The Fortunate Warrior was surprised to come across a concept that was so vivid that it is changing how I look at myself and my childhood – emotional isolation. My isolation. The isolation of my parents.
Isolation used to keep the peace in the family. My uncle David was the apple of my grandfather’s eye. My aunts and mother had better know their place. I was not to embarrass my mother or upstage her relationship with her husband and I was supposed to be a silent invisible character. I remember the day I realized that she was going to kill me if I kept trying to have a relationship with her.
School and church were long shadows of conformity. In high school I do not remember a single sunny day, it was all grey and drab and worthless. Isolation breeds depression and depression breeds anxiety.
Connecting to others is hard. Isolation – lots of isolation – does not breed connectedness, but more isolation. It’s a familiar place, staying home from parties, lose the stuff that makes us connect, so we sleep and dream and depression sets in like a dark ocean. Even awake it’s as if you have mopped the floor with your brain. Functioning is your goal. It’s excessive to have loftier goals. People don’t care because you can’t connect or you are a downer or too serious.
I didn’t drive in high school. I didn’t have a driver’s license until I was 23. I’ve always been odd and different that way. Even now I am isolated by poverty and people who use me to prop up their self-esteem. My grief is boundless for my ruined worthless life.
Am I really smart or have I buffaloed myself and everybody else? I don’t feel smart at all. I have a hard time learning – maybe I have a learning disability. I can sing (kind of) but keyboards and fingered instruments baffle me. I have trouble with focus and concentration.
I wonder if I’m ever going to be a success or at least have people listen to me. Am I ever going to are my dreams ever going to become true? Are my stories just vast falsehoods of telling that have to point except to make me feel better?
I walk and other people ride, Busses and trucks pass me and I can hear a little out of my right ear. Has anything I ever done been really worth it? The answer that comes to mind is no. Does what I want even matter? – Victory, damn sacred vixen, might want me to think it’s something she might want me to do, and I will not give her the satisfaction. Victory doesn’t care about me, really about any of us. Her job is to deliver to her divine father, Zeus, manifest Victory. Maybe that pain in my lower back is sciatica and not a fatal wound.