I got pulled into this social cook out thingie at R’s tonight by his missus. First I think, okay, then and the grandkid, fine. Only to learn it will be his kids, their kids and spouses, her kids, their kid, and spouses…Jebus. These people know how crowds are a trigger for me and yet like everyone else they assume, You know everyone, you’ve been here before, no big deal. With social anxiety disorder and panic disorder it never ceases to be a big deal. At this moment I am trying to come up with some lavish yet plausible ailment that could keep me from going. Ebola, plague, cooties, I don’t care, just…Ten people, even if I half ass know them, it’s still too much of a trigger, especially at this juncture in time when I am still recovering from Latuda. (Which, BTW, even the website that gives side effects specifically says there *can* be withdrawal thus it must be tapered off, I think my shrink is comatose or something.)
I really don’t view social gatherings as anything as grueling and miserable. It’s not attitude. I’m a solitary person and I like small ish gatherings with a couple of people I am familiar with. Pull in ten people, eight of which I know only vaguely, and well, why not just throw me under a speeding bus? And of course, inevitably the “You’re being so dramatic, get over it” comment. If I could get over it, I wouldn’t need a fucking shrink and ten fucking meds to do what everyone else can do by simply opening their eyes. It’s not behavioral. It’s not some sort of laziness thing. I am TERRIFIED of social events. Unfortunately, my terror manifests physically and I can, and have, and do, sometimes hyperventilate, puke, and make everyone around me very ill at ease which is one more stresser I don’t need So pardon me if I’m not all gum drops and rainbows about going out, I’ll leave that to the shiny happy people who don’t break out in a cold sweat just by leaving their home. (Yeah, that happened to me this morning, I was fine, then I went to do battle with the dish, and BAM, instant panic and paranoia attack. Panxiety. And yeah, I faced it down and lived to tell but it never makes it less of a trauma.)
I WANT so desperately to enjoy these things that others do, that are supposed to bring me pleasure and a sense of belonging and comfort. But it simply doesn’t. I’m not *that* person. My interests are solitary and being alone, rather than being some sort of disorder or avoidance, is simply what makes me most content. I know I can’t self isolate and I have to make an effort which is precisely why I put myself through shit like this. So some jackass can’t say I’m not even trying. I am trying. And I don’t want to because demmit, this is my alone mommy night and I actually resent giving up even a couple of hours to go eat cook out food (which I don’t like and yet will say I do, to avoid hurt feelings), get bitten by bugs (outdoors is evil when you’re allergic, to well, nature) and oh, yeah, be surrounded by elitist twenty somethings who are already picking out college for their toddlers and yapping about Facebook and how twerking with lollipops and rolls of toilet paper is trending.