The desire to be left alone by the bothers of the social world often overpowers the negative experience that isolation implies. Solitude is not just wrought upon us oftentimes, we choose it. However, this change was not an unavoidable curse cast upon working society: Only three percent want to fully return to the office now that we are able to. The switch to working from home brought the overlapping isolations of technology and the pandemic together. I realized how easy it would be to continue living like this - perpetually isolated. All aspects of isolation hit at once and were impossible to escape. Like most people, I spent weeks and weeks inside my house, with no contact with anyone except the members of my household. When you are inside of this feeling - the metaphorical diner if you will - there is no perceived beginning or end, and no consideration from those around you, as nothing exists beyond this world-swallowing experience.ĭuring the pandemic, isolation transformed from a misfortunate occurrence to something so widespread it was impossible to avoid. Edward Hopper famously explored the loneliness of living in the big city through paintings like “ Nighthawks.” This ubiquitous depiction of urban isolation, a diner with no entrance and no exit, serves as a memorable illustration of loneliness. The most harrowing form of loneliness can occur in a crowded room. Of course, isolation is not just found through a physical landscape. The lazy day watching Netflix, the guilt-laden Uber Eats order, even the bold Instagram message, have all emerged around a generation spending more time by itself than any before. We could spend our entire lives within one small space if we chose to, as the economy molds to serve our desires. Technology, ironically, has brought freedoms to confinement. Most of us can have all our wants and needs met from the comfort of our rooms - food delivered, friends found in anonymous chatrooms, entertainment discovered on endless streaming services. Why does being alone make us feel this way?
The more I read, the more I realize how universal, yet unique, this feeling is. Loneliness, shame, unhappiness, and impatience replaced the agitation and boredom I had grown up with. What I didn’t realize as I grew older was that isolation crept into my brain in a much quieter way. As a kid, one day inside had been enough to send me climbing the walls, searching for anything to do.
The severity of the condition was now obvious. My discovery that cabin fever was a recognized ailment encouraged me to see isolation in a new way.
It was a common, unavoidable condition of being alive, so why would I? I had never taken being alone that seriously. When I searched my anxieties and fears, dozens of incredibly validating affirmations popped up: You are not alone your symptoms are real you can get better. I was on a hypochondriac mission, tasked with discovering exactly why I felt so completely out of my mind after only one week in COVID-positive solitude. It was only a few weeks ago that I found out cabin fever - the restlessness, irritability, and loneliness that a person feels when confined to one place for too long - was a genuine, medical term and not just a casual way of joking about isolation.