This post is about more than being alone. It is about being a recluse. This contains my own musings, and opinions. It will discuss isolation and mental illness.
Through stigma, I have been forced into the life of a recluse. I only go out if I have to. I do not stay out for very long.
I live on the terms of other people, terms that they have written for me.
I have a garden, and without that I would not survive. I can slip between the trees, and hide beneath the leafy branches. I can keep cool on a hot day. It gives me a break from the house. It helps me to avoid claustrophobia.
This saddens my parents, that I must spend all day, every day in the house, and have been denied the chance to go out, to create a life separate from them.
They feel sad to see this, and they feel sad that I could not have created a circle of friends.
I see that they are sad, and that makes me sad all over again.
Human beings are social creatures, and it is only natural that I would want friendship.
I listen to the radio, read, watch movies, do my Art, and generally I am good at amusing myself.
Being alone is not always hard, sometimes I quite enjoy it. I like to read.
But I need my garden. I need that extra space. I do not know how I would manage without my garden. Right now I can look out and see the foxgloves, the sweet pea.
It is 6 am and the World is beginning to wake up.