Zac Golding, aged 41
Labourer
Interviewed at his neighbourhood park, April 15, 2024
‘I once went a whole year without any human contact—not a hug, not even a handshake— nothing for an entire year. I forgot what human touch felt like.’
What happened to you Zac, that led to you becoming so isolated?
Ten years ago I had a car accident, a very bad one. I was the passenger. I was badly burnt, had two strokes, was in hospital for three months with multiple broken bones and operation after operation. One by one my friends dropped away. I lost all my interactions with people. I was never more keen to be involved in life than after my accident because I’d nearly died. I was so grateful to be alive. But no-one pulled through for me. I felt like an outsider, like the rest of the world had moved on and I’d been left behind. Over time, I lost my social skills. I became awkward. It was sad. When you’re not around people, you forget how to be around people.
Do you think people go through different stages of loneliness?
Oh absolutely. At the start, you’re still going for drives to the beach just to get out of the house. You’re going places where you know you’ll be seen: to the supermarket. To a cafe. You’re reading the paper in public, surrounded by people. But then the withdrawal starts. And when you’re deeply lonely, you’re almost happy to be completely alone. You don’t want the doorbell to ring. You don’t want to be interrupted. You’ve built up so many walls around yourself you no longer want to let anyone inside your life. And I don’t think it’s fear. I think it’s exhaustion. You’re just completely exhausted with life.
Have you gone days without having a conversation with anyone?
(Laughs) Oh, all the time! Last year, I went two weeks without a single conversation. I stayed inside my flat the whole time. Became a complete recluse. I lived off noodles and bread and whatever I had in tins. I once went a whole year without any human contact—not a hug, not even a handshake— nothing for an entire year. I forgot what human touch felt like.
That’s a very brave admission to make.
Well, it’s partly my doing, you know. Sometimes I won’t go out for days on end. I’ll live off whatever’s in the pantry: cereal, toast, vegemite, multivitamins. As a matter of fact, I’m eating the last of my bread now. From the freezer. But that’s my fault: I know I’ve withdrawn from the world.
What does the loneliness feel like?
Abandonment. Like everyone I’ve ever known has abandoned me. I blame myself. Its very hard to escape loneliness once it gets a hold of you. I’m sure a lot of drug addicts are just lonely, wanting to escape their own sad reality. I’d do anything to have a reason to get up in the morning and have to be somewhere, have to do something, have money to earn, to be needed. I’m just too scared to interact with people.
Do you think a lot of people are living on the edge of loneliness?
Oh yes. I’m sure this is happening to so many people, but we’re hidden. We’re hidden away. You don’t see us. We’re inside a flat or an apartment, we’re behind a closed door. It’s easy to lose track of what day it is because you’ve got nothing to look forward to. You’re just paralysed. I know I have to start over. But I feel like I’ve missed the boat. I have no job, no wife, no kids. I want the chance to find that life partner but the thought of having a relationship again is terrifying.
What gives you hope?
Some mornings I open the door and the sunlight pours in. I get up and I force myself to get out and walk my dog. I know I can meet people, but it’s so hard to make that first contact. Everyone is a stranger and I don’t have much luck with women. I really hope it’s not kharma because I was selfish when I was young. Life’s all about learning, so I’m learning a lot. Never say you’ve seen it all.
Maria Sobejko, aged 63
Phlebotomist
Interviewed April 1, 2024 at home in the south-west town of Collie.
When did you suspect that something was wrong with Mark?
The symptoms were vague in the beginning. I’d come home from the lab to find he hadn’t fed the horses or walked the dogs. The bins would be overflowing. Pretty soon, he couldn’t do anything. He couldn’t work. He was a mediator with an amazing brain and very sophisticated communication skills but he declined very quickly. His older brother was diagnosed with dementia at 60, so I wasn’t completely shocked when the doctor told me Mark had dementia.
Did you have any idea how much your life would change becoming a full-time carer?
Oh, it was awful. Isolation was the biggest problem. We were living on a 5-hectare property out of town. Mark completely lost interest in the world around him so we stopped socialising, which meant I was completely cut off too. I couldn’t leave him alone. I felt trapped. And I’d been on very good money working FIFO as a lab technician so suddenly, I had to take all my long service and sick leave to stay at home and look after him. My whole world collapsed in on me. There is nothing worse than losing your independence.
Did you also lose your identity?
Oh God yes. Being confined to home, alone with Mark, was claustrophobic. And not being at work hit me hard because I’ve been a nurse since I was 17. Once a nurse, always a nurse. That’s who I am. Everyone I know associates me with my work. So I not only lost my identity, but my purpose.
Did you have family and friends who could help you manage?
Yes. Our children were a brilliant support but they were two hours away in Perth. My friends were very understanding but they began to say to me, ‘How long can you do this? You’re still so young. You should be putting him into permanent care.’ It was horrible. My husband was not my husband anymore. He became a completely different person. But Mark and I have been married for 36 years and I was never going to abandon him. He’s bloody difficult at times but he deserves to be looked after.
Had you ever experienced such isolation before?
Never. And I knew I had to do something about it. I knew I needed to be around people for my own health and wellbeing so I sold up the farm and moved us into town. That was definitely the turning point. I started going to yoga and to the gym and then I’d invite everyone who was there to come to the coffee shop afterwards. One by one they started to join me. I’d drag those ladies off twice a week for coffee. We’ve got a proper gang going now (laughs). Then I offered myself to the Red Cross shop and became a volunteer. I love being able to talk to anyone who walks in the door. It’s all about connection isn’t it? Feeling seen. Feeling heard. Being part of a community. Feeling a bit better about your place in the world.
What have you learnt about loneliness?
You can’t let it get a stranglehold on you. You gotta beat it. And the best place to start is with routine. For that you need motivation and a bit of courage. I’m lucky I’m an extrovert. Not everybody can strike up a conversation with strangers or make friends easily. But you’ve just got to put yourself out there. You gotta make new habits. Walk to your coffee shop. Join a club. Whatever it takes. You’ve got to stay positive.
What’s your advice to people who might be too scared, or ashamed, to admit to being lonely?
I know confidence is hard to find if you’re lonely or depressed. Loneliness is a terrible feeling. You feel like society has rejected you. In Collie, the lonely side of this town is not the side you see. So many people are hidden away, suffering in silence. We’ve got to find ways to build compassion into communities. I’m trying to do my bit by volunteering.
Do you think you’ve beaten the isolation that comes with being a full-time carer?
I think so. It’s very hard at times but carers need to look after themselves or they burn out. And a burnt-out carer’s no good to anyone. I wanted to look after Mark properly because I know I’m the perfect person to be living with someone with dementia. Someone who loves him, who happens to be a nurse. But I also have to make time for myself without feeling guilty. I need my work, I need my friends and I need to get out and be part of the community. Maybe I’m too gregarious but hey! That’s who I am. I’m the lady in the active wear who sits at the coffee shop with a fluffy dog chatting to anyone and everyone in the street.
Curtis Sciano, aged 20
Filmmaker
Interviewed April 4, 2024 at his local cafe.
Not many people your age would be prepared to admit to being lonely?
For a long time, there’s really only been me and books. I don’t think anyone really gets me. I still haven’t found people my age I truly connect with. I’m still looking for my tribe.
What about at school? How did you fit in there?
School’s a hard place to be yourself. You’re under intense pressure to behave a certain way around a certain group of people. You try to fit in. I was good at sport so that helped but I sure wasn’t going to mention my love of books: I didn’t want a target on my forehead. So I became the kind of person I knew would be acceptable at an all boy’s school. In order to belong. In order to be in a safe place. Because having friends provides a safety net. But all the time I was acting. I guess I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. Deep down I still felt like a square peg in a round hole.
I’m pretty sure we all tried on different characters in order to survive school...
Yeah. But then in Year 12 I decided I was going to cut myself off. For the whole year I basically cut off the friends I did have and I just went solo. I stayed in my room for probably eight months. I became totally disconnected from my family. It felt awkward even being with them in the kitchen. I’d come down for food and take it back up to my room. I’d read, watch movies and write. I basically put myself through film school from the safety of my bedroom. I felt no need to come out.
Your parents must’ve been beside themselves?
I think they were a little worried, yeah. (smiles)
Worried that you were depressed?
I guess so. From the outside it probably looked like depression, but really, looking back, I think it was an existential crisis. I was trying to work out who I was. I think my parents knew I was going through something and for some reason they didn’t freak out. I don’t recall them trying to force me out of the house. Instead they left me alone which was exactly what I wanted. I just locked myself away. In some ways I felt ashamed at not having been successful. I was doing fine at school, but I was average. Completely average. And for that, I felt the world was judging me. The only place I could escape that judgment was in my room. And the more time I spent up there, the more I wanted to disconnect from everyone.
Did you recognise that your self-imposed isolation was possibly chronic loneliness?
Yeah. I knew I was lonely because I just felt empty. I felt like I’d been betrayed by humanity. I was 18 years old and I still hadn’t met a single person who thought about things like I did. I just couldn’t understand that. Staying in my room felt like a detox from humanity — like I was protecting myself from my disappointment with the world. And the more time I spent alone, the harder it became to reconnect, even with my family.
How did you break that cycle?
I don’t know really. I just know that after exams I decided I was ready to take on the world again. I got up and made my bed. Cleaned my room. Drove to Leavers Week. Enrolled at film school. I had a plan. But what really helped was meeting girls. Being around girls. They make it easier to let the walls down. I definitely feel more at home with women. I still feel lonely sometimes but I’m better at managing it now. And I’ve got some much older friends— actually one of them is my Dad’s mate— he doesn’t try to compete with me or tell me what to do. It finally feels like someone really understands me and appreciates who I am.
Do you think there are lots of young men your age feeling disconnected?
I think there’ll always be people susceptible to loneliness. Introverts have the hardest time I’m sure. And creative people, because they’re always getting rejected. I used to be very sensitive to people rejecting my film projects. Now I understand that some people will latch onto your ideas and some won’t — that’s just life. Not everyone is going to like you or like what you stand for.
Are you optimistic about the state of the world at the moment?
I think loneliness could be one of the most important human issues we have to deal with. It’s probably humanity’s next epidemic. We’re not designed to be alone. Deep connection is essential. It makes you feel better. Makes you feel understood. But the quality of friendships is important. You can be around a crowd of people and still feel completely alone. Like me, I know there are a lot of young people struggling with what kind of world they want to create and who they want to be in it.
Do you think social media is helping or hurting our ability to understand one another?
I really don’t know because I’ve grown up with it, but the fact we’re even talking about loneliness is a step in the right direction. You can debate the rise of loneliness all you want, but first, we need to make it safe for people to be able to say ‘I’m lonely.’ The same way we’ve made it safe for people to say ‘I’m anxious’ or ‘I’m depressed.’ Three years ago I would never in a million years have admitted to being lonely. I would never have risked saying something like that. But from what I see, it seems like a lot of young people are lost.
How do we help them?
One thing that has helped me is art. People have written such great books and made brilliant movies. They give me joy and pleasure and something to think deeply about. And that’s when you realise that someone has written about every feeling you’ve ever had. It’s reassuring to know that. Art is a very human way to make life more bearable. It’s the best way to find yourself. And lose yourself.
Russell Price, aged 69
Former gold analyser, now homeless for two years
Interviewed on the golf course where he slept on March 19, 2024
What was it that tipped you into homelessness?
I’d been living on site at the gold mine I was working for in South Australia but they pulled the pin on me because of my age. I was really only one pay cheque away from homelessness even then. Losing my job meant losing my shelter. I went on a road trip with a mate in his car. We drove from Adelaide to Perth but then we had a blue and he dumped me out in Fremantle. I had nothing and knew no-one. I slept the first night on the beach, the next on a golf course, the next in a toilet block. Two years later, I’m still sleeping rough.
Do you have anyone you can turn to?
Nah. Fell through the cracks with family long time ago. Never been married. No kids. A couple of friends here and there but no-one I could rely on. Problem is, I’ve been a bad boy here and there. Done prison time. And that destroys your networks on the outside. Your mates are all on the inside. But I’m not a drug addict and I’m not mentally unwell. I’m just a normal person knocked down one too many times.
Are you lonely?
Well, I got an old dog see? He’s the world for me. He’s my man. I love curling up with him at night. When he goes, I’ll be stuffed. But of course I’m lonely. And I can’t see any way out of that. You just feel like giving up, but giving up is not an option because hope is everything for me. People say, ‘Oh I understand what you must be going through.’ I tell ‘em: ‘No, you don’t. You have no idea.’
Do you feel seen? Or do you feel invisible?
Most people treat me like a leper. As soon as I make eye contact they look away. That’s when I wanna be invisible. When you’re homeless, even when you’re surrounded by people, you’re all alone. You’re just worried about who’s gonna hassle you and where you’re gonna sleep. One day bleeds into the next. You forget what a weekend is. You forget about your birthday. About Christmas. But when someone says hello, or ‘how you doing?’ it makes your day. You feel like you’re back in the family. Part of society. Home isn’t where you live. It’s where people accept you.
Does the loneliness ever turn to despair?
In winter. Winter’s the worst. You have to find cover. I’ve slept in footy grandstands, in toilet change rooms, in underground carparks. The cold doesn’t worry you because you can always find more clothes. But the wind’s a bastard. Cuts right through you. And nobody wants to stop and chat when it’s raining and freezing.
How do you keep your spirits up?
You gotta be real strong. That’s why I need people to see me. To say g’day. Or notice my dog. Otherwise you get stuck in your head thinking bad stuff. Last week, ratepayers along the road here complained I was devaluing their properties by sleeping on the park bench. A councillor came down here yesterday and said, ‘What are you doing here? Just piss off.’ Where am I supposed to go? I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m not asking for anything. That’s when you wonder about human kindness.
How do you feel about being seen as ‘a problem?’
It makes me sad. And it makes me angry. The homeless have plenty to say and much of it is worth hearing. But nobody wants to listen. Though I gotta say, sometimes the generosity of people is just overwhelming. The café over there just brought me a coffee and the newspaper. The other day, a woman gave me $20. When I was sleeping in the changerooms at an oval, a lady started feeding me curries. She brought me a hot meal every night for weeks. She was so lovely. That’s when you feel like you belong.
Helen Ryan, aged 75 and Philippa Nikulinksy, 81
Neighbourhood friends of 45 years
Interviewed together on March 4 2024 at their favourite cafe.
How did the two of you meet?
Helen: We’ve lived in the same street since 1979 with one house between us and gates across the back laneway. We both had boys: I had two and Philippa ended up having four so the kids would streak from one backyard to another.
Philippa: It’s funny how friendships begin. It wasn’t like we suddenly started living in each others’ pockets having endless cups of tea. But we’re both early risers and we like to exercise, so gradually a shared routine became the fabric of our relationship. Over the years we’ve ridden bikes together, gone swimming together, and now we walk together for an hour every morning. All year round. In summer we go at 5.30am and in winter it’s 6.30am. We take a different route every day but we always end up at our local coffee shop just as it opens.
Helen: We call ourselves the street walkers (snorts all round).
Do you think it’s important to stay connected to your community as you age?
Helen: Oh it’s vital. You know, we see everything on our walks. Which houses are being sold or renovated, which are empty. We say hello to the new people moving in. Not in a nosy way. In a friendly way. We stop and chat to the dads out walking their toddlers so their wives can sleep. We get the names of all the babies and how everyone’s doing. We’ll strike up a conversation with the tradies waiting to start work.
Philippa: And of course we know all the dog owners because we always talk to the dog first, then the owner.
Helen: Actually, it’s me that talks to the dogs first because you don’t like dogs, remember? (peals of laughter).
You’ve been living on your own for the last twenty years, Helen. How have you avoided loneliness?
Helen: Well, I love my own company and I don’t think I’ve ever been lonely. But I know social connection is important. An avid interest in community creates a sense of belonging. I look forward to starting my day with Philippa and we’ve kept to our routine for so many years— our early morning walk, our chats with all the regulars over coffee. Our little neighbourhood routine has become life sustaining. We’ve got to know all the early risers and who does what and who lives where. We are social not just in the trivial sense that we like company, but in a more elemental way: we feel we’re part of a neighbourhood of people who all— more or less— like each other.
Perhaps we shouldn’t underestimate the power of feeling included?
Philippa: I think you’re right. Because of that coffee shop and all the people we’ve met in it, we have created an incredible social network. Over the years, it has given us our cleaners, our electrician, our plumber, lawyers if we needed them, doctors. So many clever people. In fact, the other day we wrote down how many people we now know by name just from meeting each morning at the coffee shop and it was 84.
Helen: 84! We were pretty amazed by that. We know 84 people by family, by profession, by baby, by dog, by wife, by hobby. But I must add that by 7.30am, we’re back home and we don’t see each other for the rest of the day. That’s important. As a rule our friendship does not extend beyond the morning routine.
Philippa: Oh that’d be awful (giggles). My hour or so with Helen each morning is enough to fulfil my social quotient for the day.
Helen: Except we do text each other in the evenings to see how many steps we’ve done!
Philippa: Oh yes, so we do!
Helen: And sometimes I’ll have to go round the oval a couple more times to make sure she hasn’t beaten me.
In some ways, the two of you have stumbled across a cure for loneliness: you start your day doing something you love— together— surrounded by a community of people who all look out for each other.
Philippa: You know, I think even a three-minute conversation is life affirming. Human beings should be social creatures. For me to go down to the coffee shop – see all the familiar faces, catch up on what’s happening, a bit of back and forth and there it is— a little recipe for happiness. At 81, my social life is still expanding.
Helen: Plus we’re officially old now so we’re allowed to ask silly questions. We’re not afraid to say ‘sorry, I know I’ve been talking to you for two years but I’ve forgotten your name.’ We can get away with the odd clanger.
Philippa: Helen’s good at the clangers. If someone shows up at the coffee shop after being missing for a fortnight, she won’t hesitate to ask for their absentee note.
Helen: The same goes for when we’re not there. Everyone asks: ‘Where are the ladies?’
Philippa: At least they don’t ask ‘Where are the‘old’ ladies.’
Helen: Who you calling old?
John Keating aged 63
Vessel Master, FIFO, oil and gas industry
Interviewed January 31, 2024
You’ve worked on boats for most of your career and now you’ve chosen to live on one. That’s a small space to contain a life?
I was renting with another chap but it felt like I needed my own space and this dilapidated old boat seemed the perfect antidote. I’m pretty much on my own all the time, tinkering away, fixing things. Routine is everything when you’re living on a boat. I get up at 5.30am every morning, dive off the back, make my bed, clean my teeth. Habits are good. Let me rephrase that. Good habits are good, bad habits double down now and then. Eating alone is depressing. Breakfast is a struggle. Dinner is worse. It seems pointless to bother cooking for one but I’m starting to go hard on myself.
When does the loneliness get to you?
Living alone, you have to be careful to keep a hold on your thoughts or you go down the rabbit hole of despair. I swear that hole gets deeper every time. You don’t know what’s down the bottom. Some days you hope you do hit the bottom because that’s when you bounce back up. I think I hit rock bottom a while ago and believe me, I don’t wanna go back there. When Daniel left the lion’s den he didn’t go back for his hat, if you get my drift. I think loneliness is a product of looking at yourself and wondering if you’re worthy of love. I worry about upsetting my kids saying that, but it’s true.
How many people are hiding their loneliness do you think?
So many. But I can tell when it’s happening to a mate now. I see the same tell-tale signs: the hurt in the eyes, the slumped shoulders, the nervousness in the voice. If I can make it safe enough for them to tell me how they’re feeling, it all floods out.
Is there a cure for loneliness?
I think you have to be brave enough to say it out loud. And you know it’s starting to be okay to put your hand up and say ‘You know what? I’m struggling.’ I think society is more aware and more accepting now that not everyone’s thriving all of the time. My kids — they’re in their twenties now— it’s completely normal for them to be having these conversations with their peers, but we older fellas? I was taught to show no weakness. Ten years ago I would’ve said my loneliness was the punishment for my social failures, for my marriage failure. I certainly wouldn’t be talking to you—a stranger— about it. That façade is falling away at last. Thank God we now see the strength in admitting to vulnerability. Maybe it just takes one bloke to stand up and say: ‘you know what? I’m not coping.’ Maybe it’ll give others the courage to address their own loneliness. Loneliness is not a sin, you know.
What’s the hardest part of the FIFO life?
Being held captive on a boat for five weeks with up to seven crew, almost always male, anywhere from their mid 20s to their 60s. As a skipper I can tell you that three percent of the job is driving the boat, 95-percent is managing the crew. The same issues crop up and they’re always personal: it’s the displacement. Being wrenched from one life to another. Never feeling like you quite belong in either because you’re always leaving. The ones with young families? They’re the ones I really feel for. I’ve been there. There’s a terrible loneliness that comes with going into your little cabin every night – the longing for home, the longing to see your kids. You romanticise the homecoming and then find yourself disappointed when it’s not how you fantasised it would be. After a long time in the offshore business I’ve learnt that isolation is not a natural state for human beings.
Where do you belong?
Anywhere and nowhere. This boat represents freedom to me. I can weigh anchor whenever, wherever I like. I’ve never had a problem with not belonging. I can turn up anywhere and hold my own. But I don’t feel I belong anywhere anymore.
Is that a good thing or a bad thing?
Hard to say. Perhaps not for me to say. You don’t get to choose whether to belong. Some people will always be outsiders. But I have a bunch of close mates. The magnificent seven we call ourselves. We’ve knocked around together since we were at school and I belong to them. They are my people and we make sure we tell each other we love each other. One’s in America, one’s in Sydney, three are in Perth, one’s on Molloy Island. I’m very blessed to have the friends I’ve got and they sustain me through the times I don’t feel good. They’re the kindest, most generous people I know.
John Murphy, aged 94
Former Publican
Interviewed December 14, 2023 at the Mercy Retirement Village, Wembley, while recovering from a fall (‘that wasn’t my fault’)
Why did you leave Tipperary for Australia?
Well I was 20, fresh outa the Irish Free State Army in 1948. I was living in my aunt’s atic in Harrowgate, working at a soft drinks company an’ I saw an ad in the paper showing all these beautiful women saying ‘Come to sunny Australia! We’ll guarantee you a job.’ I couldn’t tell my parents back home what I was thinking a doin’ ‘cos that might’ve put the mockers on it, so my Aunt forged my mother’s signature so I could get a legal passport.
An' so I fell off the ship at Fremantle with 11-pound in my pocket and a battered old suitcase with nothin’ in it an’ I was sitting on a stool on the dock waiting for some RSL fella to collect me an’ I swear it was 99-degrees. I had my brown suit on me because I wanted to look nice for Australia an’ my raincoat on my arm an’ it was so hot my shoes were stuck to the tar. An’ these wharfies were laughing their heads off saying ‘hey look at that Pom with his feckin’ raincoat, the dumb bugger.’
How did you meet your wife Nora?
We met at a dance at the Irish Club in Highgate. Nora an’ her sister had come out from Ireland to an Uncle who was farming in Muckinbudin. Imagine leaving the green fields of Ireland for a dust bowl of flies and rabbits by the millions? I tell ya’ we’d have never gone hungry in Ireland if we’d ‘ad your feckin’ rabbits. Anyhow, I thought Nora looked as good as any I had seen around the place. We just clicked. I had 58 years with her before she passed away nine years ago.
How have you coped without her?
You know, sometimes when I’m lying in bed an’ waiting to go to sleep an’ my mind drifts back, I get this empty feeling and I feel lonely. O’course I do. I think about all those good times with Nora. We enjoyed our last years together very much. I was so glad for that. I worked in pubs most me life – I had a yen for that kinda work – but it kept me away from the family. I was nearly eight years as the publican on Rottnest Island – three of my four kids were born there – then another twenty as the licencee of the Parmelia Hotel, the only 5 star hotel in WA back then. So when I retired I made up for the time I hadn’t spent with the family. Nora and I went on a round-the-world holiday. Jeez living out of a suitcase for 5 months! I got off of the plane in Perth an’ the first thing I did was get down on my hands an’ knees an’ kiss the tarmac. But I have no regrets see, an’ I think that’s the way not to be lonely.
Have you considered having a new relationship?
At 94? Jeez, no. I’m not feckin’ Charlie Chaplin.
Do you miss female company?
Well, there’s plenty women to talk to here in the village an’ the nuns are good company – they’re all retired of course – there’s even a retired bishop here – an’ I listen to their stories an’ think Jesus! I never had it tough compared to how the nuns ‘ad it, even though I went to war. I had two years in Korea. Would’ve stayed longer if I hadn’t been wounded by a grenade. I lost the hearing in my left ear an' nearly my left eye, but to listen to the stories of those poor nuns working in a feckin’ leprosorium in Derby? Korea was nothing compared to that.
Have you always liked your own company?
Well, see, I’m at peace with myself. I’m at ease with myself but I think if you live alone, you’ve got to keep a good resume of friends. The friends you meet in life – if you look after ‘em – you can ring ‘em up any time. I try not to hammer their ears with my own troubles. Instead, I like to talk a bit of nonsense an’ then we both walk away a bit happier. A friendship goes two ways. I phone up an’ check in with ‘em and they check in with me. Y’know, if doesn’t worry me going to sleep alone, waking up alone. I don’t get morose. If I wake up in the middle of the night, I think about all the good stuff. That’s the key – the good stuff. Don’t think about the bad stuff. An’ you can’t be lonely – I promise you – if you have a good book.
Do you have an antidote for those times when you do feel lonely?
Get yourself an obsession. I got hooked on golf, see? I’m the oldest golfer at Cottesloe to score a hole in one at an age when I should have one leg in the ground an’ a finger on the phone to Bowra and O’dea. An’ for years an’ years I’ve been president of the sub-branch of the RSL, but only because I can’t get anyone to take the bleedin’ job over.
Why do you think there’s an epidemic of loneliness?
I think because of modern technology, y’know – planes an’ trains an’ phones an’ computers an’ the like – it means people are scattered everywhere. Whole families are fragmented. When I was a young fella growing up, I knew my 2nd an’ 3rd an’ 4th cousins. Half the young people today wouldn’t have a clue who their 2nd cousins are. They wouldn’t know how their families are connected. Look at my family now: my eldest son back in Ireland for 23 years, another son in Sydney, the rest of us here. We’re all over the place. That’s the problem today, families are losing contact. In my day, some of my cousins would come 80k on a horse and cart for a gathering of the Murphy clan. 80k! Just to see their own.
What do you want young people to know?
I want ‘em to know they’re living too fast. They’re living too hard. We need to spend slow time with one another. I keep telling my grandkids: ‘Keep in contact, don’t lose contact with your nearest an’ dearest – keep ‘em together.’ Because your not always gonna be young. You’re gonna have some strife along the way an’ that’s when family is most needed. People will say that’s a load of ballocks. They’ll say: ‘look at all you Irish – you’ve been leaving your country in droves – you can’t get away fast enough,’ but I say that’s because we were leaving hunger, we were leaving nothingness, the lack of jobs ‘n all. Yeah, I know. I left too. But I found a better life in Australia. An’ 73 years later, I know now family is everything. Hang on to your family for dear life.
Dr Nupur Nag, aged 48
Neuroscientist and Senior Research Fellow, Melbourne
Interviewed November 29, 2023 while attending a medical conference.
Are you currently in a relationship?
No. I broke up with my partner of seven years in 2020 and I struggled in the aftermath. It was a troubled relationship and Covid lockdowns didn’t help. And then my Dad died very suddenly of a heart attack. I was traumatised. So when people saw me withdrawn, they left me alone. One by one they dropped away. I think they just couldn’t handle the emotional load of being my friend. Suddenly there was no-one. And I thought ‘how can you be liking my posts on Facebook but you can’t pick up the phone or visit me?’
Were you very close to your Dad?
Very close. I depended on him. We were a tight family from West Bengal. We moved to King Island, Tasmania when I was four and Dad got a job at the scheelite mine. He was a civil engineer. There were only a thousand people on the island back then so community was everything. Dad was my world.
When did you realise you were suffering from intense loneliness?
I stopped being outgoing and talkative and went into a deep, dark place. People kept saying ‘C’mon! You’re the party girl. What you need is a drink. You’ll feel better if we all go out and get drunk,’ and that was the last thing I felt like doing. That isolation - I don’t know how to describe it - I didn’t know who I was. My personality completely changed. People would say to me ‘you just need to get out and make some new friends’ but forcing lonely people to go out and mix with others is not a cure-all. Sometimes social contact is the last thing you want. I didn’t want to be with anyone.
How hard was it to admit that you were lonely?
I was scared of being judged. Ashamed of being so vulnerable. I became anxious.
I was panicked to leave the house. I didn’t want to go anywhere. I didn’t want to answer the phone. I felt like I had no control over my life so I couldn’t talk on the phone or leave the house. People would say ‘why don’t you just go for a walk’ but I couldn’t. I really couldn’t. Here I was an active, social extrovert crippled by loneliness.
How bad did it get?
I couldn’t find a way out. I didn’t know what I needed. I was living this half-life. And I think if you’re left on your own you’re in real trouble. When you’re severely isolated, you need your friends or your family or your therapist or just someone, anyone, who’s willing to hold that space for you, to just sit with you, to do nothing with you, to go into your world rather than drag you into theirs. Often you don’t even understand how you ended up feeling this lonely so hearing other peoples’ stories was a big help for me. I needed to hear that what I was going through was normal, that what I was feeling was normal. Everyone has these feelings, but when you feel lonely you think there’s something wrong with you.
So how did you manage to come out the other side?
It was a long process. I needed comfort with no expectation. I’ll be forever grateful to the neighbour in my apartment building who texted me to ask ‘do you want to go for a walk on the beach?’ I initially resisted but she said, ‘if we start driving and you want to turn around, we’ll just go home again.’ And a week or so later, she said ‘Want to have a cup of tea?’ It was a progression of small steps. She was so good for me. That was the beginning of my return to good health. I also discovered deep self-inquiry, almost a kind of meditation. For me, it’s the answer to my bouts of loneliness. I’m still learning, but introspection has helped me become more accepting of my solitude.
David Briegel, AM, aged 89.
Former Senior Technical Officer, CSIRO
Interviewed November 12, 2023 over a cup of tea with wife Jan
How did you two meet?
Jan worked with me at the CSIRO when she was 18 and I was 32. I used to pick her up from home and run her to work because she didn’t have a car, and then, you know, one thing led to another (smiles). She was very nice to hold hands with.
Was that a scandal in the office?
Possibly. More so when Jan got pregnant at 23 (snorts). Her mother was horrified. Her dad said: ‘That old man will never marry you.’ I copped it from everyone. The prejudice was entrenched. Jan’s brothers wouldn’t even let her visit them with the baby. We got married a year after our daughter was born. Registry office of course. Her brothers refused to come to the wedding. Their wives said we were shameful. We’ve been married for 53 years.
How do you feel about your future together now that Jan has Alzheimer’s?
Worried. I don’t want to be on my own. I want this (squeezes her hand) to continue for as long as possible. I’m scared about what will happen to her if something happens to me. I’ve tried to set up all the backstops, but I feel the pressure not to let anything bad happen to me.
Do you feel your world is shrinking now you’re a full-time carer for Jan?
Yes. Absolutely. But I don’t want people to feel sorry for me. We’re still doing things. We’re keeping the bubble intact. I do feel isolated. It’s difficult because I can’t see what’s coming, when the bubble will burst. I know at some point I won’t be able to handle looking after her. I get exasperated. Sometimes at the end of a hard day I think ‘how many more things can go wrong?’ It’s just sheer frustration. I guess I probably take it out on Jan because I want to do everything for her properly. The only place we now meet people is out volunteering. We don’t tell anyone what’s wrong. They can probably guess but it’s none of their business. We keep our stories to ourselves. We haven’t told our friends and they haven’t asked. Keeping Jan’s illness under wraps is isolating in itself. I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want pity but I do sometimes want help which is a different thing. I do want understanding too, but you can’t have that if you don’t tell people what’s going on.
Do you feel lucky to be turning 90?
Well yes. It’s quite a thing, isn’t it? The good thing about being 90 is that I’ve met a lot of truly wonderful people. The bad thing is that I have to block out the fact a lot of them have died. Suddenly you become aware people aren’t around anymore. I often think ‘oh I would’ve liked to talk that over with Geoff, or Mike, or whoever, and then you realise, they’ve gone.’
I still have their numbers in my phone. I miss the people I knew were special. Some deaths you never get over. Nostalgia plays a big part in my life now. I like to remember people as they were.
Jeannie Woods, aged 93.
Former soprano, Royal College of Music, London.
Interviewed September 18, 2023, deciding what to wear.
“My husband and I met around a dining table at my cousin’s house. I looked at him and thought, ‘Mmmmm, he’s good looking. That’s who I’m going to marry.
Lucky he fell in love with you then!
Oh, he had no chance.
Don’s been gone for thirteen years now. Do you think you’ve become accustomed to living alone?
I used to love being alone, but now I have too much time alone. I feel the great weight of loneliness. It’s something very private. I don’t share this with anyone because the one person I would share it with is no longer here. He was good company. I miss his company but I cope and that’s the end of it. I have depressing moments when I think ‘tch, poor old me’ and then I say very sternly to myself, ‘oh for goodness sakes, shut up.’
What’s the worst time of day for you?
Always around 4pm, because it’s too early to have my gin and tonic and it’s too late to start any meaningful activity.
What do you look forward to each day?
Bed. Staying in bed. I love being in bed. I snuggle down and feel comfy. Bed is a good place. But I do consciously try to keep positive. And I’m very thankful I met my beloved.”
