When Loneliness Becomes a Way of Life

I grew up in a different time. My friends and I were expected to be out of the house every day until the streetlights came on. Then it was time to head home for homework, bath time, and supper. I spent an enormous amount of time figuring life out with my peers. We all went to church in those days, so we had a basic foundation of right and wrong; but the details were blurred by our immature logic and desires.

My parents loved me. But something in my early childhood—that I can't remember—combined with the way my brain is wired, caused me to feel unloved. For as long as I can remember I felt like I was basically alone in the world. In fairness to my parents, I was a rebellious, sassy, overly energetic child. I am certain that both of my parents did the best that they could with me. I was simply unable to receive what they were offering.

One of my earliest memories is how after enduring some form corporal punishment, I would turn and look at my parent and ask, "Do you feel better now?" This response troubled them deeply. It led them to seek professional help, where they were warned that my emotional detachment—my inability to cry or react as expected—was not something to ignore.

This left me vulnerable to following every whim that my mind could conceive as well as to adults who didn't have my best interest at heart.

I learned early on how to be alone. Alone in fear, joy, pain, sorrow, exploration, and boredom. My imagination would run wild with what I could have or should have said or done. I could lose myself in walking through the woods, building a coaster cart, or pretending I was Superman (which led to several sprained ankles). When I played with others in my neighborhood, the games we played always relied heavily on imagination—games like army, cowboys and Indians, and cops and robbers.

Because I never really felt like I belonged at home, I became increasingly comfortable relying on my imagination, whether I was playing with friends, or by myself. I lived in a world of wonder that existed mostly inside my head. Dealing with reality was too hard. Too painful. My imaginary world became my escape from my reality.

One of the first places this became a problem was at school. This was in the days of IQ tests in Elementary School. Unfortunately (for my imaginary world at least) I scored quite high. While I was content to spend my entire day in my own little world, my teachers—and parents—expected me to perform well in my academics. But academics required something of me… results! But I wasn't interested in results. Results came later. I was focused on now. Academics required engaging my mind on something concrete. I was more interested in living in fantasy. Academics led to grades—which for me were usually D's or F's, which led to pain. Pain that I tried hard to avoid. Or at least to find ways to endure.

My ability to endure pain was probably the hardest thing for my parents to deal with. There was a saying back then, "Don't do the crime if you can't do the time." Also, a song that said, "If you're going to dance, you must pay the piper." Well, I was perfectly willing to do the time and pay the piper. In following my imaginary whims and desires, I was constantly faced with the reality of consequences. But living in the real world, with the nagging pain of loneliness and rejection, seemed worse to me than the potential consequences of my choices.

I was never connected with my extended family. I had a handful of Aunts and Uncles and a couple dozen cousins that I saw on a semi-regular basis. My brother seemed to have a beneficial relationship with most of them, but I remained distant. I found the interaction with the larger family uncomfortable. While all the cousins were running around playing tag, or Hide and Seek, I would prefer to wonder around the local woods by myself or sit in a corner somewhere with my thoughts. As a result, I never really connected with either of my parent's families.

I was never really interested in having friends. I'm not sure I actually knew what a real friend was. For me, the other children in my life were viewed more as toys. Things I could play with when the occasion suited me. But things I could just as easily discard when the fun ended. Because I enjoyed all the "toys" at my disposal, it appeared to the casual observer that I was a popular kid with lots of friends. But that was just an unintended result of my living in a world where nothing was actually real, and I made up the rules as I went along.

I became increasingly aware of all these deficiencies. And that awareness drove me deeper into myself.