400 Friends and No One to Call: Breaking through Isolation and Building Community

By Val Walker

The author has been involved with isolated and disadvantaged communities on a professional level She has worked as a rehabilitation counselor for twenty-four years and has first-hand experience guiding people out of isolation and building social support.

Loneliness is a health epidemic in the United States. In 2018, health insurer Cigna took a nationwide survey of 20,000 adults and found that 54% of respondents said they feel like no one actually knows them well. Additionally, 56% of people said the people they surround themselves around “are not necessarily with them,” and approximately 40% said they “lack companionship,” their “relationships aren’t meaningful,” and that they feel “isolated from others.”

If you’ve ever felt lonely, know that you’re not alone. According to a study from the British Red Cross, over nine million adults in the UK feel the same way—that’s about 1/5 of the country’s population. Loneliness is increasingly being considered a hazard to human health comparable to obesity and smoking.

Examines the various causes of isolation (e.g., grief, illness, disability, socioeconomic, age) and how it can cause stress, anxiety, stigma, and a self-perpetuating cycle of “aloneness.” Also looks at how social media has changed the way we interact with others.

Presents a number of self-assessment tools that “grade” stages of isolation.

Offers techniques to build/rebuild relationships, support groups, networks, and “safety nets,” especially self-care.

Includes profiles of individuals who faced isolating times and how they were able to overcome their isolation and reach out to others.

The writing is warm, inviting, and engaging.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Central Recovery Press
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949481259

Book preview

Introduction

Once I Loved Being a Loner

It may seem strange that I would begin a book about healing from isolation by singing the praises of solitude. Long before I started writing this book, I once lived a cloistered, quiet life near a sanctuary of blue herons on the coast of Maine.

In 2000, at the end of a divorce, grieving that I was childless due to premature ovarian failure as the doctors called it, I moved to Maine with my cat to start my life all over again. I yearned to find my own inner voice after forty years of following the voices of others and craved the wilderness of the coast. I had fallen in love with the popular book Women Who Run with the Wolves, and indeed, I, too, was going to restore my soul by healing in the wild.

Four decades of people-pleasing and fake extroversion had overshadowed my introverted, highly sensitive nature to the point I could no longer recognize my own thoughts. Back in the 1960s in Virginia, wallflowers like me were raised to be effusive and gracious, no matter what, even if we looked utterly awkward at it. But, despite my lack of poise, my abundance of empathy, soft heartedness, and idealism attracted lost souls who begged me to believe in their potential—and pulled me down to hell to save them. Miserable with myself for repeatedly being deceived and betrayed, I reached out to therapists in the 1980s who unfortunately knew little about the abusive tactics of narcissists or sociopaths. I was told that assertiveness, boundaries, and learning how to say no were all I needed to protect myself. Worn down from the constant violation of my boundaries, I blamed myself for failing at assertiveness and deemed I was too weak to stand up to bullies, both at home and at work.

It wasn’t until I was in graduate school studying to be a counselor in the 1990s that I learned about the dynamics of abuse, bullying, and violence. I realized that it takes a supportive community to stand up to abuse and bullying and that no one can do this alone—no matter how strong or assertive we as individuals might be.

I cut ties with several people and places, but I still blamed myself for my failed relationships, even with my training in counseling. I longed for a good, clean break from being close to people. It was time to withdraw from intimacy and live like a nun, if not a mystic, in a pure, beautiful place where nature and my cat was all I needed.

For the first four years after I moved to Maine, I flourished in glorious solitude, practically living a monastic existence. I never felt lonely sitting on warm moss by the rocky, windswept coves near the blue herons at sunrise, watching their every move with utter reverence. I walked barefoot on the sandy banks of rivers alongside the herons as they waded at low tide and basked in the serenity of belonging in their private, watery worlds. The herons were my graceful guides to the joys of being fully present, freeing me from the fearful, cloying thoughts of my turbulent younger years. The herons taught me patience with their stillness and the fine art of timing, as they always knew exactly when to strike their prey. I softened in their presence and learned how to trust my instincts and ground myself. They showed me how to restore an authentic sense of grace at my core. Eventually, I learned the skills of mindfulness from long, peaceful hours spent in the wilderness alone with the herons, egrets, ospreys, geese, ducks, and other water birds.

My quiet life was well-balanced. I worked as a case manager for four days a week at a mental health agency, which allowed three days off to live my contemplative blue heron existence. I discovered that I could put the mindfulness learned from my quiet time with herons into practice at work while listening to the people I served as a counselor. I could stay still and enjoy a deeper sense of listening, a more patient, grounded, and unassuming sense of connection with my clients.

Ivan, my cat, and I spent tranquil times in my tiny studio apartment in an old sea captain’s house by an apple orchard. Together we found joy in our shared little daily habits—giving him his shrimp treats while I cooked seafood pasta dishes, sniffing my cup of coffee with me when he jumped on my desk, trusting him to scope out my potted plants on the patio if he was good and didn’t scamper off. On long winter nights, I curled up in a blanket with Ivan in my lap, reading, reflecting, and imagining books I might write. I filled journals with healing meditations from my long walks, which later became material for my first book, ~ e Art of Comforting, a labor of love dedicated to the language of empathy and listening with open hearts and minds. During my ten idyllic years living in this quietude, I gradually managed to make three friends and enjoyed their families. I was invited to holiday dinners and rarely felt left out. When friends visited me, I served my seafood pasta meals at my table that could barely seat four. I cherished my simple and predictable life.

But by 2009, Maine suffered economic setbacks that affected my job in the social services field when funding was drastically cut for the Medicaid recipients I served. I couldn’t find anything other than low-paying, part-time jobs, and I fell deeper into survival mode and despair. Ivan, my old cat buddy of seventeen years, died of kidney failure. By 2012, my best friend, Becky, had disappeared from my life without saying a word. Then, after my surgery, along with worsening chronic colitis and arthritis, my eleven-year-old car breaking down, and not being able to afford my rent, it was time to leave Maine for Boston.

Maine, as long as I could afford it, and as long as my health was good, had been my safe place where I trusted animals, herons, and the wilderness more than people. I had spent fourteen years of my life as a bit of a recluse, but now, approaching my sixties, I had to admit it: I needed people in my life.

Writing the Book I Couldn’t Find

I’ve written the book I wish I’d had in 2012 when I found myself isolated with no one to call. It was startlingly clear that I needed to rebuild my social support networks, basically starting from scratch to find new friends and colleagues—doing a whole overhaul of my social safety net. Given such a daunting and intimidating task, I searched for a guidebook that was not only reassuring but would give me practical advice on rebuilding strong support networks. Amazingly, to my dismay, aside from some books about dating and hunting for partners, little was out there to help build support in isolating times. It seemed so obvious that many people in my situation needed help with lifelines to new friendships, fellowships, and communities. People recovering from isolating times such as illness, relocation, bereavement, or loss of a job certainly could use comforting yet practical guidance.

At first, not being able to find such a guidebook for people like me made me feel even more isolated. Gosh, I wondered, are people supposed to face this long, lonely journey all by themselves? Or does our society just assume we all have supportive ° iends and strong families at the ready to help us? As I plodded through many misadventures trying to find my people by going to meetups, social clubs, and support groups and calling hotlines, I grew more discouraged and almost gave up. I did, however, keep a journal, and I began reading alarming and fascinating research on social isolation. Even though the social science research was not the warm and fuzzy reading I preferred at that lonely time, it did validate my experience and explain that I was not the sole cause of my isolation. The research helped me see the bigger picture of how socioeconomic and cultural forces such as social stigma, being financially strapped, or being ill could isolate us.

I still kept looking for self-help books on building or rebuilding one’s social life. Most self-help literature tended to put the onus on the individual—to fix oneself to attract friends and mates, to make oneself more popular and appealing. According to the self-help industry, the remedy to isolation was self-improvement, making ourselves so likeable, successful, or desirable that we would never be left alone, abandoned, or forgotten.

Indeed, the focus on self-improvement only made me feel lonelier and more ashamed—was I isolated and alone because I just wasn’t likeable enough? But wait. What if many of the reasons people were isolated had nothing to do with how likable they were? What if they were suddenly isolated by an unfortunate life event such as a serious illness, losing their home, or losing their spouse? What if everyone’s self-absorption with self-improvement was actually keeping them blind to the real barriers in their lives that isolated them?

According to the research (not in the self-help books), isolation could happen to any of us, suddenly, without warning, through no fault of our own. For grappling with the frightening forces of isolation, lonely people like me wanted a self-acceptance book, not a self-improvement book!

It was downright unfair that so many good, kind, caring people I had served as a case manager for ten years had been terribly isolated for reasons such as stigma or low status. Too many people on my caseload had been shunned, even by their own families, because they had developmental disabilities, brain injuries, cerebral palsy, or mental illness. Others were isolated due to bereavement after losing spouses, parents, siblings, or other loved ones who had been their caregivers. Most of the people on my caseload were isolated because they were poor, sick, old, or homeless. And many family members of those on my caseload were isolated because they were strapped as full-time caregivers.

Suddenly it struck me: with my firsthand experience—both professionally and personally—and in honor of all the lonely people I knew, I was the one to write this book. I would call it 400 Friends and No One to Call, dedicated to those of us who feel isolated even if we are well connected with social media.

400 Friends and No One to Call is a friendly, candid, and practical guide for isolating times when we have no one to talk to. I’ve woven in my own story of breaking out of isolation by taking my first timid steps toward building a new community of friends in Boston, truly starting from scratch with no one to cheer me on. Because I was writing a book on behalf of vulnerable people like my clients, I was galvanized by a sense of purpose that guided me beyond the grip of my own lonely predicament. Advocating for others who were isolated taught me to advocate for myself, which required my utmost kindness, patience, and fairness. Indeed, in order to befriend my new community, I needed to befriend my own loneliness and fear by being the best self-advocate I could be. As I gradually found my way to new friendships throughout a long, six-year journey, I gained confidence in spelling out how to befriend our wider community, build a social safety net, and foster our sense of belonging.

To better understand how isolation affects us all from a wider perspective, 400 Friends includes eye-opening social science research. I’ve been particularly energized by the work of Sherry Turkle, a social science professor at MIT and the author of Alone Together (2012) and Reclaiming Conversation (2016), who studies how conversation is diminishing in our digital age. I’m also fascinated by how millennials and Generation Z adults are approaching (and avoiding) casual conversation as well as offscreen social activities. A social psychology professor at San Diego State University and author, Dr. Jean Twenge, laments that young adults are super-connected in ways that make them overly self-conscious, anxious, and fearful of being judged. It’s understandable that the diagnosis of social anxiety is increasing in young adults, which can push them into withdrawal, isolation, and an overreliance on their devices. (Interestingly, I’ve observed that social anxiety meetups are increasing on Meetup.com with 1,062 groups worldwide—perhaps a heartening sign that shy people are bravely showing up to chat and connect.)

To further inspire us, I’ve interviewed healthcare providers and clinicians and profiled individuals who’ve reinvented their entire support systems despite long, lonely periods of isolation. Whether recovering from bereavement, opioid addiction, PTSD, or cancer, they all have heartening news: Social support is out there. Social interventions to fight loneliness are increasing; we’re finding one another more easily; and we’re growing in numbers. We’re weaving together solid safety nets with friends, colleagues, support groups, advocacy groups, meetups, and whole new communities. The trailblazers I’ve profiled, alongside my own story of breaking out of isolation and building support, offer comforting guidance for isolating times.

By understanding the forces that strap us, scare us, and shame us, we can reach out to others, even when we don’t feel strong.

Let’s not shy away.

PART ONE

Living IN Isolating Times

CHAPTER ONE

400 Friends and No One to Count On

Isolated in a Digital Age

We can be well-connected, with 400 friends on Facebook, and still have no one to count on. Ironically, despite social media, social isolation is a growing epidemic in the United States. It can grip us at any age, as teenagers shunned on Instagram, as millennials overlooked on dating sites, as families facing an opioid crisis, or seniors living alone with no one checking in on them. The National Science Foundation reported in 2014 that the number of Americans with no close friends has tripled since 1985. One out of four Americans has no one with whom they can confide about their feelings or worries.

Through no fault of our own, we may find ourselves isolated when family members and friends are strapped and stressed, too far away, unavailable, or just not capable. Whom do we call when we have a serious illness, lose our job, a loved one dies, or just need a good, heart-to-heart talk? Having a thoughtful conversation seems too inconvenient and cumbersome for our everyday lives. We hesitate to bother anyone with a friendly phone call or, God forbid, a call for help.

There’s hardly time to talk when many of us live in survival mode, paycheck to paycheck, chronic illness to illness, setback to setback. We stay in touch by checking our devices constantly because we expect instant responses from one another. The conveniences of connection set us up to become addicted to connection—or else, we’re left out. We feel even more left out when people don’t respond with any Likes or kind comments. And worse, we compare the responses we receive (or don’t) with others who seem much better of. We might be so hell-bent on keeping up with everyone that we grab our mobile device even when a real friend is sitting with us trying to say something meaningful through a dozen interruptions. Distracted and fragmented conversations can be lonely experiences that isolate us, bit by bit.

Social isolation can shatter our confidence. In isolating times, we’re not only lonely, but we’re ashamed of our loneliness because our society stigmatizes people who are alone without support. We don’t want anyone to know how isolated we truly are, so we do whatever it takes to appear happy and well-liked, especially on social media. When we feel this vulnerable, finding new friends in person is not such a simple task. We’re hopeless at chitchat so why bother? We’re not quite ready to brave our new normal by going solo to a social meetup, taking a cooking class, joining a volleyball team, let alone asking for help in a crisis. Why not just stay home with the comfort of our cat on our lap, Netflix on the screen, and a glass of chardonnay?

Not only does being isolated scare us, but sadly, we might blame ourselves for all the reasons we lack the support of others. Unfortunately, this self-blame for our predicament can isolate us even further. As we try to pinpoint the cause of our isolation with close scrutiny, we find fault with ourselves. Why don’t we have more friends? Is something wrong with us? Aren’t we likable? And before we know it, our social confidence is gone, and we are locked in a prison of isolation.

I fell into this vicious cycle of self-blame, relentless scrutiny, and deepening isolation when I survived terribly isolating events back in 2012 and 2013. In the next few pages, I would like to share my story about a powerful revelation that broke me out of my prison of isolation.

My Boston (Not So) Strong Story

As a former rehabilitation counselor and case manager for twenty-two years, I’d guided hundreds of people through isolating times to build support systems in the throes of debilitating illness, grief and loss, unemployment, addiction, domestic abuse, or homelessness. I’d always encouraged the people I served to believe that it takes a village to break out of isolation and find the lifelines they needed. I was proud that I could rely on my own resourcefulness and vast social networks and never thought for a second that I was isolated.

But one day, June 1, 2012, at Maine Medical Center, I found myself utterly isolated. I can tell you there is nothing lonelier than waking up in a hospital the day after major surgery and spotting a text message from my friend who canceled and left me stranded. Groggy, sore, and strapped to an IV, I began to realize that no one was showing up to give me a ride home, let alone take care of me once I got home. Though I had carefully made plans with my friend to help after my hysterectomy, I was now left literally to my own devices—my smartphone and the instant connection of social media. Even though I was too weak, wobbly, and dazed to take a taxi home, no one responded to my calls before the nurses discharged me at 3:00 p.m. that day. Alone and deserted, I sat through the night in the hospital lobby watching other people’s family members and friends rushing to the elevators to visit their loved ones. Through sheer begging, I finally found a friend of a friend to take me home.

I recovered from my surgery, but my social confidence was shatered. I realized I needed to move to a bigger city like Boston for a better job, affordable health care, and certainly to ind more friends. I told everyone I had to get to Mass to save my ass. But my first year in Boston as a newcomer tested my social confidence and all my beliefs about what it takes to build friendship and community. Indeed, I felt just as invisible and alone there as I had in Maine and assumed this was caused by something wrong with me—my social anxiety. As much as I applied my coping skills with all my knowledge and compassion as a counselor, I still feared my anxiety was the cause of my isolated existence.

And worse, my new job as a case manager at a social services agency did not appear to be a good fit. My supervisor, Lou, was a speedy, multitasking millennial, and I was a fifty-eight-year old, conscientious, careful non-multitasker. Red-headed and hawkeyed, she bolted through meetings, hurried my questions, and could hardly tolerate training me on Excel spreadsheets. I wondered if she had attention-deficit disorder or if she was doing meth or if she simply hated her job. I pumped myself up to cheerfully ask her to weigh in with my ideas, flyers, leters, budget plans, and reports, but I couldn’t get her attention and time.

I shared a desk in a small, cramped office with my coworker, Pat, a case manager around my age who had worked with the agency for sixteen years. Grumpy and territorial, she demanded that I keep my stuff on the left side of our (her) desk, including my bulletin board on the left wall. The first day on my job I politely asked her if I could use a bottom file drawer for my purse, and she remarked, That’s a ridiculous waste of space. I asked where else she