She didn't think she lead a lonely life, though she knew her life fit the parameters. Jenny lived an interior life. A life where her imagination told her how scary the world was and how inept she was and how inappropriate her thoughts were, so they stayed inside. As did she. Jenny's room was her world, and going out of it got harder every day. People looked at her when she went out, and people talked to her so she'd have to answer, and that wouldn't do.
Jenny was lonely, but thought she was self-sufficient, and her mother worried about her endlessly. Deeply. Hoveringly. Smotheringly. Jenny's fears about the world were compounded by her mother, who thought the incessant, gentle nudges helped, when really, they were like pushing repeatedly on a bruise.
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