“I think there’s something
You should know
I think it’s time I stopped the show
There’s something deep inside of me
There’s someone I forgot to be…”

I saw one of those fancy shmancy poetic quote posts today that said something about having a cup of tea and sitting in a cozy armchair and listening to the silence, and how everyone decides for themselves whether that would be loneliness or freedom.

It’s a fair concept to consider for most “normal” people, I suppose, assuming there is such a thing. I can only speak for myself, of course. But here’s the deal. I know loneliness. I know it like the back of my hand, and here’s what that looks like.

Loneliness is a child whose job it was to make her own needs as small as possible in deference to those of everyone around her, including a brother with disabilities, a father with health issues, and a narcissistic mother who treated her like a friend and therapist and personal assistant and decidedly not just the little girl she was.

Loneliness is having nowhere at all to go in a strange house in a strange state across the country from where you grew up, while your one supposed ally, your father, makes arrangements for you to return back to your mother and the new man in her life who you just know is no good, except no one wants to listen to your instincts.

Loneliness is finding space in your house, be it either the basement or your bedroom, where you hide away from everyone else because the stress of being around tumultuous arguing and cruelty isn’t worth the opportunity to try feeing connected to the other humans in the household.

Loneliness is being accused of staying up in your “ivory tower” by those other humans because they couldn’t be bothered to consider why you distance yourself and instead choose to ridicule you for it, and you let them do it because it’s the path of least resistance.

Loneliness is coming to realize that your bedroom is no safe space at all.

Loneliness is coming to realize that your mother, the one person a child should be able to count on, is not a safe person to go to.

Freedom, though…I’ve learned about freedom, in recent years.

Freedom is accepting the above and deciding that you’re going to need to seek outside help if you are to have any hope of functioning in your life.

Freedom is learning as an adult for the first time about boundaries, and figuring out how to put some in place.

Freedom is coming to realize that you have the right to remove people from your life, no matter who they are or what claim they think they have on you, if they cross those boundaries.

Freedom is surrounding yourself with people who not only respect your boundaries, but support you every step of the way in maintaining those boundaries.

Freedom is hearing just how destructively loud your past was, by nature of your present being so blissfully, peacefully quiet.

Referring back to that post, if I were to answer, I know that I would call it freedom. That’s just the opinion of one trauma survivor, but I suspect I’m not the only one who’d agree. I just know that I have finally reached a point where I will choose solitary peace over harmful company, every time.

“But today the way
I play the game has got to change
Oh yeah
Now I’m gonna get myself happy…”

—Italicized lyric selections from Freedom! ’90, by George Michael