The other day I looked at some diary entries I wrote when I was 16 or so. It was sickeningly imprecise and unappealing and, to my horror, exactly the kind of stuff I write to this day. It shows that my life has been a series of self-imposed problems which I have made no progress whatsoever in resolving. So I guess this is just another documentation of my failures in the sense that I will look back at it a year from now and feel really uncomfortable for having written it.
I had an epiphany today. Whenever I talk to people I feel terrible. But whenever I say nothing, or avoid people, I feel terrible too. ("Terrible" is just a little bit too strong in this instance but for some reason it feels like the right word to use.) Time is like a series of regret doors that I walk to, each leading to a hallway of regret.
Today I got a call from an employer and he sounded really serious and rushed and my heart was beating really fast during the call. Afterwords all I could do was stare at my wall for a while. I was surprised that I was taking a phone conversation with a stranger so poorly and also surprised that I still get surprised at my reaction to human contact.
My introversion is possibly the only thing I am certain of. But my social anxiety seems just as strong, making the rare contacts I have with humans a consistant trial. It is in moments like this interview that I realise how terribly fragile I am, that a stern voice is all it takes to cut me down, make me fold into a spiral of self pity and write blogposts about it. This realisation or affirmation gives me a sensation of regression, that whatever confidence or growth I may have experienced throughout my life was for nothing and that the only way I can get by is to weasel my way though life with as few psychological lashes from other humans as possible.
It has become a very real and serious realisation for me since that interview, that in spite of what everyone else says about leaving your comfort zone and striving for brave new horizons, avoiding unhappiness just might be a viable and wise course of action for my life.
Then during dinner I started thinking about telling my dad about it the conversation. As I sat there in silence I imagined a door between us that was slowly closing, that is to say, that the opportunity to attempt to tell him about the event was slowly vanishing. Several questions presented themselves. Is the event really worth recounting? It's really not that interesting. What felt like a lashing to me could only feel like an unfortunate half hour to him. Would I feel a sense of defeat or regret for holding my tongue? Would talking about it feel better than not talking about it? Would the words come out in a natural way or would I sound foolish? I ended up telling him about it, but I don't know, I don't think I expressed myself very well and it probably didn't make much sense. In the end I kind of regretted telling him, because I didn't really convey my sense of panic and anxiety. He said in response to my story "well that's how those things go".
But then a week later he brought up events in his past, where strangers treated him just as poorly if not worse. This time I was the one who did not know how to respond. Ultimately, I had successfully conveyed an unpleasant experience to someone else, and they managed, somehow, to understand. Yes, it is incredible how high the exchange rate is for a small conversation at dinner time, that I, had I not heard this following conversation, would have considered the opening of that door to be a loss, a failure, whereas, I imagine, most people would tell someone about their day as a natural course of action, not expecting necessarily anything in return. In fact, it is incredibly unfair to other people that I need such affirmation when I never give any to others.
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