“’We perished, each alone.’” – Virigina Woolf
Maybe isolation is so scary because it’s the closest that we get to death – while we’re still alive. Maybe it’s so horrific and terrifying because it’s the delicate difference between life – with other people – and death – when we’re on our own.
It’s perversely reassuring to know that I’m not alone in my line of thinking. The discomfort’s somewhat lessened by the fact that others have stared the gaping unknown in the face.
Albeit a little more bravely than I do.
The Loneliness One dare not sound —
And would as soon surmise
As in its Grave go plumbing
To ascertain the size —
The Loneliness whose worst alarm
Is lest itself should see —
And perish from before itself
For just a scrutiny —
The Horror not to be surveyed —
But skirted in the Dark —
With Consciousness suspended —
And Being under Lock —
I fear me this — is Loneliness —
The Maker of the soul
Its Caverns and its Corridors
Illuminate — or seal —
Emily Dickinson
Tags: Isolation, poetry and prose
I would never normally respond to any website forum yet I feel compelled to say how reassuring it is to know that my feelings of anger, confusion and resentment are shared responses. I realise the difference between ‘feeling’ and ‘knowing’; but through identifying with the habitual coping mechanisms described – destroys the ego-centric nature of the illness. I’m not sure how many relapses and angry outbursts it takes but I want so much to be happy in myself, you offer hope, thank you.