Isolation

They say a problem shared is a problem halved. But what happens when those you share with don’t want to carry that burden with you?

I don’t trust a lot of people with things that deeply affect me. And those I do trust,  I trust wholeheartedly. Call me naïve,  but these are the people I thought would always have my best interest at heart; people who would support me even when they didn’t support the decisions I have made. So imagine my surprise when I was met with hostility by those I thought loved me unconditionally. It was almost as though their love for me, and thus their presence in my life, was conditional to me meeting an unspoken definition of what it meant to be loved by them. I was left not only nursing the heavy burden I now carry, but also the reality that their love for me was an illusion.

Now I am lost and scared, and feel more lonely than I have ever felt. I find myself in toilet cubicles, crying. I try and hide the fear that keeps me awake at night because I don’t know if I can trust anyone anymore. I have allowed my problem to embed itself in my soul and in my prayers. All in hopes that I won’t be tempted to let slip what troubles me so greatly. I keep myself preoccupied so as to not relive the moments when I came to the realisation that those that I had labeled my support system would not be able to support me anymore. I am weak and exposed, acknowledging the fact that maybe no one ever really loves anyone.

So between the bursts of hysterical sobbing and paranoid fear, I have decided to let go. To let go of the notion that people will care for you no matter what you do or become. Let go of the idea that problems are supposed to be shared in order to free the soul. Let go of the notion of support and security,  and both terms require love to be present. And I have realised that love no longer lives here. Emptiness and uncertainty have taken over in ways that can never be reversed.

So now I have crawled back into my shell. Looking and plotting for ways to solve my problem, while making this solitude my permanent home.