Dwain Northey (Gen X)

There is something profoundly strange about human beings and our relationship with isolation.

Throughout history, people have voluntarily removed themselves from society in the pursuit of peace. Monks retreat into monasteries. Buddhist practitioners may take vows of silence. Hermits disappear into mountains, deserts, forests, or caves because they believe the noise of the world is an obstacle to understanding themselves. For some people, solitude isn’t punishment at all. It is the destination.

And then we have another form of isolation: solitary confinement.

Human-rights organizations and prison-reform advocates have long argued that prolonged solitary confinement can constitute cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment. That can initially seem almost absurdly counterintuitive to someone who genuinely enjoys being alone.

If I can spend an entire Saturday perfectly happy without speaking to another human being, why would putting somebody alone in a room be considered psychologically harmful?

Because, as it turns out, being alone and being isolated are two very different psychological experiences.

The monk chose the mountain.

The prisoner was sent to the cell.

That distinction may be enormous.

When you choose solitude, being alone can feel like freedom. When solitude is imposed upon you, it can feel like abandonment, punishment and helplessness. One says, I am choosing to be here. The other says, Someone has decided that I deserve to be here.

And perhaps that loss of agency is one of the most important pieces of the puzzle.

Imagine that I decide tomorrow that I want to spend three days alone in my house. I have books. I have television. I have music. I have a refrigerator full of food. I can open the door and walk outside whenever I want. I can call somebody. I can take a shower. I can sit in a chair and stare at the ceiling for six hours if that’s what I feel like doing.

That’s solitude.

Now take away my ability to leave.

Take away meaningful human interaction.

Take away normal sensory stimulation.

Give me a small room with almost nothing to do, tell me that I will remain there for an indefinite period and make somebody else the person who decides when I am allowed to return to society.

That’s not simply being alone.

That’s deprivation of autonomy.

And human beings apparently need autonomy almost as much as they need companionship.

This is where the apparent contradiction begins to make sense.

A monk taking a vow of silence isn’t necessarily experiencing the absence of human contact as deprivation. The silence itself is the practice. The monk has chosen it, understands its purpose and presumably has a framework for interpreting the experience.

The prisoner in solitary confinement doesn’t have that luxury.

The silence isn’t enlightenment.

It’s punishment.

And the difference between those two experiences may be enormous.

There is another psychological component that fascinates me: stimulation.

Our brains aren’t designed to sit inside an empty sensory environment indefinitely. We need things to process. Conversation provides stimulation. Reading provides stimulation. Movement provides stimulation. Nature provides stimulation. Music provides stimulation. Even the irritating guy in the next cubicle provides stimulation.

Take enough of that away and the brain doesn’t necessarily just become peaceful.

Sometimes it starts creating its own stimulation.

That’s where reports of hallucinations, distorted perceptions, anxiety, paranoia, obsessive thinking and other psychological symptoms associated with prolonged isolation become particularly disturbing.

And suddenly the old idea that “if you enjoy being alone, solitary confinement shouldn’t bother you” falls apart.

Because enjoying solitude generally means having the ability to end the solitude.

That’s the part I think is easy to overlook.

I can enjoy being alone because somewhere in the back of my mind is the knowledge that I don’t have to be alone.

I can call someone.

I can walk outside.

I can go get coffee.

I can turn on the television.

I can get in my car.

I can walk into a crowded room and immediately regret it.

That last option matters too.

Freedom includes the freedom to choose solitude and the freedom to choose company.

Solitary confinement removes the second choice.

And perhaps that’s why it can be psychologically devastating even to people who ordinarily prefer their own company.

There’s a profound difference between saying, I don’t need anybody right now, and being told, Nobody is available to you.

The first is independence.

The second is deprivation.

Maybe that’s the real paradox of isolation.

We don’t necessarily need constant human contact. Some of us would go completely insane if that were the requirement. There are people who genuinely need substantial amounts of solitude to recharge, think, create or simply escape the exhausting theater of everyday human interaction.

But that doesn’t mean human connection is optional.

Perhaps what the human brain really needs isn’t a certain number of people around it at all times.

Perhaps it needs choice.

The choice to be alone.

The choice not to be alone.

The knowledge that another human being is available if you need one.

And maybe that’s why someone can spend an entire day happily alone while another person can psychologically unravel in a cell.

The difference isn’t necessarily how much they like people.

It’s whether the solitude belongs to them.

That’s a surprisingly profound distinction.

Because the moment solitude becomes something you cannot escape, it stops being solitude in the psychological sense.

It becomes confinement.

And perhaps that’s why the phrase “cruel and unusual punishment” begins to make considerably more sense.

The cruelty isn’t simply that you’re alone.

It’s that someone else controls your aloneness.