THE ARMOR of SOLITUDE
Neglect Becomes Resilience
If I suffered any abuse as a child, it would be neglect. Looking back, I see that choosing this form of abuse before birth was the best decision I could have made. I’ve always preferred my solitude, and neglect allowed me to develop that aspect of myself.
Growing up, I learned to rely on myself. Like many in Generation X, I became resourceful, independent, and comfortable being alone as our Baby Boomer parents were often focused on their careers and personal growth. My mother, more industrious than neglectful, dedicated herself to all our extracurricular activities—she judged our swim meets and even rose to a high rank in the Amateur Athletic Union. Because of her example, I didn’t need constant attention or approval from others, which has made me stronger in many ways. I found peace in my own company and learned to value the time I spend with myself.
Neglect heightened my awareness, allowing me to see who genuinely cared and who was just putting on a show. That’s why empaths shouldn’t be dismissed as overly sensitive—they’re hypervigilant because of the abuse or neglect they experienced as children, which taught them to read people’s motives closely. This ability helped me focus on what truly mattered and let go of what didn’t serve me. In the end, neglect wasn’t a burden; it became a gift that shaped me into who I am today.
I adored my father when I was a child. He was an Army man, and I remember how impressive he looked in his uniforms as he headed to work. For a young boy like me, he was larger than life. When I was around three years old, he was sent to Vietnam. The realization that he would be leaving for a long time hit me hard, and I cried for days. But the minute I saw him disappear into the airplane from the terminal, something changed. I stopped crying. My mother, concerned, asked if I was okay. Without hesitation, I said, "Yes. I didn't like him anyway."
That moment was a coping mechanism, a way to shield myself from the pain of his absence. But it had repercussions throughout my life, keeping me from feeling the deep emotions that this incarnation is meant for. It makes me wonder if my preference for solitude was more than just a personality trait—if it was my way of coping with the neglect and avoiding the vulnerability that comes with deep emotional connections.
Years later, we were all gathered in the hospital room when my father passed away. My mom, my sisters, and my niece Emma were there with me. While comforting my mom, I found myself saying, "I didn't like him anyway." It made her smile, a small moment of humor in a difficult time. But Emma had never heard the story of my three-year-old self, so she was confused until later that night when she asked why I said that. I explained the story, and it became clear how those words, meant to protect me as a child, had followed me throughout my life.
Now, as I reflect on all of this, I wonder if my preference for solitude was truly my own or just another way to cope with the neglect I felt as a child. Perhaps it was both—a natural inclination and a learned behavior, intertwined in a way that shaped the person I am today.
