I've noticed over my many years of being an introvert that American culture absolutely values extroversion and "outgoing" character traits far more than introversion. As an introvert, I prefer to have more in-depth conversations with one or two people at a party than to "circulate" and engage in shallow chit-chat with large numbers of people. I find shallow chit-chat absolutely exhausting. As I get older, I'm more able to put on a show and pretend, but it's not me. And because I'm not throwing myself out there at parties and competing for attention all of the time, I'm frequently accused of being "scared to come out of my shell", or other things as equally absurd. I'm not in a shell. I just enjoy listening rather than making myself the center of attention. But being a good listener is not what really impresses people.

My (relatively mild) introversion has led to so many misunderstandings among other people about who I am that I've been left with this sort of permanent, low-grade ache that I suppose you could characterize as loneliness. Recently at work, I was accused of "not being a team player" because I wasn't chatty enough at the multitude of social events that I'm forced to go to. (Birthday lunches, celebration parties, etc.) I was really hurt by that. It's not that I don't care about other people--I do, and deeply--but I prefer to listen, be present to them and really absorb what they are saying rather than talk, especially about myself. This is misinterpreted all of the time. And since I work with a lot extroverts, and have an extrovert for a boss, my co-workers get a lot more positive attention from him than I do. He adores loud, shallow conversations and "look at me" showmanship, and as hard as I try to put that on, it just doesn't work very well. So for me, that leads to a sense of isolation and loneliness that is probably unresolvable, at least at work. And I genuinely like my co-workers.

But aside from my own issues, I feel that loneliness to a large extent is a just a natural condition of being human. And American society has an "everyone for themselves" mentality that makes it so much worse. Every essentially existential condition or unpleasant emotion is supposed to be resolvable if we would just "get off our asses" and "take control." Being lonely is seen some sort of sin; directly due to something that you're doing wrong in your life. The truth is, even healthy, loving, well-adjusted people with good social support will feel lonely at times. It's natural. Furthermore, we're isolated as a society, we value appearance over substance, everyone is busy trying to survive in their own lives, and there aren't a lot of opportunities to connect with new people in a meaningful way. (As a volunteer manager, I will agree that volunteering is a great for your overall mental health, but it's not a guarantee against loneliness).

How about we give each other a break about our loneliness and extend a little kindness to each other now and then? We're all essentially lonely. Let's not add fuel to fire by accusing the each other of being essentially flawed or "whiny."

Also, I would recommend reading Mary Oliver's poem, "Wild Geese". It's one of the best poems about compassion and loneliness I've ever read.

In my earlier comment, I spoke of what I see as the root cause of most loneliness—not being unconditionally accepted by our parents in childhood—but I kept my comments at an emotional remove from my own reality. The fact of the matter is, in spite of understanding precisely what led to my feelings of chronic loneliness and my battles with depression, these conditions persist. Even in the relatively good times I’ve occasionally experienced, this loneliness remains—in the background perhaps for a time, but always lurking, seemingly waiting for its opportunity to reassert itself. And it always does. Sooner or later it emerges from the shadows to engulf me and pull me into the darkness. Over the years, I have spent so much time there, that I admit to at some level, feeling comfortable in my depression. You withdraw from the world, wrapped in your misery, protected after a fashion from some of the slings and arrows that life often hurls your way. But it is hardly anything I’d recommend. There is the constant ache, a physical pain that seems to center about the chest . . . and then the emotional emptiness and terrible longing for some relief—another human being to cling to—some miracle sent from God to rip out the darkness from your soul and replace it with light. But the interminable aching abides, the darkness all around. One tries to keep a stiff upper lip for the sake of those who care about you—but they sense the melancholy in spite of your best efforts. You sometimes manage to scrape together some energy and throw yourself into some cause, but there inside you know it’s all for not, that fulfillment remains out of reach. You’ve seen others with this malady overcome it—with medication, with therapy, with understanding and wrestling with those repressed feelings I spoke of before. For some, the quest for relief forever eludes us. And as time passes the pressure builds. As we come closer to the end and our life remains unlived, desperation and hopelessness collide. I sometimes lean to the “not” side of Hamlet’s eternal question, but this has never been a serious option of escape for me, though its promise of respite, of surcease is sometimes tempting. I don’t usually go on this way, believe me, but others here have opened up about their personal heartaches and I felt moved to do the same.

It shouldn’t be this way. People were not meant to forever be ensnarled by despair. It’s why I believe it’s so important to let people know about those hidden cruelties in child-rearing that Alice Miller (among others) writes about. A child who is given unconditional respect and love, without the carping and put-downs, the corporal punishments, and subtle and not so subtle guilt trips, who is consistently supported and nurtured (not that perfection in parenting can be reached, but acknowledging mistakes when made go along way toward helping the child reach his/her potential too)—THAT child will grow up to be an adult who can take the rejections and hardships that life dishes out and feel sad, and grieve in the face of loss, to even feel lonely on occasion, but such a one will not be engulfed by these feelings, and will remain secure in his or her own worth. We should all become evangelists for this kind of parenting. Again, I recommend the works of Alice Miller as a starting point. They certainly opened my eyes to truth of many things, and though they did not relieve me of my loneliness, they did make a huge difference in the way I treat my nieces and nephews. Though far from a perfect uncle, I think my influence has been much more positive since understanding came my way. Perhaps in a small way, I've helped arm them against the suffering that I've had to endure.

Anyway, peace to all.