The Lure of Isolation
There are times when life gets so hard to take that you just want to hide — or run as far away as you can. The demands of living can become so great as the stresses and strains of our obligations increase to the breaking point that it seems the only reasonable recourse is to close your eyes and cover your ears, imagining that all the bad stuff is gone by simply ignoring it.
What’s often overlooked when we are in the throes of our anxiety is how many of the problems that seem so imminent and intractable are exaggerated in our minds, if not wholly invented. The way things are perceived and the preference for specific outcomes determine the feeling tone of whatever is being dealt with. If we have jobs that are stressful, we will continue working under those circumstances if we feel we need the income or have no other options. Quite often, however, we do have other choices, but we may not be able to fully analyze my situation if we’re caught up in the drama of it.
At that point it may seem that my best course of action is to withdraw to a place where all of the unreasonable demands placed on me by others — or by myself — can be left behind. Taking a moment away from a problem can help put that problem in perspective. Once we go to a quieter place, we can realize that whatever may have seemed so massive and devastating only appeared that way because we had allowed it to be so all consuming.
Pulling ourselves away from a stressful situation can be an effective short-term strategy, but at some point, we need to decide either to face it head on and persevere or abandon it altogether. A decision of some sort needs to be made. If not, we might find that our temporary solution itself becomes a kind of trap. We may begin imagining that the problem we have avoided is even worse than it is, and our fear may paralyze us as we continue to procrastinate.
But once we find that quiet place, safe from the conditions that we blame for our unhappiness, going back into that maelstrom is hardly a desirable option. This leads us to keep ourselves sequestered, avoiding the conflicts and challenges of life. Instead of trying to find ways to resolve the problems we would rather not deal with, we allow them to continue, not unlike a drug user who is narcotized into a state of not really caring one way or another.
In fact, this form of isolation is not unlike a narcotic, numbing us by creating barriers. It shields us from having to deal with the unpleasantness of life, in particular the demands of other people, either real or perceived. Hiding from others whom we feel are expecting too much from us or sitting in judgement of us shields us from potential criticism and rejection. The imagined discomforts become real in our minds, drawing us to conclude that it’s far better to spare ourselves the pain of dealing with what we assume would be the harsh opinions of cruel onlookers who care little or not at all about how we feel.
This sanctuary we create eventually becomes a kind of prison. We find that we don’t want to venture out beyond the walls that have protected us from dealing with things we might want to avoid. Through a kind of process of association, seeing our internal space as safe, we infer that anything outside it is dangerous, or at least potentially so. It makes sense, then, following this logic, that we do our best to stay in those safe places — after all, why take chances?
But life doesn’t play by our rules. We can’t spend all of our time locked in our self-made secure zones. We have to venture out and look for food and pay the rent and do all the other stuff we need to do. And so, we go forth, reluctantly at times, and fulfill the requirements of living. But we do so cautiously, on the lookout for hazards real or imagined. We may do the absolute minimum to accomplish what we must. We may act in a way that reduces our exposure to the risks we have come to believe surround us, like a minefield through which we have to carefully step.
Seeing things in this way, we tend to interact with others with some degree of suspicion, even being somewhat wary of those with whom we are largely familiar. We cannot surround ourselves with actual physical walls, but we can reduce our exposure. We can withhold our trust and limit our interactions by disclosing as little as possible about our true nature — our inner selves. We can put on masks that disguise our feelings and opinions, telling others what we think they want to hear. Or we can bluntly and aggressively display a persona ready to do battle if necessary, in order to preemptively discourage others from having the notion they can take advantage of us. In each case we seal ourselves off from any kind of authentic contact, protecting ourselves from what we see as threats.
This seems to work — at least at first. How long can this façade be maintained, however? How long can we stand the strain of living without honest, open relationships? For some there appears to be no choice in the matter. Once we become isolated by our fears, it becomes more and more difficult to break through the very barriers we created. Our perceptions lock us in. We become convinced that the world is a hostile place and that the people around us are cold and uncaring. Our small refuge — our prison — is a reassuring place that we can control, where we are godlike and omnipotent, unlike the stormy world outside our walls where we feel we have less control over things — or none at all.
It can be very difficult to resist the lure of isolation. And on the surface, there may not seem to be any need to deny ourselves its comforts. But being cut off from others can have subtle, barely noticeable effects, especially if we do our best to ignore what’s actually happening to us. On some level we may realize that we’re actually living a lie — that pretending that we are, by ourselves, sufficient and need nothing beyond the money we require to support ourselves leads us to ignore a more fundamental truth: that we are rooted in the world and all that we are is derived from those who came before us and are around us. Our true identity is something greater than the small, frightened self that resists being a part of a larger existence, recognizing the basic kinship of everyone and everything. Fear then is both the barrier and the result of our reluctance to go forth into a world full of potential pitfalls. But, in fact, the world is our source and our sustenance. Our fear, then, does not protect us in this instance but suffocates us and undermines our health and happiness.
Breaking an addiction to isolation is like overcoming any other kind of toxic dependency. The first step is recognizing its harmfulness, which is difficult since seeking this form of escape from potentially damaging experiences appears to be in our best interest. It’s only when the cost is weighed that it becomes apparent that we’ve made a really bad bargain — trading a life with potential opportunities to grow and thrive for one where we slowly wither away. Fear has driven us into our exile, and it is that which we must face and overcome.
But facing this fear and pushing past it is done much more easily with the help of others than by trying to do it alone. We need then to take a major leap of faith — and trust — to find the way out of our isolation and a path to a better existence that we can share with loving, caring companions. Once we start that journey, we can begin to experience more fully the joy and richness that life has to offer.