Hope is hearing the melody of the future. Faith is to dance to it. ~R. Alves

I am wearing unhappy socks.  These are the socks you keep around just because you know you hate doing laundry and eventually you will run out of socks and so you'll need to wear something, so you wear the unhappy socks.  I don't like these socks.  I can't wait to go home and take them off.  When I do, I will seriously consider throwing them out despite the fact they're in excellent condition, but I'll end up keeping them because I know I hate to do laundry and I regularly lose my happy socks, so I have to resort to the unhappy socks.

 

Maybe then I'll buckle down and do some laundry.

 

I could have done laundry last night -- I had oodles of time.  But did I?  No, of course not.  And why did I have oodles of time?  Because I wigged and decided not to go the opera.  Yes, I had the ticket, already purchased months ago; yes, I was looking forward to it, I love going to the performing arts center; yes, I had planned to kill time wandering downtown, possibly chilling out on a well-worn sofa in one of the most welcoming bookstores ever.

 

But no.  Instead my anxiety increased to a point where I realized it would just be easier to bail instead of trying to talk myself down from a panic attack.

 

And I hate that.

 

I hate the fact that I spent the evening curled up on my well-worn sofa, eating take-and-bake pizza and watching a terrible teenage television drama.  I hate the fact that I was happy about this change in plans, especially since I was so recently crowing over the fact that I survived a weekend spent doing nothing but socialize with people.  I even rang strangers' doorbells asking for canned goods, for cryin' out loud.

 

But maybe I overexerted myself.  Maybe that's it.  Yeah.  I was so wonderfully outgoing that I used up all my carefully hoarded social skills and so now need to spend the next week recharging.

 

I thought I was overcoming all this.  I'm not completely there -- I never will be.  I'll never be the type who will be happy about making small-talk with strangers and going to large parties and so forth.  Crowds cause me to break out in hives.  I know this.  I can accept it.

 

But I thought I could handle going to the opera by myself and wandering downtown without actually interacting with anyone.  Because normally that's something I enjoy.  But no.  My social anxiety rears its ugly head and it's all I can do to keep myself bolted in my chair at work.  And work... yeah, like this doesn't make me feel better about trying to figure out what I want to do with my life.

 

I even cancelled a get-together tonight.  A harmeless one, a casual one, one that would be spent in much laughter and musical fun as I, along with some of my favorite people, plan some cheezy skits.  I love this.  But I can already feel my chest tighten at the thought.

 

I just want to go home, back to my couch, back to my left-over garlic pizza, and sleep.  Maybe read or watch more terrible tv, just so I can drown out the never-ending yammering in my head.

 

It would be so easy to fall into self pity here.  I want to.  I want to go, "oh, look at the poor shy girl who can't function in society -- she's such a loser, no wonder she doesn't have many friends, no wonder she doesn't have a successful career, no wonder she can't even keep her car scratch free" [don't ask, I'm still sensitive].

 

But I know that's bull.  I know I'm being irrational.  I know I'm blessed with some pretty awesome relationships.  I know the reason I'm not climbing the corporate ladder is because I don't understand corporations.  I know the reason I can't keep my car in perfect shape is, well, we won't get into that.

 

Tomorrow night I'll be fine.  I'll hang out with people I love.  I'll fulfill a role.  And I'll be happy, honestly happy.  I'll be peppy and outgoing and laughing... and it will be real.  It will be sincere.  When they ask me "how're you doin'?", I'll say "Pretty good" and mean it.  Because I'll forget about last night, about today.  I'll forget the panic attacks and the wallowing.  All I'll know is I'm thrilled to see everyone.

 

And they won't know that it's hard for me.

 

It's not just introversion (although that's a part).  It's not just shyness (although, again, a part).  It's not just insecurity (again, a part).  It's all of it.  Plus some.

 

I don't like to be seen as weak.  Who does?  I don't like the thought that I can be controlled by some stupid phobia that doesn't even make sense.

 

But I am.

 

I've come a long way.  Ask anyone.  They'll laugh in disbelief when I say I hate being center stage, that I don't really like being the one to voice my opinion in front a group, that being a leader is something that doesn't come naturally to me.  I laugh in disbelief at their disbelief, but still they insist that I'm "just a little reserved," but I "get on so well with people."

 

That's because they don't see me when I'm like this.  No one does.  I leave chirpy voicemails with vague excuses as to why I won't show, and that's acceptable.  They don't really think twice about my bailing, even though I spend an unearthly amount of time worrying about the message and about letting people down and ruining plans and so forth.

 

I'll get through this, I always do.  I've learned to cope.

 

But right now, I wish I could just be normal for once.

 

And I wish I wouldn't wait so long to do laundry.