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, supper, and bath. I spent an enormous amount of time figuring life out with my peers. Time with my family was limited to about an hour per day. The rest of the time, I was on my own. 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. So my conclusions about life were grossly incomplete and completely self-centered.

I know that 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—even when I was at home. 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, recurring memories is how after enduring each incident of corporal punishment (which consisted of being “spanked” with either a hickory switch or a belt), 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 “Teflon” reaction to discipline 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. All contributed to my tendency to withdraw from reality into a world I could control.

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 reality—a retreat from the constant fear and isolation.

One of the first places this became a problem was at school. Unfortunately (for my imaginary world at least) I scored quite high on standardized IQ tests. 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 engaging my mind on something concrete. I was more focused on living in fantasy.

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." Well, I was perfectly willing to do the time. I decided that the pain that followed was worth the fun of the moment. In following my imaginary whims and desires, I was constantly faced with the reality of consequences. Besides, I had learned to separate the pain of discipline from my reality. This “spanking” was happening to someone else. I was more an observer than a participant. Living in the real world, with the nagging pain of loneliness and rejection, seemed worse to me than the potential consequences of my choices. So I was drawn deeper into my little world, and more isolated from the “real” world (with real consequences) that surrounded me.

I was never connected with my extended family. 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. Too many people. Too much movement. While all the cousins were running around playing, I would prefer to wander 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 particularly 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. Besides, in my imagination, I usually wasn’t playing the same game they were playing. I was in the same physical space, but I was in a different world.

As I grew, I became increasingly aware of all these deficiencies. But that awareness just drove me deeper into myself.

I seems that I was already training myself for addiction. I wasn’t abusing anything at the time—that would come later—but I was becoming acquainted with escape. I was learning that the pain of living in the present was worse than any consequence of leaving. My childhood wasn’t unusual. Most kids experienced loneliness, fear, and rejection. Most kids pushed back against discipline and even daydreamed in school. But something in the way I processed these elements set a pattern in motion that would haunt me for decades.

The devil wasn't in the details. He was in my reaction to them.