The Fantasy of Isolation

I had it in my head to post an article about Validation – deconstructing the myths that all outside validation is bad, and we should be self-affirming, about how, as I’ve recounted in some links, to properly validate one another’s pain, particularly for those of us suffering from mental illness – but even for everyone generally, is so important. 

But that seems antithetical to the purpose of my blog – that feels like advice, that feels like me jumping on the self-help train. 

My need for validation, for support, for affirmation against all the negative voices I have in my head, often remnants and internalization of the negative messaging of outsiders like my family — I find it absolutely disgusting.

I feel like a needy, gross, human being.  I can’t imagine anyone would want me in their lives, with my tentacles waving through the air, and you in danger of being trapped, with no room to breathe, all the air sucked out of you, catering to my needs. 

In the aftermath of a “suicide attempt,” I resent the fact that I could possibly need people, that I need my friends and family to be there for me, to support me, to be there to intervene when I have the urges or to be generally consistently around to prevent my suicidal inclinations.  

Neediness is slimy and dirty and disgusting. 

And as my friend said, as detailed in my last post, everyone is dealing with something even if they are not suicidal, and how dare I expect them to prioritize my needs over their own. 

I am like a rodent, a bug, a nuisance you can’t get rid of, a fly buzzing around you demanding your attention, that you desperately wish would just get distracted in another direction, and leave you to attend to your own shit undisturbed. 

And when I’m told, repeatedly, I expect too much, this resentment leads me to the fantasy of isolation.  How dare you suggest that I am not totally self -sufficient?  I will prove to you, all of you, how little I need you.  Whether that means, I shave my head and move to Nepal to herd goats in the foothills, or I die in silence so you never have to be bothered by me once again. 

Sometimes I think the space in-between is the worst.  When I’m just connected enough to wish people contacted me —needed me, depended on me the way I depend on them.  The fantasy of isolation, is that when I cut everyone out of my life, there’s a clearer boundary – instead of not expecting “too much,” I expect nothing at all.  I give nothing, I get nothing.  Maybe it’s easier that way.

Maybe if you zoom out, if you look at all the brave decisions I’ve made in my life, moving to strange lands, travelling alone, building projects out of nothing, you’d be aghast that I question my own independence. But if what I need to stay alive right now, is love and affection, care and validation, then death seems like the only way to reclaim that independence. 

Or the fantasy of isolation.  Putting myself out of the reach of others and severing all those ties that possess the possibility of healing, but continue to disappoint me.  Where maybe I never learn how to self-validate, but I keep myself alive on the fuel of something new, something different, I can’t even imagine at this moment.  Maybe that’s the hope that keeps me out of desperation, that keeps me out of death’s hands.