I’ve been processing how much of an impact the abuse and the institutionalizations have had on my life and I came to a realization. Of all the things I’ve been through, there is one element that has always been there: aloneness. It’s a factor that is in every equation in my life.
I always thought that I had to be alone. I was often alone in my room, or alone in the apartment when I was a kid. I was alone in my suffering because I wasn’t allowed to acknowledge it.
I used to pine for some kind of human interaction when I was little.
Have you ever looked deep into the eyes of someone who is awake, but barely conscious? That’s the look someone has when they are too intoxicated to do anything other than stare. It pulls you in and pushes you away at the same time. Rather than be around that, I would just be in my room.
Being alone started off as a form of neglect from my mother. It evolved into a way of life for all kinds of reasons. I wasn’t allowed to share my home life with anyone outside of home. I felt isolated a lot. I learned that I couldn’t share anything at home either, because I’d get hurt, accused of lying, or sent away. There were maybe two or three incidents when I had accidently reached out for help and the lash back wasn’t worth it.
During my early adolescence, I had a few very close friends at school. But I drifted from them because I was in institutions more than I was in school. I felt like a burden to my family and just isolated even more.
At the time, I felt devastated with where I was in life and how badly I felt. The toll taken from the stress was breaking down my mind and body.
Two major events happened during the summer when I was 15. I fractured off from my dad’s side of the family for reasons I won’t type out, and I was sexually assaulted by someone I trusted. I just could not handle my life any more
I became so physically ill that doctors thought I had lupus (SLE). I was in a revolving door with the institutions: I had been treated for depression at age 13 and didn’t need meds, this time they treated me again. I kept having bad reactions to the prescription drugs, so they would change the diagnosis and add more drugs.
My life felt out of control. I endured as well as I could.
What I learned to do, was form strong, meaningful relationships with other teens who were also caught in the revolving door. We were best friends while we were inmates and didn’t exist to one another in the outside world. We would get into trouble together and always joke around to keep each other from feeling bad about our situation.
And that has been my relationship pattern ever since. I don’t feel sad when it is time to part ways, because I never invested in a long term relationship any way. I think back on my many close friends from those times and am filled with fondness. But I have no interest in any tangible, consistent type of relationship. I don’t even remember their names.
Aloneness was once bad to me, then good, and now it’s just a part of my life and I don’t feel any particular way about that.