I haven’t written for a month, even though I know for a fact that blogging helps with my anxiety and depression. I most often find myself blogging when my boyfriend/fiancé has decided to work late. That’s when I’m all by myself. Being alone in a room with myself really sucks.
My thoughts creep in, so I turn on the tv to see if I can distract myself, but I can’t. I only analyze and re-analyze my character flaws, going over social interactions in my head over and over. I’m pretty sure ALL of my depression and anxiety is related to my insecurities around socializing. What the hell? Where did that come from?
I think I might’ve grown up socially retarded. Seriously. I practically lived under a rock. I grew up in a town of about five hundred people, with about ten kids in my grade. So, you can imagine, when you only have one option for a group of friends…you make it work. But people in small towns are never the world’s most socially adept. Small towns typically consist of really old school farmers, or the descendants of farmers, the type of people who come from a time before there were large cities. And then there are the other people in town: the ones that society kicked out, the ones dodging the cops, the ones who couldn’t make it on welfare alone, so they had to venture out to the boondocks where rent is near free. Which am I? Well, shit, I lucked out! I’m a combo of both.
My mom and stepdad were primarily responsible for raising me and I lived with them most of my childhood. My mom- on the welfare side of things. Sad to think about, but it was the life of hard knocks for her. My stepdad on the other hand- I don’t think his mom, or grandma or any great grandparent ever lived in a city. They’re very much the type of people who “go into town” on Saturday to buy groceries. Just like something outta a Laura Ingalls Wilder book.
So, life in a vacuum, with playmates from the Island of Unwanted Toys, living to our own social codes and rules. And now I’m a grown up, living in a city of almost 75,000, near Seattle, WA. And I’m socially retarded.
I agonize over every potential interaction: will they talk to me? What should I say? Do I have to talk to them? Why won’t they talk to me? I try to bring my crunch of a boyfriend to social events, but I think that promotes my ineptness even more. My therapist has told me that the therapist she shares an office with is extremely antisocial. Well, she doesn’t use those words, she says that the woman ‘prefers to be with her flowers.’ That this woman never attends a social event in her life. (Now I’m wondering if my therapist is lying to help me see my antisocial feelings as socially acceptable).
So much of my time is spent thinking about what other people think of me! Do they think I’m a failure? Do they like me? Do they think I’m good at my job? Do they think I’m a good friend? Gahhhhhh!
I’m on the highest dose of Wellbutrin, and have Xanax on tap. I love my Xanax a little too much, so I avoid it 99% of the time. But how wonderful would it be to feel good, all of the time? Or at least most of the time?
Boyfriend’s home, adios!
