A Year on My Own

I have always been a loner, which is a side effect of the abuse perpetrated on me since I was a teenager. Yet, in the worst nightmares, I never could have imagined that seeking independence would lead me to such an extreme loneliness.

The path to complete loneliness, which I try to reforge for a meaningful solitude every day, began long before I fully realised it. It involved people and monsters who never understood me or my intentions. They either remained completely silent or openly abused. These are two forms of abuse, both equally painful and unforgivable. But what can you do when the only people you encounter in real life, including your own family, are abusers? How can you just leave them with your money from jointly owned property? You can't continue making them richer while growing poorer yourself, especially when your only valuable asset is your writing, which doesn't even earn you any money.

For the last ten years, I have been visiting my parents in my home country. I have spent my money, time, and even my health. I have constantly been in a state of anxiety that has been building up since my teenage years, although I didn't fully realise it until when I mistook a panic attack for a heart attack. Despite all this, my parents and my sister have been growing more distant from me, with my sister, whom I took care of as a child and gave a name to, whom I treated as my daughter, supporting their negative perception of me. After all these years, I'm not sure if I have done anything wrong, apart from being blind to their true intentions.

In the past decade, I haven't spoken to my sister, 14 years younger than me. Occasionally, she would drop off the internet router at our house when I visited, benefiting from her exciting life in a big city. My parents never contributed even a small amount of money for internet access, even after their beloved TV became not so exciting as in the old days. They also never read books. They had difficulties buying me a hairdryer solely for my use, although I would visit them once, twice, or three times a year.

My sister received support from our parents right from the beginning. While studying in the city was free, my parents covered her rent and even co-owned an expensive car with her, becoming only hers after my dad passed away. Unfortunately, I had to let go of my share in the car, which only allowed her to thrive more. I only found out about the co-ownership after my dad's death, which came as a surprise to me. My mother, who has now become the main abuser and narcissist, used this revelation as an opportunity to fight against me. Every time I visited my parents, my sister conspired against me, and my mother defended her. They distanced themselves from me, refusing to engage even in casual conversations or inquire about how I was doing abroad. Instead, they made assumptions about me. My sister became their protector, as they confided in her and shared their version of events, often distorting the truth. This behaviour was certainly not what one would expect from the hosts of the house. I felt abandoned and left with nothing when the people I knew and cared about moved away from me. Naturally, I became angry with the whole situation, which only further led to their abuse. Whenever I visited, it seemed like I was tormenting my parents, desperately trying to have even a brief conversation with my dad. He would often sit in front of the TV, completely engrossed, while I looked at him in disbelief.

In 2014, my sister came to visit me in the UK. She was quite young then. It was a bit of a challenge for me to accommodate her since I had a night job and usually slept during the day. Despite this, I made it work. However, her peculiar behaviour during the trip, like insisting on buying original Nike Air Max shoes but ending up with fakes in our country because the colours were not right, left a lasting impression on me. It made me realise what not to do on such trips. It looked like she came to visit shops and not me.

Interestingly, my sister never mentioned on Facebook that she was visiting me, although she posted pictures and information about her time in London. The revelation that she had a sister surprised her friends, and she accidentally revealed this in my presence. Or was it really an accident? I can't help but wonder.

During her visit, I cared for my sister like she was my daughter. I even had a hand in choosing her name. In theory, she could have been my child. Unfortunately, I didn't receive adequate compensation for all the time and effort I put into taking care of her.

During one of my rare visits to my parents, they mentioned my sister's dissertation reading. It struck me as odd since I had completed my dissertation ten years prior and have always been a writer. They never acknowledged my accomplishments and always wanted me to be “normal”. This attitude persisted even after I spent a month in a mental hospital, where I was supposed to be “cured”. I believed in their misguided beliefs for far too long until their own mental decline became apparent. My mother suffers from some old-fashioned but never assessed nerve disease, but she never trusted me enough to share any information. My mother's silence left me feeling lost and abandoned. Even my time in the hospital was far from gentle; it felt as if nothing had happened. They treated me as if it were a routine visit to a physical hospital, where they expect you to be cured and sent home. But in reality, I never truly healed. Instead, the medications only further damaged me, and my parents' actions left me disoriented and fearful for my future.

To this day, I reflect on my visits to my parents, hoping to uncover the truth behind the silence and misunderstandings they subjected me to. I've gathered some information through reading and bits and pieces I've stumbled upon.

That is just one aspect of the story, the abuse that has been happening for the past twenty years. It has made it impossible for me to communicate freely with the people who have abused me in my home. My mother spread rumours and shared every piece of information gleaned from me with whomever she chose. As a result, I stopped speaking. These abusive behaviours became clear immediately after the sudden death of my father. Although I felt little initially, as I was never close to my emotionally absent father, it has had a lasting impact on me. It has left me with a shameful inheritance as my mother, sister, and the house.

On the other side of things, there was my job. All the negativity I have experienced at the vehicle breakdown call centre seemed to bring back all the abuse I have endured from my so-called family. It was a vicious cycle. I have written more about this in my story "The Ups And Downs Of The Unconscious."

Being unemployed for a year, as I have chosen life over death, and not having a place to go or take care of any aspect of my life makes me feel unwanted and invisible. Throughout this time, I have wanted to return to work at an optician. However, severe mental health problems such as panic attacks (which I am lucky enough to manage now), anxiety, and suicidal thoughts have made me incredibly vulnerable and fragile. The only things that seem to help are writing, taking photos on my long walks, and learning about various psychological conditions. I could get a dog, but unfortunately, my landlord does not allow pets in my rented accommodation. The internet is the only relatively free option, but we all know the negative consequences of spending too much time online.

I am a lover of movies and music, and I often delve into my own vast collections. Yet without human interaction, I often feel like I don't exist. It is quite unbelievable that I always wanted to have time to read books, and now I read a lot to catch up on the extensive collection of English books I have always wanted to read. But this has a bittersweet taste, as I know that there is no one who truly cares for me in the sense of unconditional love. My mother pretended to be that person for decades, but all she ever wanted was for me to return to my home country, where I would undo everything that I have achieved in the UK, including my English language skills and my writing ability. But narcissists are like that. They only love you on their own terms, disregarding you as a person who you want to be. As if they didn't give you the life, but wanted to take it away and live it themselves.

Writing is the only subject I truly care about, apart from psychology. Over the past year, I have completed two rough drafts of my books and I am currently halfway through the third. As a writer, I find editing to be the most challenging, especially line editing. It can be exhausting. After editing about 30 pages of my first book, I went back to writing the books I had started some time ago. Writing and editing full-length books is a complex task, unlike writing or editing short stories. Don't get me wrong, I love hard work. However, after each editing session, I find myself mentally drained with red eyes. At that point, there's not much I can do except take a break. I still think about completing my editing almost every day. If I never attempt to publish my precious writing traditionally, with the involvement of an agent and publisher, I may never forgive myself. And that would mean the end for me.

Writing is my salvation. When I don't have anyone to talk to, which is all the time, there is always a blank or partially filled page waiting to be filled with words. There is nothing better than pouring my emotions onto the page. It's therapeutic and sometimes it even heals my loneliness, becoming the solitude I have always longed for but never could attain.

Loneliness can become more overwhelming as the years go by, but like a solitary tree, I remain strong until treacherous winds and snowy storms arrive at my doorstep.

---

Thank you for reading!