Disheartened – social anxiety

Sometimes, it’s so bad that I prefer death over my next social interaction. The void would be so much easier than applying for that job, than moving to a new place and away from familiarity, to calling my grandfather in an attempt to network with his son. My calendar holds nothing for me in six months. It is entirely too big of a question mark for my anxiety-ridden (and frankly, quite depressed) self. I cannot imagine tucking the dread away to prep myself for the big wide world. I am not entirely an adult it feels, and Professionals appear to me as an emotionless droid that lacks every bit of life that makes us human. Professionals, in my mind, leave, eat, and breathe their work. There is no time outside of the lab. They are what they study. I know this isn’t really true, but the shadow of a stranger looms larger than its reality. It is a dread, an ever so present inkling of fear awaiting us in every café, every classroom, every shared space to exist. My private bathroom is my safe haven because no one can call upon me there.

And how am I supposed to approach the world like this, constantly afraid of the next conversation I’m going to have to have? It’s taken me years of practice and meditation to stop my hands from trembling when I answer an unexpected phone call or chat about my day with the barista. Years; and the feeling isn’t all gone, just managed.

So here I am, crying on the floor of my college apartment, thinking about just how fucking lonely I really am. The other forbidden topic of social anxiety – the absolute inescapable loneliness. The hurdles I have to pass to make an acquaintance, much less a meaningful friendship, is often beyond me. Only under the most specific circumstances have I made meaningful and lasting friendships. My long time friend, A, because the friendship originated in his romantic interest in me (as many of my male relationships do). The friendship only flourished into what it is today because of his extraverted-ness and his persistence in staying my friend despite my many regressions into isolation. He calls constantly, he forces me into conversations in the best kinds of ways. And now? When he calls, it brightens my day rather than darkens my dread. My other friend, Lah, only became my friend when we were stuck in my nightmare of a Lock-In with a college school group. I was alone and she saw and she rescued me and we’ve been friends ever since. She said she liked my vibe, how “chill” I was. We don’t talk much anymore, but I know she will always be a guaranteed participant to any concert or camping event I go to. Chris only became my friend because we happened to become roommates through mutual acquaintances. Over the two years we lived together, we became close. We became best friends even, and with a person I never would’ve gone beyond a “hello” with in public. But we were forced around each other constantly and one of my most beautiful relationships with another human blossomed out of it. I’ve had plenty of vulnerable romantic relationships as well, though they can never seem to go beyond to the level of friendship I have with other people. My relationships with men have always tended to be sex but dressed up in a few “I adore you” texts. That’s probably unrelated to my social anxiety and instead related to my history of sexual abuse and grooming. But that’s an entirely different fucking story.

Such a pity post here but I’m not going to apologize. There is a wealth of debilitating mental illnesses that go so far beyond social anxiety. But I will not belittle my struggle with this because I do know everyone has their limits, and mine is this. I will always struggle with it. Every moment of mine with another in the room will be hiccups, heartaches, and at times absolute horror.

But god if I’ve made it this far then I can keep going.

Equidistant

Back again. After three years. I’m not sure entirely too much has changed about the voice of myself since then, a freshman in college completely naïve of life. All those rhetorical questions I asked myself back then, sure, I now have the answers. They were the wonderings of a freshly turned 20 year old who thought she knew her shit, who thought she sounded deep by asking silly questions like, “Will I ever be able to love the same again?”

Oh, how childish. The answer was yes. Many times. And by the end, you learn that it doesn’t really matter. I was so caught up in the idea of love, of relationships, of a future, all while pretending to reject all the paths that society had previously put before me. Through all of those experiences, falling in love many times, acing or failing those tests, saying yes or no to those social outings, driving across the country to see the world I so desperately wanted to…. I realized: It. Does. Not. Matter. Nothing ever truly does. We live our lives, moment by moment. And why agonize over a moment that has already gone? I’ve made tons of mistakes since I wrote my last post on this blog. My Book of Regrets is a heavy one, though I think the words are slightly faded. Nothing is ever set in stone and no regret of mine is one that will stay imprinted on those pages for a lifetime. A single regret will feel immense for a moment, and that moment may last for months at a time. Some moments last longer than others, but they are always temporary. I found it funny that while rereading my old posts that I only vaguely remembered the very things that I was agonizing over then.

But that’s the thing with life. It’s experience. Its the high, its the low, the remorse, the euphoria, the heartbreak, the oxytocin, the depression, the anxiety, the mania, the silence. Though I can easily answer the questions I asked myself back then with a roll of my eyes, I still have new questions now. Ones I know I will once again roll my eyes over in the future, smiling at how much importance I put on such a silly thing. Everything becomes silly with time, because time really is the ultimate healer, forgetfulness the most effective drug. How can you still love someone you hardly remember? And with that comes freedom, because you can see that person for who they truly are with love no longer clouding your judgement. You can see what the third person saw all along on why things would never work and you eventually would have fallen out of love. We all eventually do. Don’t you remember, that everything is temporary? What a dull life it would be if nothing ever changed.

That’s the thing I have gathered the most while I skipped and tripped my way through college. No matter the importance of the moment it is still just that: a moment. And like all moments, they pass. Life goes on – a phrase I could never quite appreciate until I lived it and realized just how true it was.

Here’s a remnant of a past moment, a moment I am still currently living. But this too, shall pass.

“I ended things with someone I thought I really cared about today. And I did care about him. But ever since we had that conversation where he said he didn’t see me completely romantically but was developing those feelings, or trying to….. I’ve been an anxious mess since then. Not eating, losing weight, worrying about why I don’t deserve love.

But I ended it today. I didn’t try to fix it. I told him I deserve better and asked when he was going to bring my things by. And you know what? I feel fine. I feel empowered. I feel worthy. The power of deleting someone from my life that was only bringing negativity – that feels good. I’ve always had such trouble hanging onto relationships that should’ve ended long ago for fear of being alone.

I know I will miss him. And he wants to stay friends, but I’ll probably pass on that. I don’t need someone else’s love and attention to feel validated and worthy. No. I can feel that all on my own.”

Synesthesia

I think of you and I think of March. The taste immediately bubbles onto the back of my tongue and no amount of swallowing will make it go away. March tastes of something that was once sweet but later soured – like a peach that was only half rotten. March smells like freshly bloomed cherry blossoms that made the mistake of blooming a little too early – they fall after a cold night. The air is brisk upon my neck but I sweat in the sun. March is indecisive, March never really knows if it wants to be March just yet and is still a little stuck in February. March is March and nothing can really change the taste it tattooed on the back of my tongue; nothing can really change the sickly sweet smell of cherry blossoms burned into my nose.

You were March. You kissed me under that cherry tree, you gave me your arm when March decided to be February. You were March when you couldn’t decide between me or her; the coldness between us or the warmth within her. You were March in your persistence to continue living through all the cold nights I left you with an empty bed.

I think I was March once too.

You were October, ready and ambitious at collecting your bountiful harvest.

March was naive; it did not yet know it was the precursor to the hopeful idea of spring with frost still biting at its toes. It did not yet know that in one freezing night, the entire hope of spring can be diminished – all life before, dead again.

That’s the thing with March – March can never decide to be cold or warm, a yes or a no. March is easily convinced to bloom when it thinks all is safe, only for it to have been tricked by the bitter cold.

I was March – March was me.

I bloomed too early and died the next week.

October visited March, ready for harvest but March wasn’t ready for spring quite yet. That was April’s job. But October was demanding and March – as indecisive as she were, said nothing. She fell into the warmth, she delivered, and she came out cold. March wasn’t ready for blossoms yet – but October needed his harvest. If only March had the wisdom of April, or maybe the warmth and knowledge of June. Maybe then March would’ve known to say it out loud – I am not yet ready for Spring.

Nauseous

Falling in love felt a little nauseous. He would look at her and suddenly her knees would become weak and the world would spin just a bit. He was flawless, totally unaffected with seemingly an endless supply of confidence constantly at hand. He would smile and she swore – she absolutely believed that this was the beginning of the end. She knew what was coming – the game, the players. The constant switching between who sticks on the bench. But she decided to be fearless, she decided to dive head first with no looking forward or back. Fuck, she would regret it. But that didn’t matter yet, because falling in love felt a little nauseous and someone once told her it was a sign – a sign of good feelings, a sign of good fate. She should’ve known to never leave life in the hands of something so nonexistent. But that didn’t matter yet, because those butterflies felt like a metaphorical hunger; she heard once that it means it was destiny, that you met that one special person, the person that exists nowhere else. She should’ve known that you can fall in love many times; she should’ve known that infatuation fades. But he breathed words unto her that never seemed to leave her mind; he tattooed every promise right onto her hands to where she would never forget. I think someone told her once that promises are always broken, but she was fearless. She dove head first. Someone should’ve told her that it would’ve felt like breaking every single bone in your body while remaining intact. Someone should’ve told her that love isn’t distrust and lies and hurtful words. Someone should’ve told her that love isn’t supposed to feel so sickening. She figured these things out all on her own. She stopped listening to the optimistic false hope everyone seemed to throw at her. Life isn’t easy, falling in love isn’t fun.

 

— Haven’t written in awhile, so here’s this. Some more posts will be coming more frequently.

Why can’t we say no to men?

I’ve seen a lot of tweets about this recently, but the idea wasn’t new to me at all.

Why is it so hard for us (women) to say no to men?

Since college, I’ve gotten plenty of offers, plenty of phone numbers and DMs. And I reply to them all. I play along… even when I am very very uninterested.

WHY?

I can’t say no to men. No matter how you twist it, it is something I just cannot do. I have this inherent fear of hurting their feelings or making them angry. Isn’t it absolutely awful, that the male species have managed to scare us into always saying yes? Talk about manipulation.  I know that to most of these men that approach me, I am just one of many with whom they talk to and are interested in. But that logic doesn’t stop the fear of hurting them irreparably. Of course, there are exceptions. If I truly care about the person, the last thing I will do is drag it out in order to spare some of their feelings.

But why do I have this fear in the first place? Is it my fault because I don’t want to cause the same kind of hurt that I have also been caused in the past? Or is it totally the men’s fault and they have learned how best to play the game and make the women say yes (sorry to be cruel, but I know some men who definitely do this).

Let’s discuss the latter. You know, just for a little theory lesson.

First, how have men learned to accomplish this? Teach me your ways, men. I must conquer the world, WWD (Woman World Domination) for the win!!! Do men actually think, “If I play this pity card enough, will eventually women, with their kind and caring souls*, do their best to prevent the pity party I’m creating and agree to go on a date with me? Hell, if I shed a few tears, they may even let me into those panties of theirs.” Is this what goes through their minds? Is the manipulation unintentional? Are they innocent?

I know this sounds utterly cruel and accusing. But, admit it – you have definitely witnessed a man act more upset than he actually is in order to get what he wants from a woman. I definitely do not think they would stop this play-act when asking a girl out, too.

Also, I might add, our little theory lesson here is more a specific example of a broad problem: the manipulation men often use to unsuspecting women.

I’ve experienced this way too much. All men of my past, thank God. But I have experienced all types of manipulation it seems….. Those words that convince me to have sex with him when before I came over to his house, I was 100% certain that I didn’t want to. The manipulation into making me believe a breakup, or an argument, or HIS mistake is somehow my fault. Crying about his mistakes, begging for forgiveness, promising to change, then the next day going right back to what he was doing before. As if the whole pity party and crying fest were totally fake (if it were true, he could have lasted at least a week). Putting on the whole show of: “Why can’t you trust me?” thus making me feel guilty while he simultaneously continues to lie to me.

The list could go on and on and on. I have many examples, but I will stop here because I wouldn’t to bore you (or horrify you). But, all of these examples seem to fit the definitions of manipulation perfectly. So men, how do you do it? How do you fool us so damn hard? Why are we so insistent on keeping hope that you’ll, one day, treat us better?

I don’t want to say all men are like this. Maybe just the majority that are my age. Or maybe I’ve just had really really bad luck or a horrible taste in men. But, it can’t be denied: this whole game men are playing is a real problem. 

I’m not saying women are innocent either. Far from it, I can testify to that myself. But in this article, I focused on one problem that needs to be addressed and needs to be fixed. Treat women with respect. Be honest. It really can get you so far. There is no need for these games to be played, there are better ways to get a woman to say yes when you ask her out. I know in most cases, you’re innocent; maybe you don’t realize what you are doing. But start paying attention.

I know the entirety of this article is filled with emotion and thus not totally thoroughly thought out. But in a lot of cases, my word is still true. Of course, men aren’t evil. *Some* of them just tend to be sometimes.

*I’m exaggerating here. But, studies do show that women have an overly nurturing nature. 🙂

How Dating Changes in College

As a freshman in college, I have undergone probably the biggest change throughout this whole moving-out and growing-up transition. What is that change, you ask?

Dating.

I don’t know why it seems to change so significantly from high school to college. Is everyone (especially including me) stuck on this whole, “I’m a grown adult, I need to date like an adult” idea?

Let’s start with similarities and differences.

In high school, sex simply wasn’t talked about. And if it was – it was discussed in a very negative manner. Have they had sex yet? They’ve been dating for a long time, surely it has happened by now. Did you hear about what happened at so&so’s party? Yeah, that couple has TOTALLY made it to the third or fourth base by now. (Can we please take a moment to realize how disgusting and degrading relating sex to a sports game is?).

But in college…. everyone is having sex and no one really cares. Unless you’re part of that Bible-belt Christian crowd, you’re not really going to encounter too much judgment. This heavily conflicts with me as a person. Am I wanting to find someone to cure those primal urges with? PLEASE. Can I though? No. It is ingrained inside of me to only do those things with someone I really really like, which leads me to my next problem….

How in the hell do I find someone I actually really like? The answer has escaped me. I’ve dated around in search of those warm fuzzy feelings I’ve encountered before. Except, it’s really hard for me to develop those warm fuzzy feelings without, you know…. the cute little things couples do in high school. Like, playing that cute question game when you’re getting to know someone. Or just texting in general (I’ve come to hate that with any boy, but maybe with the one, I will come to like it? I’ll keep you posted). I miss the weird awkwardness of not really knowing someone but trying to subtly flirt with them and hope they notice.

Dating in college seems to be full of bluntness. If a guy is interested, they straight up ask me out via text or messaging and sometimes, rarely, in person. When I still hardly know them. I hate this! What happened to the romanticness of having to wait until they noticed you or talked to you? What happened to the secret smiles across the room and building up the guts to talk to them later?

Why is it that coming to college and having this “act like an adult, be an adult” forced upon us? Why in the hell does that attitude also have to bleed into the dating world?

I don’t need structured dates or staged lines. I only simply want what I had in high school that makes falling in love so picture-perfect: awkwardness. Pure awkwardness. Shyness. Random outbursts of emotions after you grow too impatient. Raw and unobliterated passion. 

It seems college has erased that for me. I’ve hopped around, trying every different kind of guy out and none of it ever seems right to me.

However, what prompted me to write this post in the first place…

I have met someone. And although at first it was blunt and straightforward, it has strayed from that. Now, it’s this perfect mixture of maturity with that still awkward-boy charm. Maturity as in it is perfectly okay for us to sit next to one another and not have to give the other 100% attention, but awkward boy charm as in we played the question game last night. And I started to get all of those butterflies that I had been missing.

Escape

You know those videos that show really cool places around the world and an overhead narration that is supposed to provide inspiration to stop living your mundane life and to follow your dream of seeing the world? Yeah – those videos.

Those videos have been torturing me and I can’t stop watching them. 

Granted, I have seen a good portion of the world. I make a habit of hiking and backpacking and appreciating everything around me. Hell – I have a tattoo dedicated to doing just that. But, the thing is, I’m still following the world’s expectations of me. I’m going to college and I’m working a minimum wage job and I spend most of my weekends recuperating from the previous week by binge-watching Netflix.

And I feel terrible about it. I want to spend my life traveling and truly experiencing the world. I want to go snorkeling in Hawaii and backpacking in the Chinese mountains (first – is that even a thing? It should be.) I want to take a nap on a green field in Ireland and I want to visit the castles in Switzerland. I want to see everything and I want to write about how great it is.

Unfortunately though, I have fallen into the pit that the majority of everyone else has also fallen in – the pit of normalness and a life where you are born, you go to school, you get married, you have kids, you die. That’s it, and it sounds utterly boring.

So what can we do to escape this? Take that yearly vacation that we can hardly afford? Or just leave our lives completely and hope we can survive a life of traveling with no money, completely relying on the generosity of others?

That’s really scary.

But it seems worth it, right?

 

Feeling the Blues

Okay first, let’s conquer the ultimate psychological question:

Should we be taking man-made medicines to battle depression, anxiety, and other somewhat minor psychological problems? Or should we just let our body take its course and solve this directly through how we are living our lives?

I have pretty much already answered this question for myself – I cannot live happily without the help of a little thing called anti-depressants and anti-anxiety (they come in one pill). I did not know just how deep into the blue pit I had fallen until the drugs finally started kicking in and I was this thing called consistently happy. No more extreme lows and extreme highs. Consistency all the way through. And believe me – I tried many other solutions to the constant sorrow I was feeling… essential oils, praying, vacation, reading, exercise, etc. But the happiness (if you could even call it that) only lasted while experiencing that certain event, and the darkness was always lingering behind, following me (yeah, exactly like those anti-depressant commercials).

I was ecstatic at the amazing results that had concluded from the medicine… yet it leads me to another question I may never know the answer to: Was this sudden change in my mood because I finally moved out and away from the negative memories and was able to start new as a Freshman in college? Or was it just the drugs? Or maybe a mixture of both?

I may never know, but my tendencies to not take my medicine for days at a time now may help me figure out that answer.

Which leads me to my next topic. Unfortunately, this drug (And if you’re wondering, it’s the generic form of Lexapro) comes with many side effects. Thankfully, I haven’t experienced them all but it feels like I’ve experienced the worst – night sweats, and severe fatigue all throughout the day. It was really starting to obstruct with my life; I would lay in bed all day at least once a week, very often missing my morning classes or skipping my afternoons to take a nap, doing anything to get even just a few minutes of sleep… It wasn’t healthy for me. My medicine was helping my depression but my constant laziness was just bringing me right back down.

So I stopped taking it. The withdrawal wasn’t as bad as I expected. Mostly just grouchy moods and a little bit of nausea. However, not being on my medicine sucked. I could tell a significant difference in just the way I thought – constant negativity and most of it directed at me. I was hating on myself all day long and then feeling really sorry for myself right afterward. Things that normally would have slid by me and not bothered me the least bit (when on my medicine) would bug me for days on end and put me back into the introverted and quiet shell that I used to hide in.

So here I am, back to taking my medicine and forever wondering if I will have the strength to ever get off. Is this what addiction is like? Needing a drug in order to be happy?

Is this temporary?

I never want to go back to what I was a year ago. Hell, thinking back on it, I’ve dealt with this for the majority of my life. I don’t deserve the misplaced grief that I was constantly feeling. But I also want to live a normal life – one that doesn’t consist of depending on an assortment of drugs in order to live contently.

But how does one do that? Maybe I will take a trip to Sedona and find out.

MaybeWild

When Angels Leave

There is a remarkable poem by *Lang Leav named “Angels”. It tells the story of how angels will enter your life in the form of a person and how this person was sent for some mission, some higher purpose. And those angels – those people – they aren’t meant to stay but we love them all the same.

My response to this poem was this (written long ago when I was smitten, in love, and blind):

When I first laid eyes on you, I was immediately attracted. Not just physically… something just drew me towards you. I hardly knew you, yet it seemed as if a string always drew my eyes to you, rung a bell when you walked into the room, cut away my voice and the bones in my legs when you looked at me. I wasn’t good enough for you though – you had yourself and your life figured out and I was still a mess in both actions and mind. Inadequacy in my character stretched the strings that drew me towards you. However, I grew weary of the life I was living and you all of the sudden showed up on my doorstep, an angel lighting up the dim room. Just your presence had such an impact on me. It was like God had truly sent you into my life to teach me the lessons I’ve never listened to before and keep me safe from my very own doubts and insecurities. It’s true though, I have grown to love you and you may not be mine to keep, but I pray to God every day asking if he’s willing to share.

 

 

If this Angel story is true, if Angels truly are sent to help us in some way… couldn’t they do it a little less painfully?

Because I fell in love with an angel. Not him. When that angel left his body, his true self was revealed. He was disastrous to my heart – I loved someone who no longer existed and the new person that was hiding underneath was cruel and uncaring. I spent years hoping the angel I fell in love with would reinhabit his body as I took blow after blow, never losing hope.

What was the angel sent for? To teach me to not love so freely? To create even thicker walls around my heart? I still love this person no matter how many times he is astonishingly cruel to me and I seem to be incapable of loving anyone else – because the love for an angel is immortal and can conquer no other worldly love.

Why are humans so callous and ruthless? Why are they so uncaring and aloof to the pain they cause others? Why is the pain they cause others always directed back to the pain they feel within themselves? Can’t they stop thinking about themselves for one goddamn minute?

Bring my angel back, please.

*You can read Lang Leav’s exceptional poem and prose “Angels” in her poetry collection “Love & Misadventure.” She furthers her poetry collection with “Lullabies” where you can read countless of other exceptional writings. I definitely reccommend this talented poet!

 

 

What do your mornings start off with?

To answer my own question, my mornings always start off with a slew of curses as I realize I, yet again, gave myself five minutes to get ready AND to get to class. Every. Single. Morning. Without fail.

I don’t know why I don’t learn my lesson. You would think I would want to look at least halfway decent for class but in my half zombie-awake state, nothing phases me. I am pretty sure I am still asleep when I drive to class (and this is if I even wake up at all for these 10 a.m.’s… sad, I know).

I also have this terrible habit of making terrible decisions when I am in this zombie state – like missing class for the third time in a row.

Nevertheless, this week has been particularly productive and I’ve managed to make it to the majority of my classes. It’s also been the most stressful week of my life. Too many tests, too much homework, too many social commitments, too much required extra-curricular activities. I spend one week barely getting out of bed with the made up excuse of the flu, and then the next I feel like I have more responsibilities than the President. Someone, please stop me from saying yes to everything so that I actually have a tad bit of free time?

Regardless, I have finally ended this stressful week with a nice weekend at the beach with my mother and aunt. And the best part? If I don’t want to talk, they are more than happy to talk for me. I can just lay back on the sand, pretend I’m listening, and forget about the world and all of the tests and responsibilities that await me at home.

And this place is absolutely beautiful. Completely undeveloped and as wild as a beach can be and I am in love. In 40 degree weather, I slept in a hammock right on the beach and fell asleep to the sound of the waves. Because of the lack of development, I could see the stars sitting right on the ocean horizon. In the morning, I woke up to the sunrise. I don’t think I can even describe how perfect all of this was and just how much I have needed this. Just a little bit of an escape from everything. I never want to leave. I want to fall in love here. Please don’t take me back….

Alright. Back to reality. I’ll go back on Sunday and resume back to normal life; like we all must one day. Can’t I make a career out of this? I’ll let you know.

MaybeWild