In the Heart of the Void
How Loneliness Shapes the Human Experience
Exploring Life and Literature
Last week, we discussed Cormac McCarthy's works and some of his major themes, including isolation and alienation. Today, we travel beyond the bookshelf to better understand the epidemic of loneliness and its impact on our lives.
*This essay discusses suicide and sexual abuse. It is important to talk about these topics, however, if you are struggling and need someone to talk with, please contact the 988 Lifeline at https://988lifeline.org/. You can call, text, or chat with counselors.*
At breakfast one morning, my 17-year-old daughter and I chatted.
“What do you have planned?” she asked.
I thought for a moment before responding, “A rainy, dreary day like this is perfect for reading and writing. I plan to write an essay on loneliness.”
“Are you lonely, Dad?”
“Yes, sometimes I am.”
“Me too.”
People often confuse being alone and being lonely. They are different things. They might happen at the same time, but they might not. In the same way people sometimes confuse introversion as loneliness when they are quite different in fact. In a recent report1 on the epidemic of loneliness and isolation, the U.S. Surgeon General defined loneliness as:
“A subjective distressing experience that results from perceived isolation or inadequate meaningful connections, where inadequate refers to the discrepancy or unmet need between an individual’s preferred and actual experience.”
Being alone or in a crowd is a physical state of being. You are either around others, or you are not. Being extroverted or introverted are personality traits along a continuum that describe how we gain (or lose) energy from social interactions. Being lonely is a feeling, an emotional response to the way we perceive our social connectivity. It is possible to be lonely in a crowded room and, conversely, perfectly content while alone. Yet, loneliness is more than a feeling; it is a serious health risk. The same Surgeon General report shares that loneliness is “associated with a greater risk of cardiovascular disease, dementia, stroke, depression, anxiety, and premature death.”
“But I also think all of the great stories in literature deal with loneliness. Sometimes it's by way of heartbreak, sometimes it's by way of injustice, sometimes it's by way of fate. There's an infinite number of ways to examine it.” - Tom Hanks
So, what causes feelings of loneliness, isolation, and alienation? Well, it turns out that the answer is different for everybody. Here is my story.
I attended a private, all-boys boarding school during my sophomore year of high school. It was affiliated with my church, and as a devout practitioner, I saw this as a place of safety. Unfortunately, on multiple occasions during that year, I was attacked and sexually abused by an older male. For more than 30 years I never spoke of what happened to me. Not with friends, parents, siblings, or even my spouse. Definitely not with anyone in authority or law enforcement. I suffered in silence.
The 1990s were a different era than where we find ourselves today. I was a heterosexual male interested in discerning a religious vocation. When this abuse occurred, I was terrified of what others might think of me. Would people blame me? Did I somehow bring this on myself? Would anyone even believe me?
A shell of silence became my only companion. A mask took the place of my personality.
It is impossible to describe the abject loneliness and despair that comes with being a victim of something like this, compounded by my inability to tell anyone about it. While the overwhelming number of victims of sexual abuse are women and young girls, there are a startling number of men and boys who have been traumatized as well.
In a world that sees men as aggressors, how could I be a victim?
Just breath. It will all be over soon.
The lies we tell ourselves to survive.
I left the school at the end of the year.2 Like most teenagers, I was certain I could handle everything independently and had all the answers. I would just put this little issue away in a box in the back of my mind and continue on with life. If no one knew about it, then it wasn’t an issue. No problem. Right? Except I wasn’t me anymore. The innocence and naivete that had been a core part of my humanity was ripped away in a manner startling and brutal. That kid didn’t exist anymore. What was left in his place was an empty shell in the form of a boy.
“Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty.” - Mother Teresa
For the next 30 years, I pretended at life while a storm raged within. I went to college for a year, wandered around doing odd jobs for a couple of years, and finally joined the Navy. I got married, had a family, worked hard, and got promoted. From the outside looking in, my life looked amazing. A beautiful wife, wonderful children, and a nice home—what more could anyone want?
No one hears you when your screams are silent. - Me
I was utterly lonely in a crowded life of friends, family, and coworkers. No one knew. Loneliness feasted on my soul, fueled by the ravishing hunger of rage.
I was certain everything would be better if I just didn’t exist. I wasn’t any good for anyone around me. I was a used-up and worthless thing. Discarded like so much rubbish. Nothing I did could cleanse me of the shame, the pain, the hopelessness. I am a terrible husband - father - son! I am the dried-up husk of a man. Better just to die. Just breath. It will all be over soon. The lies we tell ourselves to survive.
“I walk a lonely road, the only one that I have ever known.” —Green Day
Two years ago, my marriage was headed for divorce. Something based on so many hidden truths can not possibly survive. I didn’t want my wife to think I blamed her for everything. I decided to tell her what happened to me since I planned to end my life anyway. What did it matter? So I told her everything. In doing so, my shell cracked the tiniest fraction. Is that light I see? Can someone see me? Can someone hear me? Am I visible? Am I seen?
Over the past two years, I shared my story with my parents, siblings, and a few close friends. Today is the first time telling my story publicly. I imagine many friends and family will be shocked. That is ok. I am in a better place than I was two years ago. Loneliness is a monstrous thing. An extreme lack of trust in others exacerbated my situation. With the support and encouragement of my family, I went through counseling and started taking medication to help with my depression. Slowly, ever so slowly, I am cracking away at the shell that hid me for years. But my trauma isn’t something that can be overcome. The truth is that none of us can ever overcome the things that happen to us. Instead, they become a part of us. My friend, colleague, and fellow dog lover,
, wrote about this in a recent essay.I have given keynote speeches about “overcoming” depression. The wording changed when it dawned on me that no one “overcomes” anything. Like you, like us all, I carry my whole life, both the wonder and the weight. The contents of my bundle shift with circumstance, and over time I’ve become more adept at balancing my load. There’s a reverence to it, and something akin to muscle memory….We all carry the losses of an ordinary life. Some must also carry trauma unimaginable to anyone who was not there. - Rona Maynard
Avoiding vulnerability was a core tenant of my self-protective beliefs. I wasn’t about to let anyone hurt me again. But here’s the rub—vulnerability is necessary for a genuine relationship. Trusting others and allowing myself to be vulnerable are priorities in my healing process. Writing is an important part of that, allowing me to slowly peel back the layers of a complicated life. And the reality is I will be a work in progress for a good long time. Thirty years of isolation brings with it significant challenges, and those don’t go away easily. I have to be intentional about my healing journey each day. Some days are better than others.
Books were often my chosen companion throughout the years of isolation and loneliness. I sought solace in them and in the characters’ stories. Taking stories and discovering the essential components that could be applied to my life gave me purpose during times when I felt unwanted and unneeded by anyone.
I write Beyond the Bookshelf because literature helped me explore the depths of myself, functioning as a lifeline when I felt I had no other options. The beautiful and frankly unexpected thing about writing is the door it has opened in my soul. I feel less lonely and more a part of something important than ever before. That goes for my family, friends, and wider community of readers and writers.
I still have a lot of interior work to do, but I am alive and seeking the path to wellness. I am learning to live at peace with my past rather than allowing it to control me. My loneliness is dissipating. I am glad you are here.
Each of us can contribute to building awareness of sexual abuse and suicidal ideations. Make an intentional effort to build meaningful relationships based on trust to help victims overcome the stigma and loneliness they struggle with daily. Recognize that we never know what is going on in the person next to us, and treating others with kindness and grace may be the lifeline they need in a time of despair.
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Until next time…
https://www.hhs.gov/sites/default/files/surgeon-general-social-connection-advisory.pdf
I have intentionally omitted names. The school I attended is closed now, and the individual who attacked and abused me died some years ago. Only one person is to blame, and he can no longer be held accountable in the world of men.
My word, Matt, this is mighty powerful. What an incredible journey to reach this point where the words are able to flow - so beautifully written about something so personal - and for them to be a part of the healing. Reading - and writing - is a way for all of us to learn, a chance to walk in other people’s shoes. This is the most important learning and I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to better understand the world - your world - through your eyes.
Thank you. Today at 5:30 a.m., I was making the coffee. I had awakened, as I have done more than once, thinking about my relationship with my deceased mother. She had a quirk that I have never gotten over. If she knew I wanted something from my Grandmother’s history, she made sure I didn’t get it. I will never know why, and it will never matter that I don’t know, except that it does. One last indignity has bothered me then, and haunts me now. My mother called one day and asked me if there were any photos that I wanted from the Victorian album she was about to pass on to my sister. I should have known better, but I said yes, and described them to her. That was that, I didn’t think about it again until after she had died. Going through the album with my sister, I found that every one of the photos that I had told my mother about had been ripped from the album, damaging the ancient paper pages. They were gone. We never found them, and it shouldn’t matter in the big picture, but it does. I’m 79 years old, and the photos I had loved for years were gone and irreplaceable. Now here I am at 6:00 a.m., grieving that fact. As tiny as that fact is in comparison to your fact, I am ashamed that I feel that way, and yet — here we are, as are so many others — grieving over acts large or small — imposed by others who build their power by trampling on others. May we all be healed someday — from pain acute or minor — but what possesses these others who inflict themselves on us? How can we forgive their meannesses — large or small?