My way out
“One cliché attached to bookish people is that they are lonely, but for me books were my way out of being lonely. If you are the type of person who thinks too much about stuff then there is nothing lonelier in the world than being surrounded by a load of people on a different wavelength.”― Matt Haig
One of the hardest things about losing Jeff is that, until he came along, I had lived pretty much my whole life feeling lonely. I had a lot of friends over the years, male and female, some of whom were very close. And I had supportive family members and two parents I could count on to be there whenever I needed them. But it was Jeff who rescued me from that sense of isolation that I often feel even in a crowd.
Haig’s quote struck a chord deep within me. I have often felt as if I was on a totally different wavelength than everyone else, and since Jeff’s death, that feeling of estrangement has only grown harder and more cruel. It’s not that Jeff was perpetually on the same wavelength as I was; we were different in many ways. Still, we were alike enough that we felt an intimate understanding of each other. With Jeff, I knew that there was at least one person to whom I mattered a great deal, who would always be there for me.
Two harsh facts now set me apart from the friends of our generation who were our peers over the years: having a disabled adult son, and becoming the first (and so far, only one) of all those friends and acquaintances to be widowed. Besides this, unlike many of my friends who dote on their daughters or grandchildren and stay in almost constant contact with them, I rarely see my grandsons, and seldom hear from them or get photos or videos of them, despite how easy it has become to share such things digitally.
Yet even before my life circumstances isolated me, I often felt that inner loneliness. Then as now, books were and are indeed a way through (if not out of) that sad place. Printed pages can never take the place of being with people face to face. But when connecting with others who have reached out to humanity through their writing, I realize that most if not all of what I face is a fairly universal part of the mixed bag of being human.
Reading the experiences and emotions of others gives perspective, and makes it possible to survive the pain of feeling forgotten or disregarded. It’s different from movies or television because with a book, it’s always one-on-one. Whether in fiction or nonfiction, a writer is talking directly to a reader, sharing from the depths of the heart that can’t be accessed in casual conversation. Because reading is active, not passive, it’s impossible to feel like a bystander; one is part of the process, completing the transaction begun by the writer.
It’s like movies and television are a cocktail party, but books are the heart-to-heart talk with a friend at the kitchen table or by the fireside, lingering over a cup of tea or coffee. Never much of a party person, I prefer the friendly chat.
You may be one of those lucky people who are surrounded by loving friends and family who maintain an active, meaningful presence in your life. If so, be grateful! In your gratitude, try to remain sensitive to the needs and feelings of others who lack that blessing.
If you are one who does feel alone and forgotten, you have lots of company– an irony, isn’t it? According to many recent news stories based on peer-reviewed research, loneliness is becoming an epidemic in this switched-on, tuned-out world. And even if you do not experience it now, chances are you will become acquainted with loneliness at some point in the future, if you are blessed to live long enough to out-live those who are near and dear.
For that reason among many others, I heartily recommend that you stay friendly with books and reading, no matter which format best suits you. It’s one of the best and most lasting gifts you can give yourself.