Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 36

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 36

This entry is part 29 of 32 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

Dead Inside

There have been times in my life that I have considered myself to be dead inside. I have been to funerals of loved ones that elicited the same emotional reaction as classes I attended in college—it wasn’t bad or good…just was.

There have also been times when the slightest emotional stimulus ripped me open wide. I could be watching a tender moment in a sitcom and suddenly find my face soaked with tears.

Results of my Mania?

I assume these two opposites to be results of my mania. The strange thing is that when I look back at these examples, and my state of mind at the time, I recall being happy overall in both instances. When I look back at times that my emotional reactions were ‘appropriate’ those moments all seem to be framed in times of great sadness. Does that mean that my emotional baseline—the conditions under which I react the most socially ‘appropriate’—is sadness? That’s a sad thought.

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 36

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 33

This entry is part 26 of 32 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page
I had a heart-rending nightmare one evening that left me broken in the dark for hours after it occurred. This terrible piece of #flashfiction is what it spawned.
 

Brianne stood silently by the table and watched the flame flicker on the wax embodiment of the number fifteen atop the cake. She’d been there well on ten minutes now — vacantly transfixed by the ebb and flow of the tiny light in the middle of the room. She watched, standing straight, arms limp at her sides, head lolled to the right, and completely emotionless.

The cake is beautiful she thought, white icing and all — a very nice gesture from the mother who could not make it home for her birthday. The thought brought a single tear to her eye that left a black mascara tinged trail as it gently streamed down her face. It clung, momentarily, at the bottom of her cheek before dropping to her breast below — In the end, one tear was all it took.

Brianne took the knife from the table and pulled it gently across her throat. The intent was fragile and focused on attention. The effect was resolute and final. She underestimated the sharp bite of the blade and it pulled itself deeper into her flesh than she had ever intended. White icing now red, Brianne slipped into the black.

That is the end of Brianne’s story and nothing that came before this moment or happens after, matters. Her entire existence begins and ends, with one single moment of despair and miscalculation.

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 36

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 18

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

Social Anxiety

My social anxiety is at its most vicious when it is working to build my assumptions of what others think of me. It sees an event on the horizon and immediately takes stock of all the people that might be in attendance. Then it methodically mines the recesses of my memories for any little instance that could be used against me. It could be a text from my brother last week that seemed short or a conversation with my sister from five years ago that did not go the way I wanted it to. Whatever it finds gets blown up and connected in some twisted way, then woven together into a film played on a loop until the day of the event.

 

Don’t Speak

I don’t speak about it to the people I should (or anyone, for that matter) because I am not entirely sure I read the situation correctly, to begin with. Social anxiety twists both the moment and the memory of the moment. If I speak about it and have it wrong the situation only worsens.

It is a terrible place to dwell — inside the dark of one’s mind — with no guide and a malevolent force lurking in the shadows.

 

Faith To Overcome

My faith has made me stronger over the last few years. The darkness isn’t quite as dark. The time I’m in it isn’t quite as long. Still, every once in a while, the anxiety weaves its web and ensnares me.

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 36

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 8

This entry is part 6 of 32 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

I struggle with social anxiety daily. Some days are better than others, but it always there—right below the surface of my forced smile—struggling to strangle me.

It has been there my entire life. It has cost me friendships, stopped me from meeting nice girls, caused me to leave (or avoid) family functions, and played a major role in every social interaction I have ever had.

I took it all in stride and never talked about it with anyone. When I was younger it didn’t have a name and as I got older the sheer embarrassment kept me from speaking about it.

Now it is a problem though. Now I have a fifteen-year-old daughter (who has issues of her own) that I am desperately trying to connect with. That situation is hard in the best of circumstances but the anxiety interferes with how close I can be to her. She always thinks I am angry but I am not. She thinks I don’t find her funny because she tells a joke or acts playful and the fucking anxiety has me focused on a million things other than the moment I am sharing with her. I try to think of ways to spend time with her and the fear of being out in the world always forces me to the old standby—”want to watch a movie sweetie?”

It is not right. It is not okay. It is crippling and I need to find a way to fix it—for her.

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