In last month’s essay, I considered how living with pain can lead to loneliness and isolation. For me, this is primarily the result of being home bound much of the time, which limits my ability to participate in activities or just be out and about the community. There is also the tendency of some to marginalize or avoid those in pain, not wanting to know about their struggles or be involved in their lives. These factors contribute to a quieter, more isolated life.
But while the practical problem of having fewer people in one’s life can be countered by discovering new ways to connect, it occurs to me that there are also a number of cognitive and emotional burdens we take on that unnecessarily amplify the distress of being alone. Becoming aware of and seeing through these does much to dispel their power. Here are a few that I’ve noticed operating in my own life.
The first comes from internalizing or lending power to the judgment of others that my condition is not that limiting, and to the extent that it is, it is my fault. I “look good” so I can’t really be in pain. I haven’t seen the doctor they recommended, so I’m not really trying to get well. I need to exercise more, have a better attitude, try a different diet. So the loneliness I feel in missing the family reunion, for example, is intensified by the sense of judgment that I don’t care enough to be there.
Another emotional burden is the fear or belief that my character or personality is flawed. Perhaps, despite my physical limitations, I wouldn’t be so isolated if I were more gregarious, upbeat or interesting – if I were simply more likable. Feeling that I am alone because I am lacking certain traits or social graces greatly intensifies the sense of isolation. Not only am I alone, I am alone because I am poor company.
Admittedly, I’m not the most sparkling, socially adept person. But that is not the cause of my loneliness. I needn’t be perfect to have people and love in my life. None of us does. Believing I do only perpetuates isolation. It prevents me from recognizing the true issues, i.e., the practical limitations of participating in social events with chronic pain, and our greater cultural tendency toward more isolated lives. Neither of these issues is personal, nor insurmountable.
Another harmful belief is that my loneliness is a result of no longer being of use to others as I once was. Certainly opportunities for service can get a person out and about and foster a sense of community. We all need a sense of purpose. I am no longer able to watch someone’s house, pet sit, run errands or travel to visit a friend in need of support. But there are other ways to be of service. I helped a friend negotiate the maze of Medicare registration recently – all from the comfort of my sofa. I write and share my experience with others. I participate in two online communities and occasionally do service work for these groups.
Although giving money is often viewed a baser form of helping than hands-on involvement, it is just as important. Donating to a good cause, to my favorite YouTube channel, to a GoFundMe, or generously tipping delivery people – all these matter. These acts are more or less anonymous. I’m not rewarded with the warmth of personal thanks. But this makes the giving all the more selfless. It’s not a people-pleasing move. I have also come to see that I don’t need to prove my worthiness through service. We don’t need to be “useful” to be included in community, to give and receive love.
Another false belief is that I am alone because I am no longer interesting. I don’t travel; I don’t work outside the home. I don’t have a wide circle of friends. My life has minimal interpersonal drama these days. I generally don’t have much news to share with others. But I can be a good listener and enjoy others’ escapades. And there are other things to talk about. There is the realm of ideas, literature, movies, philosophy, psychology, current events and a lifetime of experience and (hopefully) wisdom. If I’m feeling lonely, it is not because I have fewer tales to tell.
Especially oppressive when I’m feeling lonely is the sense that I am alone in being alone. Our culture’s tendency to discourage those in pain from making their voices heard can leave us feeling that our suffering is unique, or that others in pain are strong and noble, bearing it with ease. This is why it is so essential to connect with others going through the same. There are many ways to do this. It needn’t be personal friendship or a classic support group, although these can be powerful. For many years, just reading memoirs, articles, watching videos or listening to podcasts by others dealing with long-term pain or disability was a source of strength and comfort to me.
Becoming aware of and countering these false narratives does much to take the sting out of loneliness. Chronic pain has diminished my ability to interact with and meet people in person. Although I have found new ways to connect, I still miss the ease of my former social life. I still experience loneliness at times. But recognizing that this is not the result of self-sabotage or a flawed personality, nor because I am less useful or interesting significantly lightens the burden. And it is vital to remember that loneliness is not just a challenge for those with chronic pain, but part of our broader social context, a problem of modern life. We all search for connection, meaning and love. And we all can find it.