At some point in our lives we have all had the experience of feeling lonely. It may even have happened at a happy occasion, like a friend’s party or a wedding. Perhaps you have experienced the following scenario: you walk into a wedding hall and it is full of people, most of whom you seem not to know. You scan the crowd for a familiar face, you finally see someone that you do know, and you walk toward that person, who happens to be talking to somebody else. As you get closer, the person acknowledges recognizing or knowing you by nodding or smiling politely, but then quickly resumes the conversation with the person to whom he or she was speaking. You walk away, feeling somewhat dejected, and continue to search the crowd. You have already stood in line and wished the bride, her mother, and the groom’s mother a hearty mazel tov; now what? Everyone else in the room seems to know someone and is deeply engaged in animated discussion, in simple chit-chat, and/or in laughter—everyone except you.
You feel invisible in the midst of a crowded room. Part of you would like to leave, but you know you can’t really do that. So you “wait it out” and make the best of the experience, perhaps by eating and drinking more than you otherwise might, or by repeatedly checking your phone for emails, texts and messages. This scenario is actually very common and the fleeting feeling of loneliness is unpleasant; for some, it may cause a sense of deeper anxiety. But it is usually not long-lasting—at most perhaps a few hours, until the event is over and you have returned home. The next day, you call a friend, or speak with a co-worker, or stop by a local coffee shop to meet someone, and the “bad” feeling of loneliness from the night before is gone and perhaps forgotten.
There are some people in our community, however, who feel as though they are “non- entities” a great deal of the time. They are part of a larger community and yet they are alone. Though I can think of many people who may fall into this category, the one group that is near and dear to my own heart is the group of people with developmental disabilities. My youngest son, Yosef, was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder when he was three years old. I have had the challenge and privilege of watching him grow from a little boy into a young adult. Yosef has overcome many obstacles, including, but far from limited to: sensory issues, auditory processing problems, a speech disorder and hyperactivity. With all of these challenges, Yosef is one of the kindest, warmest, most sensitive and deeply spiritual people that I know. He is loved by his family, by friends of the family, by members of his shul and by the volunteers and advisers at the educational and social programs where he spends some of his time. One of the students from the Frisch High School, where he sometimes works in the kitchen, told me that she just likes being around him because he makes her feel happy, because he is full of sunshine. The Friendship Circle and Yachad provide social activities during the week and some Shabbatons, which he loves attending; if there is an event, he participates.
And yet Yosef is extremely lonely. He is not a child anymore; he is a young adult. When he is not attending his vocational program or an evening social program, he is either with his family or he is alone. The phone rarely rings for him, and he never has a friend just “stop by” for no particular reason on a Shabbos afternoon. He has never slept over at a friend’s house or apartment nor has he joined a friend for a meal. He never gets together with a group of other young adults to “hang out,” to go bowling or to go to the movies. In short, he does not get to do what most people his age do—and what he would very much like to do as well. Like many of his typically developing peers, he would like to attend college in the fall and live away from home, even though he does not have any of the skills that college requires and it is therefore not a realistic option for him. He wants to be with peers and to have friends. The desire for meaningful relationships is universal and encompassing, even for people with developmental disabilities.
Rabbi Joseph B. Soloveitchik, zt”l, wrote: “To recognize a person is not just to identify him physically. It is more than that. It is an act of identifying him existentially, as a person who has a job to do that which only he can do properly. To recognize a person means to affirm that he is irreplaceable. To hurt a person means to tell him that he is expendable, that there is no need for him.”
This article is a call to action for the community, including college students, graduate students and adults of all ages. If you are in college and you know somebody who is developmentally disabled—perhaps someone you once worked with in high school—invite him for a Shabbos meal, even if he talks to himself and speaks about something you have no interest in. We need to talk to people at a kiddush whom we don’t know, who are outside of our social circle or who don’t quite “fit in.” Try having a conversation even if it does not feel natural, even if it makes you feel uncomfortable.
As a community, we have the potential to grow and learn from people who are different from us, whether a special needs person, a person suffering from emotional or psychological difficulties, an elderly person, etc. Each one of us has the ability to remove the feeling of alienation and loneliness from another human being. Let’s make everyone feel welcome in the crowd.
By Beth S. Taubes
Beth Taubes RN, OCN, CBCN, CHC, is the owner of Wellness Motivations LLC. She motivates clients of all backgrounds, ages and health conditions to engage in improved self-care through healthy eating, healthy movement and healthy sleep. She can be reached at [email protected].
