This post is going to be so embarrassing. These are some stories from my life. I am trying to show what it feels like living with social anxiety. To many, these situations may be normal, but for me these end up being absolute hell.
Living with anxiety is so weird. Something so small and simple can be a whole journey in itself. Every public encounter has to be meticulously planned and prepared for, even if I do it daily. It does get easier with repetition, but then one day there might be a change that can absolutely throw you off, which can cause all sorts of problems.
Hoarding Feelings and Junk as a Borderline
Surprisingly, it took me a while to figure out why my home - particularly my room - was slowly becoming a more suffocating space to live in. Self-care of any kind tends to go out the window when I'm excessively depressed (of which the curtains never move, as I despise natural sunlight, because that equates to the outside) and so the space begins to represent a miniature landfill site. It isn't strewn with litter, no. I have some empty jars I clean out and keep, because I could use them for something, surely, but besides that there isn't much actual 'trash'.
Rather, I end up with a collection of sentimental artifacts which should technically go in the bin, but I can't bare to part with them. A lot of it is scrap bits of pretty wrapping paper, cutouts and posters. They form various gargantuan piles. I could use them for art, art I will never create. Alongside these are papers from university, namely some poetry I felt the need to hold onto, or some old philosophical essays I probably won't read again but I enjoyed it so much I must hold onto it. Books I buy, read once, and never again, sit on my bookshelf. I can't read them again because it hurts too much. Feelings infiltrate every page and I want to avoid them. Avoidance is key when it comes to emotions, because apparently pretending something doesn't exist makes everything better. (Newsflash: it doesn't.)
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