by Band Back Together | Sep 10, 2013 | Anxiety, Depression, Depressive Disorder, Dermatillomania, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Loneliness, Social Anxiety Disorder, Social Isolation, Teen Depression, Teens: Mental Illness, Therapy |
The veil of loneliness can taint us all, leaving us gasping for breath and wondering how to survive.
This is her story:
I’ve never admitted aloud how lonely I actually am. Of course, that has a lot to do with the fact that there’s no one to admit it to.
A few months ago, my therapist told me that I was in denial about being almost completely socially isolated without any friends. At the time, I thought he was full of shit. I didn’t feel lonely because I wasn’t lonely in the first place. I preferred to be by myself – it was comfortable.
Of course, he chalked this up to my preexisting depressive and anxiety disorders. Typically, I argued that I wasn’t depressed and that my social anxiety had nothing to do with my isolation. (See: Denial.)
Turns out, he was right.
I think therapists tend to be correct about these sorts of things the majority of the time, anyway.
Since May of this year, the dark cloud of apathy and despair that has permeated my entire life has gradually dissipated. As a result, I find myself wanting to do some of the things that before held no interest or pleasure: reading, watching movies, even exercising when I can muster up the energy. The more the veil lifts, the more acutely aware I become regarding my situation and my life. The loneliness, ironically postponed by my depression, has finally hit. And it is more painful than I could have ever imagined.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m not completely socially isolated. I always have my mom to discuss our favorite books and watch TV shows with. When my sister has friends over that I’m comfortable with (usually ones that I’ve known my entire life), I can count on some decent conversation. Oh, and I run a blog. Not like anyone views it, but it makes me feel some sense of connection to the waking world.
Granted, none of these things are typical for a seventeen-year-old girl, although I’m only now realizing that. The more I type, the more I feel it’s as though I’m defending some sort of losing argument.
In many ways, I suppose that I am. It’s like starting off a sentence with, “Yes Officer, I was speeding, but…” I’m just digging myself into a deeper hole.
A huge part of the problem is that I don’t have any confidence when it comes to talking to people my age. I have a hard time connecting with others. Even as a child, I was somewhat of a loner. In elementary school, I got by with a small group of friends that I had known (get this) most of my life – and there’s nothing wrong with that – but when middle school started and everyone got sent off to different districts, I was up the creek.
Never having developed the same social abilities as everyone else, I spent 2/3 grades struggling to swim. I had/have several nervous habits, such as picking at the skin on my lips and fidgeting when I talked to someone; couldn’t hold eye contact with others. People pointed this out to me on multiple occasions, and I’m still consciously aware of them to this day.
Basically, communicating with others has never come easily to me. There’s always been a definite block there. Eventually, I learned to make friends, and have had a couple of good ones over the years, but when my depression hit for the first time when I was fourteen, certain aspects of my life got markedly worse – such as my anxiety, which has been prevalent for as long as I can remember.
Both took a serious turn for the worse my junior year, resulting in the social isolation I’m experiencing today. I alienated every single one of my friends, and when I was hospitalized six months ago, I was pulled out for the remainder of the year. When my senior year starts in September, I’ll be finishing up high school online. It’ll be better for my anxiety and depression, but it’ll lay absolutely nothing on my loneliness.
The boredom might be the worst part. I have nothing to look forward to during the day, so thus I spend a lot of time sleeping as much and as long as I can, just so I don’t have to deal with the tedium of being awake. My schedule is achingly dull: I wake up. I blog. I fill the empty hours with television shows and video games. If I can concentrate, I might read a book. Otherwise, it rarely deviates.
The loneliness itself is potentially the only thing worse than the boredom. I find myself wondering about the few people who were once in my life, and how they’re doing. Sometimes, I hopefully check my phone (I keep it turned off for precisely this reason) for messages, expecting none. After months and months of alienation, everyone has written me off. I don’t blame them for not wanting to deal with me – I don’t even want to deal with me.
Every couple of months or so, I have a conversation with an estranged friend, although they’re usually brief and unfulfilling. Despite how starved I am for company, I have walls that are made of concrete and insurmountably high. I push everyone away; I keep everything to myself. If I’m suffering, I don’t say a word about it. Even when I did have friends, I very rarely came across a person that I could open up to.
I know that I should reach out. Complaining about my situation isn’t going to fix it, and I fully acknowledge my role in perpetuating the problem. But on top of being closed off and introverted, I’m socially anxious, complete with debilitating physical symptoms and the occasional situational-bound panic attack.
I’m too scared to attempt to cultivate any relationships with others. When I interact with anyone outside my family, I spend hours, sometimes days afterwards ruminating over potential error and how I humiliated myself in conversation. Isolation has only made this worse, of course.
About a month ago, I hung out with someone for the first time in over eight months, and he hasn’t contacted me since. I’ve taken this as a slight, and I’m still going through what I might have done wrong over in my head. Which is pretty sad, because to feel slighted requires some sort of expectation. I had none.
I know that things could be worse. Much worse. My life thankfully has not been a tragic one. I’ve had the good grace to know friendship and what it means to be loved. I have supportive parents who have stood by my side, albeit at a distance, throughout my struggle with mental illness. Loneliness by far is not the worst thing that I have experienced. But it’s still hard.
I am seventeen years old.
I am mentally ill.
I am graduating next year by the skin of my teeth.
I am completely friendless.
I am lonely.
And it hurts.
by Band Back Together | Aug 23, 2013 | Anxiety, Childhood Bullying, Depression, Fear, How To Heal From Being Bullied, How To Help With Low Self-Esteem, Loneliness, Self Loathing, Self-Esteem, Shame, Trauma |
This is her story and her wish for her son:
I can feel the panic rising in my throat like bile.
We are at the pool and my son is showing off for a group of boys; trying desperately to be noticed and loved. This brings it all back: being the social outcast from grade three on up. The teasing, the ignoring, the bullying the tears. Hours of wishing I could belong.
My only recourse was to NOT belong: if they thought I was freak; then I would be a freak.
He is two. Only two. Is the need to belong so deep inside our biology that it begins so early? Tears are in my eyes even now, as I think of it.
Please don’t let him be like me. Please let him be okay. Please don’t let him go through what I did.
It’s not about being popular; it’s about being okay. I don’t want him to go through what I did. On the other hand, I sure as hell don’t want him on the other extreme; the type of person who made my school years hell.
I see him striving for attention, to be noticed, to be loved. Already. At two.
Please, please don’t let him be like me…
by Band Back Together | Aug 1, 2013 | Anxiety, Date/Acquaintance Rape, Depression, Fear, Loneliness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Rape/Sexual Assault, Teen Rape, Teen Substance Abuse, Trust |
I’m a teenage sexual assault victim.
This is my story:
When I was sixteen years old, I was sent abroad to study and work. I was on my own – no family, no friends, and no jobs. And as I was underage, it was quite hard to get a job.
Finally, a nice man with a family – his lovely wife pregnant with his second, a son about a year old – agreed to allow me to work at his store without a contract.
I trusted him. His family allowed me stay overnight, cooked me meals, as his house was nearer to my school. It was nice. One night we decided to have a party. We all drank.
He took advantage of me while his family was upstairs.
Desperately, I tried to run away. As his family was upstairs, he followed me downstairs and locked the door and pushed me down onto the floor. I tried to pull away, but he had a hold of both my hands and legs.
He stole my first time; my only chance to make it special. He stole my carefree teenage years, my childhood, my lively personality.
After he was done raping me, I ran for the door and escaped to home. I was scared – I couldn’t understand what had happened; what was going on. I lost all sense.
The next few days, I spent alone in my room, staring at nothing, not talking, not doing anything. My friends reported me missing – eventually they came to my house and found me in this state.
But they didn’t know what happened. I was in denial; pretending I didn’t know what’d happened. They knew something was up.
I quit my job.
I cut all connections with everyone in that city and moved away. I changed schools, took medicine to quell my anxiety, I started (and stopped) therapy sessions as I didn’t want to open up to the therapist. I didn’t want to. I pretended nothing had happened to me – as long as I believed nothing had happened, I’d be fine.
Dose after dose, I took the medication until I became addicted. I’m addicted to drugs and alcohol – they make me forget what happened. They allow me to feel happy again. I can live my life without caring about anything. I started doing dangerous things and harming myself, hoping that if one of my “adventures” goes terribly wrong, I can finally die.
I considered killing him, but decided that was a bad idea.
I lost my connections, my friendships with other people – become antisocial. It’s extremely hard for me to make friends because I just don’t want to talk or share my story with others. I close up and let nobody in.
They think I’m weird, snobby.
I lost interest in everyone – especially men. I fell apart without my family, I’m depressed and anxious; I cannot sleep without drinking alcohol. I suffer nightmares; I’m extremely jumpy – especially in my sleep. I hit people or shout at them if they touch me, even if it’s a friendly touch. Suddenly, I’ll wake wake up crying without remembering what I’m crying about. I drove everyone away from me – in order to find joy and safety alone
At age twenty, I got into university and am doing a bit better. I managed to make new friends – even if they think I’m odd.
I was doing okay. Until recently.
Finally, it hit me that what happened wasn’t a bad dream. I was actually raped. I’m on the verge of breaking down again… just as I’m trying to start a new life.
I can’t let this happen again.
That’s why I’m here, The Band: to share and hear about others, to find comfort in stories that help me find the light again.
I’m hoping that by writing this, by letting it all out, I can start new again.
It’s never too late.
by Band Back Together | Jul 30, 2013 | Abuse, Anxiety, Child Abuse, Coping With Depression, Depression, Emotional Abuse, Generalized Anxiety Disorder Resources, Guilt, Major Depressive Disorder, Psychological Manipulation, Self Injury, Suicide |
One of the hardest things a friend can do is to try and help a self-destructive friend.
This is her story:
I know that none of this is your fault.
I know that it wasn’t your fault for being depressed. I know that it wasn’t your fault that your parents emotionally and verbally abused you, or for having a severe anxiety disorder. I know that you were in blinding amounts of pain, and you were just trying to survive in any which way you could.
I know that you honestly never meant to hurt me.
And yet still, I still can’t help but be angry with you.
For a good seven months of my life, I was stricken with terror every single day. I spent countless hours talking you down from suicide; comforting you after you’d have a panic attack, and listening to you describe in detail how you’d hurt yourself that day.
I tried my best to be there for you, even as I was simultaneously dealing with my own self-harm, anxiety, and a crippling depressive episode – so crippling, in fact, that eventually, I had to be hospitalized.
I couldn’t walk away even if I’d wanted. Many times, you’d said I was the most important person in your life – if I left, you’d kill yourself. However, you also told me even if I stayed, you would eventually kill yourself.
I was trapped.
I pleaded with you to get help. Each time, you refused.
Once, I had to call the police to keep you from swallowing your prescription medications. Fortunately, they got there in time; unfortunately, it did nothing to deter you from attempting again. Over the course of six months, you went on to attempt suicide nearly two dozen times.
I was there for it all.
I can still remember the day my younger sister broke up with you. Like me, she’d been backed into a corner and didn’t know what to do. You called her names, accused her of lying to you, and threatened suicide. I spent two hours behind a computer screen trying to talk you down while my sister sobbed helplessly in the background. My mom called your parents. They did nothing to help the situation.
All in all, it was useless.
Later that week, I broke down. I climbed into the shower, bit down on a washcloth, and screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed until my throat was hoarse and cried harder than I’ve ever cried.
Finally, months later, I attempted to walk away. You responded with aggression and hatred, and later made it known to me in a very marked way that you’d tried to kill yourself that day.
Even then, I recognized this obvious act of emotional manipulation, but that still didn’t change that you’d attempted to end your life… because of me.
When I did eventually manage to extract myself from your grasp, it wasn’t pretty. All my anger and hurt poured out all at once. I said things I shouldn’t have, no matter how sincere; I hurt you needlessly.
The guilt will never fade.
It’s been over two months since that day, and I’m still struggling with this insurmountable level of anger, hurt, and guilt I feel.
I remember the day you told me, to paraphrase, I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. Ever since, I’ve questioned everything about myself. I’ve never believed I was a good person, but I’ve tried my hardest to do the right thing. It makes me wonder if all my efforts have been in vain, because when it came to you, I tipped the scales.
I blame myself for a lot of things: your descent into self-harm, several of your suicide attempts, and various slights I made along the way.
As I’ve been almost completely socially-isolated for the past five months as part of the aftermath my hospitalization, there isn’t much I can think about besides self-hatred. The same chorus of thoughts play throughout my head: an endless loop of guilt and self-loathing.
I keep trying to remind myself that you were just a sixteen-year-old boy in pain. You felt alone. To some degree, you weren’t entirely responsible for your actions. That does little to quell my anger. I’m not even certain that I have a right to be angry at you. After all, weren’t you the true victim here?
I guess I’m just not sure who I hate more these days: You, or myself.
I’m trying to forgive you for it all.
I’m desperately trying to forgive myself.
I just don’t know if I can.
by Band Back Together | Dec 1, 2010 | Anger, Depression, Grandparent Loss, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Cope With A Suicide, Sadness, Stress, Suicide |
Just yesterday I was reading posts at this site. Shedding sympathetic tears and yet at the same time being so grateful that I had nothing to post here. My gratefulness was premature.
For all intense and purposes, my grandfather died at 8:30 last night. He actually died at 6:20 this morning.
At 8:30 last night my grandfather shot himself in the head. Even after that and being on no life support it took the rest of his body 10 hours to die. 10 hours that my father and mother waited at the hospital all the while knowing that what they were waiting for was a pronouncement of death for my father’s father.
When my mom called me last night, I knew intelligently, that my mom calls my pop-pop “Pop”, and when she called I could tell by her tone that something had happened. Someone had died and at 91, my grandfather was – of course – the most logical answer. But he was healthy. Healthier than most men 10 years his junior and his mind was sharp as a tack, but I knew that it had to be him. However, when I heard the words “Pop shot himself tonight.”
I was thrown immediately into an hysterical state and just started screaming, “Pop-pop or my dad?!?!? Pop-pop or my dad?!?!?”
I’m numb. I’m at work today because I need normal. I need routine. When I actually stop and really think about it, my body shuts down and I go into a near catatonic state. My body’s defenses are too high right now. Too ready to go into flight mode. I need normal. For at least today.
But nothing will ever be normal again. My grandfather killed himself. And my aunt who lives with him was home at the time. I don’t know what to think. I’m devastated. I’m angry. And I feel so awful for my dad. Beyond awful.
When dad called me this morning to tell me that Pop-pop had finally passed away, he broke down and asked me not to hate Pop-pop. Which I never could. I loved that man more than anything. He asked to please not think less of him. And I don’t. Then he asked me to please not be angry at Pop-pop. I told him I wasn’t. I told him I didn’t understand, but that I wasn’t angry.
I hope it’s not always wrong to lie.
If you or anyone you know is feeling suicidal, please remember that suicide is never the answer.
Call the National Suicide Hotline (US): 1-800-273-8255
by Band Back Together | Nov 15, 2010 | Anger, Depression, Guilt, Jealousy, Poverty, Economic Struggles and Hardship, Stress |
My friends would say that I have a great sense of humor, and I like to think that I do. I’m one of those “ease the tension with a funny line” kind of people. But lately I’m just so jealous and angry and ugly inside – I feel like even my blood and organs have rotted to black.
I am deeply blessed to have a wonderful husband and healthy child. After long bouts of unemployment, my husband and I both have jobs. That should be all I ever want. But dammit if life isn’t harder than I can take sometimes! We have piles of debt, and I hold my breath and pray when I check our bank account balance online. Last week, we were $500 in the hole until payday on Friday. We are under-employed and under-paid, and every purchase, even necessities, requires deliberation.
Yet we’re surrounded by friends who can afford things like vacations, Christmas gifts, babysitters and second children – all things we would love to have, but we can’t. Our friends have successful careers and gym memberships and freaking disposable income – things that we thought we would have too, being smart, college-educated, hard working people.
So I’m jealous. Deep, ugly-cry, Wicked Witch of the West jealous. I find out about one person’s TV appearance or another’s forthcoming baby, and my first reaction is to wince and roll my eyes. I hate myself so much for that. Nobody wants to be around that person, not even me.
I hate that when I count my blessings, I feel like I got shafted. I think I’m pissing off God, setting myself up for something awful to happen because I’m ungrateful, even though logically I know better. I’m just so tired of economic struggles. People say that money doesn’t solve all your problems, but it damn sure solves the problem of not having any f-ing money!
I feel hopeless and furious and also guilty as hell. It’s an awful cycle that I can’t figure out how to end. Is praying for a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow worse than any other idea?
