Living alone in 2020 | isolation and being a prisoner in your own mind

Content warning; this contains triggering subject matter, including mentions of dissociation, PTSD symptoms, hallucinations, gaslighting, self-harm, and suicidal ideations. It is not my intent to bring grief upon anyone, so names and locations have been left out for the sake of privacy. Some things are intentionally left vague to further protect privacy.

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By the time 2020 came around, my mental health was the best it had ever been. I went out every day, drank vanilla lattes at the café while writing on my laptop, attended a peer support group with a close friend, and enjoyed the company of others quite often. I'd lost weight and felt healthy, and I was finally fixing the problematic teeth from when I'd broken my jaw at the age of thirteen.

My life had taken a turn after the hellish years between 2016 and 2018, in which I'd been diagnosed with GERD that persisted for months, survived anorexia, and endured being bullied heavily online. I lay in bed for days at a time while no doctor could find anything wrong, but I eventually found one who did, and she put me on medication that saved me from a bad prognosis, and it reversed the damage that had been done.

The beginning of 2020 was a continuation of the light of the previous year. When I first heard about the new virus, COVID-19, in early January, it wasn't as widespread in the states yet. I had a bad cold in February I was nursing, and while I was concerned it might be COVID, I wasn't worried because, well, I lived in America. Surely, we'd get it under control and things would be fine.

I rarely left my home after the pandemic began. I’d last seen a friend in March of that year, and I was dedicated to staying safe to do the right thing. I lived alone with my two cats, and having DID, I had alters and spirit guides for company, so I felt I could make it through. I knew if we just stayed inside we'd make it. I had access to social media and several messenger apps. It would be okay.

As the months dragged on, I began to see sides of some people around me that were upsetting. Some became aggressive as they denied the pandemic at first, and others didn’t understand why I refused to let them visit. I learned about online grocery delivery, and I set up a good system since I was given extra food stamps to compensate for expensive delivery fees. I had set up my own little hermit bubble of safety, only leaving to get gender-affirming top surgery in July of that year. My mom took care of me afterward, and it was the last time I'd see her for a while.

My mental health started to decline. I’d always struggled with the symptoms I experience, but there was a quiet beast I'd never confronted just waiting in a dark corner of my mind. I became trapped in states of rumination and depression because of the lengthy isolation, and I delved down dark internet rabbit holes until I stumbled across a strong trigger; a genre of music I'd never heard before that usually wouldn't bother me, but as the doors were creaking open in my mind, the buried trauma quivered at the dulcet and droning tones of a dark ambient genre dedicated to portraying the bleakest of depressions.

I experienced a brief blackout and depersonalization/derealization, and I moved from my computer desk to the kitchen and stared into space, but I had no memory of walking there. My vision dimmed at the edges, and the shadows that had been hidden finally came out to play.

I didn't know what was happening to me. The shadows that had been creeping closer became clearer as I ventured into trauma art tags on Tumblr, and I related to many of the popular liminal space images found there. They emitted an unsettling aura of past nostalgia, traumatic thoughts, and dreamlike rooms. They encompassed the isolation and loneliness I felt, and in my desperation to relate to something since I couldn't see anyone, I became obsessed with what was familiar to me.

Depression. Suicidal thoughts. Trauma. They had been there and always would be, and I'd often found a comfort in melancholy. It was like a warm blanket wrapped around me to welcome me home again while the rain poured outside. I just wanted to lie in bed and daydream about strange worlds that I came across in dreams. And the dreams always became nightmares, but in isolation, they triggered panic attacks and became more real due to the outside world growing less and less real to me.

I began to see hallucinations. They were always shadows, and some of them had large eyes that watched me. I often sensed a figure standing behind me, observing my every move as they stared into the back of my head. I felt as if something was closing in on me. The more I delved into traumatic memories, the more I realized that the shadows were not only physical manifestations of that trauma; some of them were from another plane of existence — the realm of the dead — watching me closely because I was often suicidal.

As I analyzed the shadows and started to dissect, as I often do, why they existed and what or who they were, I delved far back into my history. I started a blog for the subject, where I began to explore darker theories and ideas about why I was so at home within the shadows, and I realized that even at birth, I had just barely escaped Death's grasp. It was deeply embedded into my psyche.

I wasn't surprised those dark entities hovered around me at the time; there were days when I was most definitely ready to say goodbye. My own mind became a prison, and I was haunted by visions, flashbacks, and nightmares every night. I was paranoid, afraid, and trapped in a darkness I couldn't escape. No friend could pull me out of it or bring me back around because no one was allowed in my safe bubble. I did not want to chance the suffering COVID would bring.

My spirit guides did all they could. I started to come out of it. My heart grew lighter and I found an interest in things I once loved again. The shadows started to fade with time as I looked for better distractions, and I finished writing a book that explored many of these things in an attempt to cope.

What followed caused me to spiral again, and it was a hole I'd dug myself without realizing it. I'd carelessly mentioned, vaguely on Twitter, something that worried me about some friends based on my false emotional perception of the world. It was a friend’s birthday, and I was deep in a depression and feeling alone. I saw a post about everyone calling to support that friend, and it brought up old worries that I wasn’t equal, that I wasn’t as valued as that person, even though it was just my mental illnesses coloring my perception. I wrote a brief, vague post about how I worried I wasn’t valued, and that I felt sad because of that worry.

I quickly realized it was wrong of me and I’d worded it poorly, but the damage had been done after others commented to comfort me about something they didn't know the full context on. I didn’t want the post going any further, so deleting it was the best option. It was just an offhand thought, a few vague sentences that would fit into a Tweet, just like many other posts where I’d voice how I was feeling at the time. I didn’t think anything more of it.

I became a mumbling, catatonic mess as I tried to genuinely apologize during a series of messages to and from my friends, who’d seen the post. I’d opened the conversation myself after I found out I'd been blocked by someone, hoping that by going to them and figuring out what everyone knew of what happened, I could explain what I did, why, and apologize. I felt genuinely terrible about it, but they didn’t believe me and I hadn’t worded things, again, the correct way. I was told I was abusive because I’d tried to make an apology publicly on Facebook, hoping I could reach everyone who may have been hurt, and it brought back all the fears I'd always had of becoming my own abusers.

I stopped eating for two days. I began to doubt my own thoughts and memories because they said everything I did was planned manipulation, that I was trying to steal everyone’s attention or gain sympathy. All I’d meant to do was open a dialogue and clarify what I'd meant, and then figure out what was going on since there were other problems they'd kept silent about for a long time. No one had ever spoken to me about anything or attempted to contact me, and our interactions had been positive and plentiful, so there was never any hint of there being anything wrong.

It got to a point where anything I said was used against me, and I was told I wasn’t apologizing correctly, that I was an adult so I shouldn’t have to have my hand held through one. One of them felt that I’d posted about my mental health, and often my experiences, for attention-seeking purposes.

The shadows came back, my mind kept blue-screening and erasing itself, and I fell into states of catatonia where I stared at the wall for long periods of time. I worried they were right. I worried I'd become an abuser just like mine. It hit one of the worst fears I have for myself.

I was lost because everything I said was the wrong thing to say; every way I tried to correct my actions, every word that I typed was accused of being disingenuous or it wasn’t the way they wanted me to word it. They said they'd been upset with me for a long time, but they had never told me. I was in the dark trying to figure out what all I'd done wrong, and the few things that were mentioned had no nefarious intent at all, I’d just simply been anxious or overwhelmed with group chats I’d left. I often chose to leave quietly because my social anxiety took the wheel, and I didn’t want to make it awkward. That, unfortunately, made it awkward.

I went back over my blog entries searching for answers. I realized I used a lot of black and white thinking language while being vague. I'd written many things about my past and my feelings about people and society in general, but in trying to protect people's privacy and identities while exploring and processing my trauma and feelings, I'd been too vague which opened up room for interpretation, which caused some pain. I'd also written an entry that included, again, what I'd posted briefly to Twitter at the end of it, of my worries that I wasn't as valued as everyone else in the group.

I experienced a trauma response for several days. I saw my first abuser's face every time I looked in the mirror despite what others close to me, and my counselor, told me. They tried to support me and help me get through the tough emotions, and they said it sounded like I'd been gaslit, but I wouldn't hear any of it. All I saw was the abuser in the mirror. I'd screwed up, lost people I really did love and value, and there was no getting them back.

I wrote a detailed suicide letter with my passwords to my computer and online accounts. I planned where my cats would go, and I explained I'd leave food down and some sinks full of water until I was found. I planned where I'd be, in my bed. I remember sitting on the toilet and staring at my phone while blank.

PTSD symptoms had resurfaced in a frightening way, and I saw vivid hallucinations of my abuser as he walked around the corner and smiled at me. I heard his voice clearly as if he stood before me as a real person. I had repeated dreams of him and the friends I'd lost. I felt I was a monster and I needed to destroy myself to save everyone from me.

I broke my clean streak from self-harm. My spirit guide, Byleth, stopped me by taking control of my hand. Zagan, another spirit guide of mine, came up behind me and hugged me.

We wrapped my injuries and I sat on the couch. I hid every single picture of my face from Instagram, changed my profile picture on all social media, and refused to look at my face in any way. I was told about a post on Facebook where a former friend talked about me as an abuser without naming me, and the mutual friend who told me about it called me to talk and understand what happened. There were also jokes being made in the comments about being free of me, and it hurt deeply to see people laughing about losing me.

I fell so far over the edge that I no longer trusted myself or my memories. My former friends had told me what they thought my intentions were, what my plans had been, and what my future actions would be, and I wasn't allowed to say otherwise. They were incorrect, I hadn't planned anything or meant to hurt anyone, but I started to feel like I couldn't trust my own mind or feelings. Trying to figure out how to apologize correctly just dug the hole deeper and got me in more trouble.

I was afraid to say or write much publicly. I had been accused of using content about my mental health journey for attention, so I felt no matter what I did it was wrong. If I vented or expressed suicidal thoughts, I deleted them again soon after. I felt I was pathetic and an attention-seeker. I couldn't trust myself. Excerpts from messages were repeated in my dreams.

I started marking my symptoms on my calendar because I could no longer trust my memory or keep track of days. At that point, the outside world no longer existed. I had slipped into another reality, one that mirrored our own but lurked within shadows that wouldn't let me sleep. Closing my eyes brought the shadow figures to my bedside, and I'd lay awake for hours scoping my room to be sure nothing was really there.

I was most frightened when night fell because it was all harder to avoid.

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I got both of my Pfizer vaccine injections as of April 21st, 2021. I also found out that I'm likely autistic and have ADHD after discussing it with my psychiatrist and counselor, and that helped me find a sense of self again. I finally understood why I struggled with proper communication. I started to listen to close friends and my counselor and their affirmations that I wasn't a bad person.

For the first time in a year, I let a friend visit me. I had trouble with spells of fatigue and I dissociated a few times, but I knew it was the start of getting a grip on my mental health again. The day before, I got a haircut as well, and it was all so surreal.

When I spoke in person with one of my closest friends, I didn't feel like the same person anymore. Agoraphobia and anxiety had taken the wheel again, and my vision was always blurry. I'd developed something similar to a chronic fatigue flare that robbed me of my ability to function. My spotty memory caused me to lose things and engage in activities I didn't remember later.

Many others dealt with worse fates because of the pandemic, and many continue to deal with the crushing reality of it. I acknowledge that, and at times, I feel guilty talking about my own struggles. I don't have to go to work because I'm disabled. I was approved for assistance that allowed me the privacy of my own home and the ability to order groceries. Others had to brave the outside world even if they didn't want to.

There are many who suffered in silence, some with fewer resources than me. We were locked in a prison of our own minds, and as time passed with nothing but four walls around us, it became our new reality. Outside distractions were gone. It was time to reckon with the darkness.

Living alone in isolation, your mind is all you have. And when that mind is a ticking time bomb of things you've pushed aside to be able to experience and enjoy life, when you remove the distractions — the reasons you had to shower and clean and be presentable for people you couldn't see anymore — the shadows resurface. You overthink. You fall into nights of deep introspection. You click off of social media because it's too much.

You lie in bed at night with only your thoughts to entertain you. You haven't seen another face in person for months. You forget what time it is, what day it is, and you realize just how much even an introvert requires of human interaction to stay well.

©2021 Shane Blackheart