isolophilia.

I learnt a new word this week, and if I’m honest perhaps I’ve grown a tad too comfortable with the thought of another 28-days in lockdown. Not to say I do not miss the freedom of community and plans with friends near and dear to my heart, but a part of me was glad perhaps that I had an “out” for things I had etched in my calendar weeks ago.

Sometimes my mind wanders at 250 km/h and other times, it runs into numerous false starts. Lately, its been the latter. I could blame the weather or my seasonal affective disorder kicking in, or my November trauma brain that runs it’s temper tantrum every now and again. But that said, I am grateful for the peace and the solitude that I find myself nursing a quiet reflection, through moment’s I haven’t had since the start of the year.

2020 was a year I found rest again. A year I reconnected with my personality. A year I told myself I would continue to remind myself to be true to the core of everything that has come to shape the things I value and hold dear to my heart. It was a year I learned to let go of things I have no place or space holding on to. A year I learnt to trust again in the One who is greater than I. A year that I closed doors in order to open new windows.

I’ve been telling myself a lot lately that my desire for isolation in solitude has nothing to do with protecting my inner peace, or the fact that perhaps I am still unpacking slowly the nuances of an abuse that while forgiven, cannot be physically forgotten. But I would be lying to say that there is a part of me that wants to keep my solitude as protection, for the 10-year-old child who couldn’t protect himself, especially from the people who were supposed to protect him first.