of this is true for other people, or for what percentage of other people. I know that some people use their loneliness to excuse acts of emotional and physical violence against others. I know that some people use loneliness to spur active and crowded lives. But most people don’t talk about their loneliness in public. Most people act as if they are fine; and even if I can imagine that there’s something behind the mask, I can’t presume to know what that is, and so my loneliness persists.
Loneliness is probably the echo underneath everything I write and everything I do – and it hurts, a lot. It doesn’t resolve. It doesn’t dissolve. It doesn’t disappear. There are other feelings that persist from my childhood, like shame and fear and guilt and physical pain, but loneliness is the most pervasive; it’s the one that follows me everywhere I go, even when I am otherwise happy and well.
I don’t know why I wanted to write about this. Maybe because I’m starting to wonder if the loneliness will ever recede; and to wonder if I’m perpetuating the loneliness, even causing it, without any idea of how to stop.
We have these ideas about healing – that it can be fast, and complete, and willed into fruition – but none of that tracks with my experience. Some wounds don’t heal, or fade, and sometimes we have to accept that our lives will always hold the shape of that pain.
I haven’t reached that level of acceptance, though. I still want the fairytale, with the happily ever after ending. I want, most of all, to be whole.
If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.
Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?