But the truth is, that simple statement opens up a can of cluster fuck. You see, with few exceptions, my ventures into the outside world of social interaction is a three step process that ultimately ends in disaster, and I'll tell you why.
Step 1: Introvert Psych Up
I make no secret that I'm an introvert, and anyone who has been around me for more than five minutes knows this about me. As an introvert, I have a finite amount of energy. When my energy reserves are maxed out, I can be the charming, funny guy with a rapier wit that you all know and love. To achieve this state, I need to spend a good amount of time building myself up, telling myself how nice it will be to hang out with folks. Depending on my mood and what has been going on, it can take hours to days for this to happen.
But once I venture forth, being around other people quickly taps into those reserves. Give it enough time, and I become a grumpy, grouchy, cantankerous bastard who will quite literally try to chew your head off. And worse still, energy that has been lost in mere hours takes days or sometimes weeks to replenish itself.
So generally, I find myself hesitant to make the effort, since it feels like I lose more than I gain.
Step 2: Bridge Troll Disappointment
For whatever reason, I seem to have a difficult time making new friends or interacting with people out in public. I don't know what it is about me, but I quickly find myself feeling like an outcast. An almost tangible bubble forms around me, encouraging people to avoid reaching out with me.
For example, a few nights ago, my roommate bullied me into going out to karaoke with her and some of her friends. I was reluctant, because I could already tell what my night would be like, but she's persistent and has a heart darker than the deepest pit of Hell; Maleficent flinches and avoids meeting her eyes whenever they happen to pass each other in her castle.
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| "Please don't hurt me!" |
Once we arrived, I quickly found myself... by myself. Oh, the roommate was standing right next me, but she might has well have been miles away. The was a sizable number of people attending. Everyone had their own groups of friends to chat and drink and sing with. The roommate had her friends as well. And I had no one. So in no time flat, I became what I hate the most: the awkward wall flower with his face glued to his phone in a vain attempt to appear nonchalant rather than simply sad.
The few attempts to chat up random npc's was meet with polite disinterest; I wasn't part of their circle, and thus I might as well not exist. I leaned back against my table and watched as people laughed and danced. Couples held each others hands and made out on what passed as a dance floor while one by one, karaoke singers took turns at the mic.
To be fair, the roommate tried to pry herself away from her clique long enough to chat, but I think it was a wasted effort overall.
I was outcast. Not unlike a troll, I watched the peoples have a good time while I huddled in the shadows of my bridge, close enough to touch but also a billion miles away. It's a burden I've had to deal with for as long as I can remember when it comes to parties and any other social event.
I never feel as alone as I do when I everyone around me is having a good time, and I have nothing but my phone to keep me company. Much to my shame, a sense of bitter resentment wells up in me every time I find myself in that uncomfortable situation. Which leads me to...
Step 3: Bitter Resentment
That little adventure was on Thursday, and we were there for perhaps four hours. It is now Sunday, three days later, and I'm still grumpy and not a little depressed. That bitter resentment is still there, like a bad after- taste in my mouth. No matter what I use to wash it away-- video games, movies, books-- it still lingers, like a taco fart in an unventilated bathroom.
The thing that really bugs me is that it makes no sense. I'm a decent looking, intelligent, funny guy. I'm not awkward in anyway that I can perceive. I even try to shower every once and a while. And yet I might has well be wearing a sign that says "don't talk to me."
Even worse is when I'm reminded of how alone I am on the relationship front. A week and a half ago, I went to see Lindsey Stirling live in Seattle, something I had been looking forward to for months. And yet, when I arrived, I was once again faced with the awful realization that I'm alone. I took my seat and discovered, much to my chagrin, that I was literally surrounded by couples. Front, back, and to each side, it was date night.
If that wasn't awkward and depressing enough, one of the couples turned to me and asked, "Why are you here by yourself? Surely a good-looking man like yourself should have a lady on your arm."
Gee, thanks for making me feel even worse.
'Because I'm going to die alone,' I thought to myself as I plastered a fake smile on my face and said out loud, "I couldn't find anyone who was free for the evening."
At least the concert itself was amazing.
Now I find myself trapped in a weird rock and a hard place situation. If I stay in, I get lonely and depressed. If I go out, I get lonely and depressed. And from what I can tell, there isn't much of a plan C. My attempts at meeting new people and making new friends always seems to crash and burn like the Hindenburg disaster, leaving me with mounting frustration along with that bitter resentment I mentioned earlier.
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| Gaze upon my social life and despair |
