Darkness, darkness
be my pillow
take my hand
and let me sleep
-Robert Plant

Isolation breeds hostility. It's no wonder that human beings, left alone in the world without even an illusion of connection, turn feral and want nothing to do with civilized society. The natural reaction to exclusion is to reject, in turn, what one has been rejected from.

It is not with surprise, then, that I find myself hating people who have given me insufficient cause to hate them. When one has no close friends to call one's own, each individual becomes merely an instance of the undifferentiated mass of uncaring, hostile humankind. Even those who were once my friends are now simply my enemies, instruments of an army bent on destroying me with its apathy toward me.

I suppose it began with Danny's death. When a close friend commits suicide, the remaining friend cannot help but feel that s/he has failed the expectations of friendship in some not vague way. After all, one of the purposes of friendship is to bind a person to this earth, to engage in an equal exchange in which you provide your friends with support and expectations that they are obliged to return. When a friend chooses to die, then, both friends have somehow fallen short on their responsibilities.

I understand all too well that on some level, suicide is a mode of revenge, a thumbing of one's nose at those who would claim to be friends with him or her, and yet were unable to sufficiently create those earthly bonds. "You weren't there for me," the suicide says. "You weren't enough."

Or perhaps that isn't the real reason behind suicide. Maybe the crushing depression and despair that some attempted suicides speak of is more accurate. Yet I can't help but suspect that those who merely attempt suicide and those who actually succeed may in fact have differing motives, not only differing competencies.

Yes, isolation breeds hostility, and with no external object or person available to become its object, the hostile individual often turns that rage inward. Lacking a sense of agency, of value, the person who is truly alone can begin to see self-debasement or injury as a tempting option.

For some, it is not so far off. For others, its apparent closeness is merely a mirage, and there are untold miles of desolation remaining between the nearly-unbearable present and the unbearable life. How much isolation can a human being, whose biology is social, bear?

Only time can tell. The wasteland that sometimes makes up the human soul lacks any maps or compasses that could give direction.

Polarizing tendencies. Repetition compulsion. Oral fixation. Paranoia. Depressive personality type. Delusions of grandeur.

It would be so easy to say it all began with Mother's overbearing suffocation. It would also be inadequate, just as it would be inadequate to proclaim that all my troubles are the result of Dad's alcoholism, or growing up without siblings, or being a dreadfully overweight child.

But the truth is, for whatever reason, people are all out to get me. Well, that isn't true, but I believe I'd prefer that it were to the more likely truth: no one really cares. My parents each have their own families now, and I'm just that unpleasant remnant of a failed relationship from each of their past lives. Mom couldn't look at me without seeing Dad, and she hated me for it. Dad doesn't seem to much mind being in contact with me, but then again he knows I don't expect much from him. Low expectations are loving, where I come from.

Distant relatives are distant. I know they're closer to my parents than to me, and closer to my parents than I am, and how could I not resent that? I'd rather not try at all. When they call I wonder why they don't call more often, and I get angry at being their mere afterthought. I'd rather be the relative no one knows the whereabouts of at all.

Friends are the same way, really. I want high priority in their lives. But with them, I'm threatened by any dependence they might have on me. After all, why would I want to go around trusting people that have no better source of support than me? But if they've got other sources, I feel upset at how dispensible I am.

Even my writing has lost something, coherence maybe? I used to make witty arguments, veiled insinuations, and wrap it up in melodic prose I was proud of in form, if somewhat embarrassed by in content. Now I'm struggling to keep paragraphs on a single topic, and every topic turns to the same one: loneliness. My dissatisfaction with life has ceased being creative, and now reads like a teenager's angst-ridden melodrama. It doesn't matter that my situation is somewhat unique, because that's true for everyone.

It's complicated by the fact that the single person who does truly care about me doesn't value my writing, or any writing. And that person won't tolerate ambiguity, or veiled insinuations. It's difficult, but beggars can't be choosers. More precisely, beggars particularly can't refuse the meals they'd enjoy even if they weren't starving.

But in consolation, many people are lonely. Some philosophers even say it's human nature to be so. I just get annoyed at people who play at depressed isolation when they have families, friends, lovers to call their own. There's a difference. It shouldn't be melodrama.