Nothing is scarier to me than making eye contact with strangers and being forced into menial small talk. It is fairly easy with people out walking their dogs. Rider is an asshole who hates other dogs and I can rush him across the street or behind a parked car with a wave and a glance without looking like a squirrel darting up a tree. For those without dogs, I could simply keep my gaze on Rider as though he is the most interesting dog alive (which he is) and pretend to be too engrossed to look up or at my complex mates. Unfortunately, then 45 was elected.
Recently I listened to Jenny Lawson’s “Furiously Happy” as an audiobook from the library and laughed so hard I peed myself (only a little). The laughter triggered an asthma attack, followed by a coughing fit and severe abdominal spasms. Worse yet, during the parts I was operating the vehicle on a mountainess road, in the dark… in the rain, I would be paralyzed and useless with laughter. In this book she opens up about her mental illness, anxiety and trying to navigate the world when every part of you resists and attacks itself into a crippling heap of nothing. There is a scene where she describes being in a financial planners office, curled on the floor screaming she doesn’t want to be an adult. In that moment, she fortified herself and her taxidermy raccoon as my spirit animal (well… them and the cat at my vets office who steals the high fat weight gain food out of other animals kennels and then takes naps).
While most people are aware that I’m socially awkward and prefer the company of dogs to humans, I also live with anxiety and depression. I avoid human interaction because I have fear of saying something accidentally offensive or worse, having something I said used against me later because it was either misinterpreted or intentionally changed in the retelling. When my guard is low and I’m at minimal energy levels, things that do not normally bother me will make me cry. I have had emotional breakdowns for things as trivial as my mom eating my key lime pie filling. At peak levels of control, I behave as neutral and emotionless as a robot. Showing no emotion and wondering if I’ll ever be a real girl, I have on occasion wondered if I actually have any ability to form emotional bonds to living things. Normal people exist somewhere in the middle, but prior to Prozac, I lived only at either end (and maybe most days that is still true).
I do not like being forced to speak and socialize. I am perfectly happy petting my dog, staring off into space, meandering around the apartment complex. Then the moronic Cheeto was elected. My apartment complex is a little United Nations (at least in my mind), and while I have tremendous anxiety about casual conversation, I am significantly more afraid of being lumped in with the bigots and xenophobic. My dog is large and white. My personage is large and white. I have a lot to apologize and more to make up for. Now, I make eye contact. Now, I say hello and discuss the weather. Now, I have to be aware of my resting bitch face. This last one is hard because I’m pretty sure I don’t have one, but Michael asks me what’s wrong 4 times a day, so maybe I have resting sad face? Or resting in pain face? Hard to say. I can only be certain that it is my responsibility to look welcoming and approachable to all nationalities so they don’t think I’m a narrow minded asshole who hates them for lack of a more intelligent outlook on life. The first 6 months I did fairly well… but now I hide.
Every time I need to take Rider outside, I open the blinds to peak outside and check the sidewalk traffic volume. A few of my neighbors smoke which cannot be done near the units, and I have to peer around the building to check for them as well. I’m a nervous wreck every time I walk outside because Rider and I are the ambassadors for non-asshole white folks and we take our job very seriously. Rider lets strangers pet him and children hug him, I assure them that he is nice and it is OK while effortfully smiling and making eye contact to look like a functioning social member of society.
My tribe does not exist in the human world. It exists on Instagram with other people who created a profile for their dogs. Nothing is more comforting than knowing there are a million other people who would rather be their dogs on the Internet. We communicate with a first person narrative from the pets’ perspective, utilizing accepted spelling and grammar modifications that clearly indicate who is speaking. This has made me very aware that if I could go through life speaking to people as Rider, I would be much more successful at socialization. I also wouldn’t hide from my neighbors…. Probably.
You are such a great writer. I’ve been reading things lately by people I suspect are paid to write, and they suck.
Awww…. thank you. ?