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A Note on Being Socially Awkward

“Oh, excuse me,” I say to the person I’ve accidentally cut off in the hall leading to the ladies’ room.

“Haha, no problem. The squash at the mall is rough!” I think I hear.

Not wanting to make this crazy talker feel bad, I say, “Well, they can’t all be gems, can they? Haha!” and push past her and her disappeared smile and confused, slightly concerned eyes, and let myself into the bathroom ahead of her.

While I’m in the stall, I realize that she must have said, “Well, this hall is small enough!” and not whatever I thought she said about squash. My response made less sense to her than the squash mall made to me. Another missed connection.

I don’t hear very well, so add that to my momentary panic whenever someone tries to make small talk with me, my mind reeling, trying to force words out so I don’t completely mangle the transaction, and it’s a disaster. I’m starting to accept that I’m going to mangle it anyway, so I try to keep my tone light and hope for the best. I used OKCupid to date people after my divorce, and under What I’m Best At in my profile I said “Making it weird.” And I meant it with all my heart.

I have a lot of wonderful friends who love me very much, but even with them I’m socially awkward enough to make it weird on a daily basis. And it’s not just my hearing loss or loathing of small talk either. At first I didn’t think mental illness played into it at all, but now I’m not so sure. When I’m doing everything I can just to stay alive with the minimum amount of functioning, not to mention summon the courage to be around other humans when I feel like that, polite conversation is the last of my energy priorities.

I might be at a store in the checkout line and the friendly cashier will say something like, “Any big plans for the weekend?”

Dear god, that question. I hate that question.

My first instinct is to lie, desiring to be someone who does things on a weekend like normal people. It sounds something like this: “Oh yeah! We’re going paddle boarding at the lake. Standing paddle boarding. With Martha Stewart. She’s buying us beer. Then we’re all going off roading in her Jeep. In the mud. I’m very excited.”

My next instinct is the honest one. Let’s not waste time being polite, let’s just tell it like it is. It sounds like this: “Yeah. Big plans to not put pants on or shower or brush my teeth for two days. Just kidding it’s already been a month. I’ll probably lie in my bed sideways and watch The Office reruns for thirty hours while eating these four bags of dill pickle chips and wiping my hands on the dog. What will you be up to?”

There’s the third response and it’s one I call The Best I Can Do. It goes like this: “Is it the weekend? What day is it? Can you just… I’ve got to get home. Because…I have to.” and then I start to cry as I avoid eye contact while o wait for the cashier to finish scanning my items, imagining them judging me for buying dill pickle chips in bulk along with tampons and one single celery stalk.

No matter which choice I go with, I make it weird. The cashier, or whomever I’m talking to will give me a blank, confused, or pitying look. And that’s just the way it is. At one point in my life while working customer service, I learned to have a separate customer service personality. I was charming, helpful, funny, cheerful, and I could do it as long as I was getting paid for it. Afterward I didn’t want to talk at all. To anyone. About anything.

This feeling is the inspiration for my “today is a no talking day” sticker. I feel like that so many times when I am too busy fighting my own brain to have energy for conversation or even responses to simple questions. It costs me a lot of myself to survive depression, anxiety, bipolar, and type 1 diabetes. It would be nice to be able to enjoy being social instead of feeling like it’s an obstacle or a puzzle that’s too difficult for me to figure out most of the time. At least I also don’t have enough energy to care what these strangers think of me and my awkwardness. That’s an asset, especially when I know I’m doing the best I can. It’s an asset too when I’m writing a blog that talks about things that no one wants to talk about. I don’t care what you think of me because I know that there’s someone out there who will read this and not feel so alone anymore.

Weirdos, unite.

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In the Moment

I wake up early. I never used to, but, and I guess I’ll blame age, now I wake up at around 5:00am every day, no matter what time I go to bed. This morning I was an overachiever and woke up at 4:30 feeling fully rested and ready to start the day. We are vacationing at the beach right now, and when I got up early I realized that the ocean also gets up early while the seagulls sleep in.

Time to go to the beach.

Despite the inclement weather and the fog and the inability to see the sunrise, the ocean was beautiful. The waves rumbled and crashed against the shore, the fog blurred the horizon, the low tide painted the sand with rivulets still streaming with salt water, and there were seashells everywhere. No one had come to pick them over yet and I decided to collect them.

I hesitated, though, before walking out to the surf, and tried to pinpoint why. The ocean is larger and more powerful than anything else my brain can imagine. When I’m not face to face with it, I can’t even imagine the depth of its power – one wrong move, all alone on the beach, and I could be erased. I took that in before deciding to carefully begin my shell hunt and getting lost in the moment.

Except I hesitated again because the first shell I found still had a creature in it, and that was more terrifying than somehow getting sucked into the ocean. To my credit, I did not scream, and I fully own that I am a wuss. But I began finding shell after shell.

Former homes of unknown animals peeked out from under the sand, and I rushed over to dig them up. The more I walked the more numerous they became and I got better at spotting them. The only thing I could hear was the waves, the only thing I thought about was spotting shells, the only thing I felt was happiness. I was so wrapped up in my activity that I even got physically lost, which is hard to do when you’re walking in a straight line. I was one hundred percent in that moment.

With anxiety and other mental illnesses, it’s hard to lose yourself in a moment. There’s always that part of us that is screaming, demanding our energy and attention or even altering our perception of the world so that we can never be fully present in any given moment. Even in the important ones, and it’s a big burden to carry.

This beach moment wasn’t a ceremonial rite, or a significant event in my life, but it was important to me because for that small piece of time, the negative messages paused, the gnawing worry dissipated, the weight of depression lifted. I didn’t want to hurt myself, and I didn’t want to go back to bed. I got a break from all of that. It’s even held off a little since then.

If you can’t find an ocean today, I hope you can find a moment where you get a break. I hope you can lose yourself, even if only for a few seconds, in something that brings you joy. If you can’t, just remember that you’re not alone. I’m over here in your corner, cheering for you.

Remember – you woke up today! You are a badass!