Withdrawing Into Isolation

I am alone. Not literally. I live in a city of 8 million yet I am alone. In that aloneness I am isolated. By choice I am isolated. My intention with this isolation: unclear. I’m living vicariously through the characters of my favorite television shows and through those in the world created in the book I’m currently reading. I’m comfortable hidden behind my own walls. 

My social media has been disconnected. My phone is on Do Not Disturb. I do not want to deal with the world. I do not want the world to deal with me.

I have cut off most of my friends. I have cut off my family. Do they know it? I don’t know. I have chosen to fade from their view. Is it in the hopes that they will recognize that I am no longer there and reach out? Maybe. (How childish) But honestly, I don’t want any of them to see me…like this. For I see myself as a floundering man who has been down this road—what is it, depression ?—before and in their imagined faces I see the look of recognition, that look of here we go again. In their imagined whispers I hear them actually saying, “Here he goes again,” as they take a ragged breath and plaster on a smile before opening the door and embracing me.

Is any of this true? The feeling of aloneness and the isolation is true. The feeling of depression is true. (Although I’m probably just blue, dejected, forlorn. Or maybe as Blanche Devereaux put it, I'm magenta.) The rest could be true. Or maybe it's part of the grand illusion of storytelling that I do so well. I recount stories about my life all of the time: the good, the bad, the ugly, the funny. I make up stories of fiction in an attempt to entertain. I also tell myself stories that may or may not be true. Is it a coping mechanism? Are these stories a way of dealing with my own bullshit? Are they a protective shield that prevents me from being vulnerable in front of the people I love most, (or the one who could love me most), or the people that could help me most? 

I am embarrassed to be this person. 

I’m angry and holding grudges. I’m hurt. I’m cold as stone. Yet I’m so sad...that I ache. I have a large personality that usually doesn’t go unnoticed. Yet I want to fade away. 

I cannot seem to accept that asking for help is not a sign of weakness. It feels like weakness. I know that the stronger man knows when to ask for help but it still feels like weakness. Maybe I’m the weaker for sitting alone in my isolation. I’ve been a social butterfly for much of my life yet the idea of fluttering my wings right now doesn’t bring me joy. I would rather sleep. To sleep is to forget even if it’s for just a moment. To sleep is peace, if only briefly. Am I empty? Why am I here? 

Is self-pity in black and white? The role of victim that I have written for myself?

I attempt to put on a smile and pretend that everything is okay. That’s difficult for a person who wears his heart on his sleeve. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings. 

The sound waves that carry information about my daily life have become radio silent. I am not Rohrering. I am whimpering. 

I feel as if I’m too afraid to live yet too scared to die.