A Letter To Some Agoraphobic Comrades

If interaction with our fellow human beings causes feelings of inadequacy, self-loathing, and nihilism, then it's natural for us to isolate ourselves. When we hurt ourselves physically, we tend to want to be alone so we can gauge and measure the volume of the pain. In that sense, we are writhing and grimacing away from prying eyes and pedestrian (but well-meaning) questions. It's especially true for emotional pain; the last thing we want is attention not on our terms.

But I'm not a misanthrope. I have a great deal of affection for people. If I didn't, I wouldn't be so passionate and affected by the state of things. A true misanthropic nihilist wouldn't cry when he listens to Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto #1. And I do. I have a funny story about that.

My uncle, Jerry, recently died. He was schizophrenic, but he suffered from another affliction, he was an romantic. I didn't know him that well, mainly because he chose to do the same thing I do now, which is to stay away from other people, even family. But through my own experience, I've grown closer to him than I ever could have, by traveling a similar road. But I digress.

One day, back when he lived at home with my father and their brother, Bill, he was listening to Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto #1 on a record player. He was deeply moved, and decided to get his brother Bill to listen to it, as well.

Sometimes, brothers and sisters just refuse to do things to be a pain in the ass. So Bill told Jerry that he didn't want to listen to his record. Jerry pressed him, but Bill refused. This went back and forth until Jerry would have no more of it. He picked up the record player, still playing the record, and threw it out the window. And the window was closed at the time.

Now that's passion! Jerry Lyle was a man of deep emotion, even if he, too isolated himself. He worked only one job in his life, as a painter. He was working with a crew of guys who kept making crass, sexist remarks about women. He told them off, and then walked off the job. He never worked again, but not because he was so offended. He was mentally-ill, like me.

It's almost as if we love people so much, and hate ourselves so much, that we isolate ourselves from the rest of the human race.

Can you think of anything more tragic?