Survivors of incest often live as their own island. Never letting strangers come too close or stay too long. I used to joke that you could come visit me on my island, but you had to leave. Sadly, it wasn’t a joke. I lived that way.
As a matter of fact, I sometimes still prefer to live as an island.
It’s safe. There are no other people or disturbances. I know what is going on on my island. I can see where safety lives, and can adjudicate what happens next. By making decisions, I feel a sense of royalty. Something I was not given as a child — choice!
The problem with living on an island? No love in — no love out. It may be safe, but it is dog gone lonely. I know. I lived there for most of my life.
If you can’t get off your island, why don’t you try building some streams through it. It will bring others closer to you but they are just floating by.
You have to start somewhere or you will end up just where you are — alone.