Alone is an American survival competition series on History. It follows the self-documented daily struggles of 10 individuals (seven paired teams in season 4) as they survive alone in the wilderness for as long as possible using a limited amount of survival equipment. With the exception of medical check-ins, the participants are isolated from each other and all other humans. They may "tap out" at any time, or be removed due to failing a medical check-in. The contestant who remains the longest wins a grand prize of $500,000 (USD) (increasing to $1 million in season 7). The seasons have been filmed across a range of remote locations, usually on Indigenous-controlled lands, including northern Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Nahuel Huapi National Park in Argentina, Patagonia, Northern Mongolia, Great Slave Lake in the Northwest Territories, and Chilko Lake in interior British Columbia.
Somewhere between hyper-capitalist motivation videos, pseudo-spiritual tweets, and Instagram therapy infographics, a predominant mental-health narrative has emerged on the internet. It takes many forms, but is perhaps best defined by its penchant for isolation: it begs you to \u201Cfocus on yourself,\u201D to \u201Cprotect your peace,\u201D to sever relationships that don\u2019t serve you and invest your newfound time and energy into self-improvement. Seductively, it whispers that you \u201Cdon\u2019t owe anyone anything.\u201D It glamourizes \u2014 and moralizes \u2014 a life spent alone.
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Sometimes, it\u2019s dressed up in the aesthetics of corporate self-optimization: on Instagram and TikTok, viral inspirational videos collage high-contrast images of fit, light-skinned men and women studying (alone), working out (alone), going to therapy (alone), or sometimes positioned (alone, despite all contextual logic) in a party dress or tux on a New York City rooftop. As lives go, this one has a beautiful sales pitch; the videos paint a world without conflict, without pain, without uncertainty, without the tidal waves of emotion that often leave me bedridden or sobbing on the streetcar. Yes, these people may be setting up their shots by themselves, but they\u2019re also beautiful and rich and seemingly content. The best thing about tripods, I\u2019ve heard, is that they can\u2019t hurt your feelings.
The social standard this culture offers is one of controlled, placated solitude. Its narrative often insists that you\u2019re surrounded by toxic people who are trying to hurt you, and the only way to ever become the person you\u2019re meant to be is to cut them all off, retreat into a high-gloss cocoon of talk therapy and Notion templates, and emerge a non-emotive butterfly who will surely attract the relationships you\u2019ve always deserved \u2014 relationships with other \u201Chealed\u201D people, who don\u2019t hurt you or depend on you or force you to feel difficult, taxing emotions. And finally, your life will be as frictionless and shiny as you, alone, have always deserved for it to be. (A frictionless life is your reward for hard work, by the way, and people who don\u2019t work hard don\u2019t deserve good things. DO NOT google Protestantism.)
Here\u2019s the long and the short of it: I may have never felt the need to cut my friends out of my life in service of my own optimization, but I still don\u2019t answer their texts. I can\u2019t help but feel crushed by the weight of what I owe to my community, certain I\u2019m going to hurt the people I\u2019ve fooled into loving me, convinced that I\u2019m doing them a favour by icing them out until I get myself together. I am too loud, too self-involved, too insensitive, never caring enough or attentive enough or possessing enough natural kindness. I have made people I love feel alone when they needed me; I have been cruel to people I never wanted to hurt. Like many \u2014 dare I say, most \u2014 people in their early 20s, I find it hard to shake the feeling that my life is a pinball machine of relationships and opportunities that I\u2019m hurtling through headfirst, knocking over bystanders and crashing into obstacles, unable to stop for long enough to figure out what I\u2019m doing wrong. It is tempting, in this world of alarm-bells and flashing warning signs, to want to trap myself in a room where there\u2019s nothing to bounce off of but myself.
The worst thing about this feeling is that it makes you a martyr. You may hate yourself, but you\u2019re also a hero, bravely forgoing love and connection and community to protect the world from the car-bomb of your own instability. You sit in your room and tell yourself lies: that they don\u2019t want to hear from you anyway; that you\u2019ll wait here alone writing Notes app soliloquies until you become good enough to deserve other people; that it is a noble endeavour to punish yourself.
It\u2019s an intoxicating idea in part because isolated healing is a study in false negatives. When relationships are made difficult by traumas, anxieties, and neuroses \u2014 and when those issues are triggered as you navigate complicated relationships \u2014 being alone really can feel a lot like being cured. Relationships with other complex, flawed people are beautiful and transformative and fulfilling, but they\u2019re also inherently maddening, infuriating, hurtful, stressful, and yes, triggering. It is ideal, of course, for us to work to understand those conflicts and thereby make them less destructive to ourselves and others, but we can\u2019t make those feelings disappear; nothing real can have contact without friction. If you\u2019ve been encouraged to define a healthy life as a frictionless one, I think it may be inevitable that a life devoid of contact starts to feel like healing.
And here\u2019s the thing about friction: it really does hurt. Isolationists have one very strong argument on their side \u2014 when you\u2019re alone, there\u2019s no one there to hurt you, even accidentally. There\u2019s no one there to throw your own flaws into stark relief. There\u2019s no one who you might hurt with bursts of uncontrollable emotion or human carelessness. It\u2019s hard to be hurt, and perhaps even harder to hurt the people you love \u2014 why not cut the risk, lock the doors, and live a life of robotic, impersonal, action-oriented optimization?
It is a cruel and fundamentally inhuman tragedy that the culture has convinced so many of us that we must be healed in isolation, because being surrounded by people \u2014 people who love us, or care for us, or are willing to sit in the same room with us while we clean up our messes \u2014 is about the only way that I, for one, have ever been able to get better. I am lucky enough to have been changed again and again and again by the people who have loved me or challenged me; I look back at the person I was at eighteen and I hardly recognize her, which feels like a miracle and a tragedy all at once. Standing between me and my younger self are a thousand different individual experiences of failure and growth and redemption, each a moment of excruciating vulnerability being witnessed by the very people I wish could only see me at my best. It\u2019s driven me to isolate myself, convinced that ritualistic self-punishment and pathetic martyrdom were the only ways I could ever make myself worthy of other people. I realized, though, that I was being a coward. Being alone is hard, to be sure, but it\u2019s also deceptively easy \u2014 it requires nothing of us.
It almost goes without saying that having mainstream therapy be a social prerequisite for community and connection is a deeply exclusionary practice: most therapy is prohibitively expensive, and the psychiatric institution can be a deeply traumatizing and destructive force in the lives of many mentally ill people. But even outside of the material barriers imposed by this kind of standard, I am troubled by its implication: it insists that healing is a mountain to be climbed alone, and that relationships are the reward we get once we\u2019ve reached the summit. When we insist that we could only ever effectively love someone who\u2019s been perfectly \u201Chealed\u201D \u2014 who will not struggle, accidentally hurt us, trigger us, say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, or participate in any other uncomfortable display of humanity \u2014 we are reinforcing, and perhaps projecting, our own beliefs that we have to be perfect in order to be loved.
Call me conspiratorial, but when I see the brightly-coloured Instagram posts encouraging me to cut off my friends and focus on myself, I can\u2019t help but notice a convenient side effect of isolation: it forces us to rely on paid relationships in order to grow. The relationship between you and your therapist is transactional and safe, free of the messiness of attachment or stakes or love. And there are times, to be sure, when that can be a very useful relationship to have. But a serious issue arises when professional, unattached relationships are positioned as a replacement (or a requirement) for fulfilling, challenging, passionate ones. When people say that one ought to go to therapy to become a perfectly stable, functional, \u201Chealed\u201D individual before they dare try to experience love or community, they are imagining a world in which a fundamental purpose of human connection has been replaced with a capital exchange. Welcome to the ideal relationship: one between two perfectly realized individuals who would be totally fine alone but choose to hang out because they like splitting rent and watching Law and Order. No passion, no growth, no difficult conversations \u2014 that\u2019s your therapist\u2019s job.
It\u2019s hard, certainly \u2014 it\u2019s painful and exhausting and fundamentally terrifying to rip yourself open and leave the guts at the mercy of the people you choose to love. But if I know anything, I know this: It\u2019s better than being alone.
leave / let well enough alone, to be satisfied with the existing situation; refrain from attempting to change conditions: Marriages are often destroyed by relatives who will not let well enough alone. ff782bc1db
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