Voluntary solitude is so rare for people of any age. It's also profoundly useful. 24 years ago, as a high school senior, in lieu of regular gym class I elected to take a course in Survival. This culminated in a 3-day, 2-night "solo" -- a sleepover on the edge of one of Boston's outer harbor islands, during which time I didn't see or speak with another human being. (We each had a large section of the island to ourselves, and were instructed to silently turn and walk in the other direction if we happened to see a neighboring student at our site's edge.) I had volunteered for the most-remote site, on the northeastern edge of the island. I made camp on a beach adjacent to the overgrown ruins of a military installment of some sort. Like my classmates, I'd walked in with a duffel bag containing a sleeping bag, 2 or 3 items of clothing, a 10x10' clear sheet of plastic, 40' of twine, a knife, 2 gallons of water, some non-perishable food, 5 waterproof matches in a ziplock bag with a journal and pencil, and a whistle. That's it. No phone (in 1992 nobody had these), no walkman (my tape-playing music player), no walkie-talkie. Just the same essentials available a century or more earlier.

After picking my spot and building my shelter, I walked, sat, breathed, and wrote in my journal. As the first day waned, I made a roaring bonfire against the outer wall of the fortress, feeding it the end of a massive driftwood log. I sketched the sun setting over Boston's skyline as the stars came out, listened to the fire and the waves on the beach, and had time, and space, entirely to myself.

That weekend gave me a chance to contemplate the myriad huge changes then imminent in my life: things like picking a college, moving out of the home I'd lived in since I was two years old, and moving to a different state in another part of the country.

At the time, I thoroughly enjoyed the solo experience. It flew by, and I was grateful to have had the chance to decompress and spend time outside. It was transformative in a few ways, and in writing this I'm realizing it again, and remembering just how valuable -- and rare -- that kind of solitude is. Human connection is so important. But so is the chance to _completely_ unplug and disconnect. I can't recommend it highly enough. My gratitude for that solo experience is profound.

this is the point where it broke for me, i should have realised when they were going on about feeling physically sick and had thoughts of suicide but kids suddenly "seeing the light" realising the error of their ways and banning themselves from all human contact really seems unlikely to me.