I don't really have anything to talk about today. Actually I do, I'm just really scared to talk about it. I'm an intensely private person, I don't even really talk about my likes and interests to family members. The only person who I talk to about myself is my therapist, which I'm sure he thoroughly enjoys. I have a lot I think about, and a lot of opinions. I wouldn't really consider myself an expert on anything, but I've read a lot, watched a lot, and thought a lot, and I'd like to think that my voice counts for something. I might just be pretending that's true, like I pretend that I'm secretly the one controlling the world with my imagination, and everything that ever happens is my own secret will. But fantasy is all I have, and the only power I have on anyone who isn't me.
I'd like to think we all have a place in this world, a place that we choose and make for ourselves. I want my place to be one where when I talk, people listen to me, but not because I'm an amazing leader. It's because what I say is true enough to make sense to them, and because I'm telling them things they always knew, but didn't quite have the words to articulate. I want to be a person who can tell other people what the problems they face actually are, and give them ideas on how to fix them. In my own way, I want to remake the world. I want to show people that things aren't set in stone, we can change them and maybe make it so that things are a little better. Maybe someday I'll move mountains without having to lift a finger, simply by showing people a way of doing it they never thought of.
For now, I'm just some loser living in her mother's home with no job. I have thoughts and feelings, nothing more. I write a lot, but it's nothing if no one sees it before it's too late. That's part of why I'm writing this blog post, even though it doesn't say anything. I'm practicing, so that someday I can say something that's just a little smart.
Friday, September 6, 2019
Thursday, September 5, 2019
Anxiety, part 1
I started this blog two years ago, if the dates on my posts are correct, and posted exactly four times since I did. I have, at least, twenty blank notebooks on my bookshelves and in shoe boxes on my floor, and god knows how many blank and half blank sheets of paper in binders in my closet. Somewhere between ten and fifteen tote bags are crammed in with them, among other assorted knickknacks I've collected and have nowhere else to put. My bedroom floor is covered with blankets, pillows, and stuffed animals that I have no need for and nowhere to put, but can't bring myself to give away. I also have puzzles, art supplies, regular books, a large collection of pens and pencils, various electronics and a large amount of clothes considering I avoid shopping whenever possible.
I call myself a collector, but the truth is I'm more of a hoarder, just collecting whatever catches my eye regardless of whether or not I have the space for it. I also didn't buy any of it with money I earned, since despite the fact that I'm twenty-four I still haven't held a paying job. I've done volunteer work, but not for longer than a few months. My mom lets me stay with her and pays for my living expenses, and it leads to exactly the amount of resentment you would think it would lead to. I could argue my case and say I have an excuse for living the way I do, but the truth is, save for the fact that I'm a women, I fit the stereotype of a jobless nerd in her mother's basement perfectly.
It's not that I can't work. There are jobs that, if I could bring myself to apply for them, I could probably get, even if I only have an AA degree despite being in college for six years. I could move out, get my own place, eat all the garbage I want, and die at thirty from untreated diabetes. It's not that I don't want to be independent, though I'm not going to pretend that living with mom isn't without it's perks. It's that I'm scared.
Everyone has that one subject in school that, no matter how hard they tried, they just couldn't understand. For some it's sports, for other's math or language arts, for me, it was people. People just don't make sense to me. How do they know that the person sitting next to them wants to be friends? How do they know that it's OK to sit with that person and not someone else? How do they know which kids will want to make friends with them? I've been told that it's not instinctive, that everyone struggles with socializing and screws up sometimes. But the six year old who watched everyone else playing and wondered why she could never find anyone of her friends to play with is still convinced that socializing is a magical skill that she was born without. And unfortunately, no matter who you are or what kind of job you have, you have to be able to socialize with other people to a certain degree.
Again, I could probably do it. I've dealt with people enough over the years to be able to grasp the basics of socializing, though I do find it really stressful and exhausting. It's just convincing myself that I can do it and that it won't end in total disaster. Life with an anxiety disorder is all about convincing the scared little kid in you that yes, you can do this, and even if something goes wrong, you can fix it. Honestly, my biggest enemy is myself, most of the world doesn't care about me one way or the other, but I'm convinced that everyone who so much as looks at me thinks I'm repulsive and stupid, an idiot who can't even keep a job for more than a day before she quits. I'm not saying that for sympathy, because I'm not the type of person who needs sympathy. Save the sympathy for people who are so overwhelmed by their anxiety they need your help to take care of them. I'm not one of them, at least not yet, but I've seen them on the bus or at my family reunions. I guess what I'm saying is, I'm lucky enough to be unworthy because of laziness and lack of effort, so help those who didn't have a say in the matter.
I call myself a collector, but the truth is I'm more of a hoarder, just collecting whatever catches my eye regardless of whether or not I have the space for it. I also didn't buy any of it with money I earned, since despite the fact that I'm twenty-four I still haven't held a paying job. I've done volunteer work, but not for longer than a few months. My mom lets me stay with her and pays for my living expenses, and it leads to exactly the amount of resentment you would think it would lead to. I could argue my case and say I have an excuse for living the way I do, but the truth is, save for the fact that I'm a women, I fit the stereotype of a jobless nerd in her mother's basement perfectly.
It's not that I can't work. There are jobs that, if I could bring myself to apply for them, I could probably get, even if I only have an AA degree despite being in college for six years. I could move out, get my own place, eat all the garbage I want, and die at thirty from untreated diabetes. It's not that I don't want to be independent, though I'm not going to pretend that living with mom isn't without it's perks. It's that I'm scared.
Everyone has that one subject in school that, no matter how hard they tried, they just couldn't understand. For some it's sports, for other's math or language arts, for me, it was people. People just don't make sense to me. How do they know that the person sitting next to them wants to be friends? How do they know that it's OK to sit with that person and not someone else? How do they know which kids will want to make friends with them? I've been told that it's not instinctive, that everyone struggles with socializing and screws up sometimes. But the six year old who watched everyone else playing and wondered why she could never find anyone of her friends to play with is still convinced that socializing is a magical skill that she was born without. And unfortunately, no matter who you are or what kind of job you have, you have to be able to socialize with other people to a certain degree.
Again, I could probably do it. I've dealt with people enough over the years to be able to grasp the basics of socializing, though I do find it really stressful and exhausting. It's just convincing myself that I can do it and that it won't end in total disaster. Life with an anxiety disorder is all about convincing the scared little kid in you that yes, you can do this, and even if something goes wrong, you can fix it. Honestly, my biggest enemy is myself, most of the world doesn't care about me one way or the other, but I'm convinced that everyone who so much as looks at me thinks I'm repulsive and stupid, an idiot who can't even keep a job for more than a day before she quits. I'm not saying that for sympathy, because I'm not the type of person who needs sympathy. Save the sympathy for people who are so overwhelmed by their anxiety they need your help to take care of them. I'm not one of them, at least not yet, but I've seen them on the bus or at my family reunions. I guess what I'm saying is, I'm lucky enough to be unworthy because of laziness and lack of effort, so help those who didn't have a say in the matter.
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
Life of a writer, part 1
Well here I sit, wanting to write in one of the three notebooks I brought with me but being unable to because I forgot about bringing a pen to write with. I don't have anyone to blame but myself, I wanted to go to the farmers market but didn't leave until it was almost certain to be closed by the time I got there. Fortunately I'm the sort of person who will warp time if it means I'll get something I want, so I made it by the skin of my teeth.
It's not like I couldn't get another pen if I really wanted to write something down, but I've already got at least a hundred (conservatively) at home, so I'd rather wait until I'm back there. Plus this means that I will remember to check my purse before I next leave home, and not to wait until 5:30 to leave for a market that closes at 6.
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