I call myself crazy so that when others do it might not hurt as bad.

I sit in my car staring at the door. I wonder if I wait long enough if someone will open the door to leave the store. If I see them head for the door I can jump out of the car quickly and make it to the door before it closes.  I can catch the corner of it with my foot so that I won’t have to touch it. Here we go! A car pulls into the parking spot next to me. I wait until the driver opens his door and then I do the same. I walk just a little slower than him so that he makes it to the door before I do. I watch as he grabs the door handle and pulls it open without thinking about it, without hesitation. The idea of touching that door handle with my bare hands disgusts me. Walking into a store behind a man or entering a store as a man is leaving has its benefits. There’s about a 50% chance that he will hold the door open for me. I’m guessing it’s because I’m a woman and I often make a point to make eye contact with the person touching the door and smile at them; this often leads to me not having to touch the door at all which is a great relief.

I thank the man for holding the door for me with a smile. As he heads for the snack aisle I wonder if he will wash his hands before he eats. The answer is generally no. I see people touch door handles, gas pumps, counters, anything in public and then they touch their face, rub their mouth, or open a bag of chips and pop them into their mouth with dirty hands. It disgusts me. It freaks me out. It terrifies me. How can they do that? How can they do that with dirty hands?

This depression is really destroying me. The parts of me still standing are being torn apart by the anxiety and OCD. I've never felt this level of sadness and hopelessness before. Maybe I have, years ago. But right now, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to break out of it. I feel so alone and lost. I have no one to talk to. The one person I used to talk to is now wrapped up with a new relationship. Which I have to understand because I'm a grown woman who should be able to take care of herself. But I'm not strong enough to. I'm not strong enough to fight this on my own. I don't know what to do.

“When a man gives his opinion, he's a man. When a woman gives her opinion, she's a bitch.” ― Bette Davis

“No woman really wants a man to carry her off; she only wants him to want to do it.” ― Elizabeth Peters

“Why are women... so much more interesting to men than men are to women?” ― Virginia Woolf

“Well, it seems to me that the best relationships - the ones that last - are frequently the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before. Like a switch has been flicked somewhere. And the person who was just a friend is... suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with.” ― Gillian Anderson

“Better to be strong than pretty and useless.” ― Lilith Saintcrow, Strange Angels

Thoughts on thoughts....... Here are my thoughts tonight. How have I become this person? How have I become so overwhelmed with anxiety, panic, sadness? I am tired of feeling this way. I'm not sure how to change that. How do I battle it? I just don't know. I also wonder how people view me. My motto is to not care about what people think about me. I try not to let what people think of me bother me. What has me thinking this? Why my brother of course. Again, my brother introduced me as mean. Several times when he introduced me to strangers he called me vindictive, manipulative, evil, and mean. I don't understand this. I am typically a nice person but I can be a smart ass and I can pick on people. But everyone does that. But anyway, it got me wondering how people view me. I suppose I can see a resemblance between me and the Gail character on Rookie Blue. I am sarcastic, quick to speak before I think sometimes, and I can be a bit cold at times. Life has caused me to become this way. The hard times, the sad times, the difficult times have hardened me I suppose. I just wonder if I am mean, vindictive, or rude. Will this hold me back from forming meaningful relationships?

OCD

Having OCD sucks. It might cause me to wash my hands seven times in a row or click the pen in even numbers. It's a constant procession of repeated thoughts, worries, and fears. It's a knotted feeling in the center of the chest that flutters, shakes, and expands sparking a panic attack. Hyperventilating between sobs, tunnel vision, weakness, and the overpowering thoughts that threaten to rip you apart.

What if....

So, I typically only think about this specific "what if" when I am feeling particularly down on myself or feeling like life is passing me by and I am never going to accomplish what I want. I think about this because when I was a kid I wanted to be an actress and as I grow older I still find that I love the idea of it. When I was 13 or so I was in the local Albertson's grocery store with my mom. I was messing with my mom, picking on her, laughing, smiling, happy. A woman approached us and said that I had something special about me and asked me to go to an audition at her modeling company. Crazy, right? I think about the what if's. What if I had gone and that would be my "discovery story". Would I be happy now? Would I have made money? Would I have not had to go through some of the horrible things I went through? I try to comfort myself by thinking about what happened that year. My mom passed less than a year after that day. I would probably have missed out on that little time I had with her, I probably wouldn't have become so close with my sister, and I probably wouldn't have formed the relationships that I hope will be lasting friendships. But it makes me sad to think about what could have been. Is that my only special moment? Was I supposed to not go to that audition? Will anyone ever think I am special again? I think back to the things I would have missed out on if I had become something to do with that agency. I had meaningful, loving moments with my mother, bonded with one of the coolest people I knew, had some laughs in between sobs, discovered my sister is my ultimate protector, had a defining moment in high school that I’m sure the person doesn’t remember. Right after my mom died and I returned to school, my bookbag broke in the middle of the hallway. I was a 14 year old freshman who was always picked on. I barely held it together as I picked up my belongings. I carried an armload of stuff to my math class. I was being bullied in that class by a guy but that’s another story. I had one friend in that class from middle school. We weren’t very close but I thought he was awesome. Anyway, at the end of class he carried my books for me. I know this seems so silly or insignificant but in those days after losing my mom and the sea of forced and faked sympathy, here was this person showing me that humanity existed. That someone was capable of being nice to me and making that day a little more bearable. In my early twenties I began working at the library. A place that has always and will always be special to me. I thought it was a job but I got so much more out of it. I realized I am stronger than I think, I met some really amazing people who somehow managed to bring me out of my shell, I met someone who made me feel a little normal which was a huge feat, and I learned that having a friend meant they would tell someone they were a jerk for hurting my feelings and that they needed to apologize. And I found a best friend in the unlikeliest place. It is no secret that I do not trust people especially men. Yet my best friend was a man. I credit him with restoring a little faith in mankind. He showed me that it was possible for me to trust a man and that it just might be worth it to take a chance on them every once in a while because they could turn out to be awesome. I appreciate his kindness and generosity although he likes to think it doesn’t exist. Though I still have those what ifs that torture me and threaten to rip me apart, I try to see the good moments. I think I’m more regretful of the pain I went through over the years. The disappointment, the betrayal, the moments that I wish I hadn’t had to deal with. The bitterness that has taken over the once happy girl, the negativity that refuses to let me go. That is perhaps, what I really regret.

No more telling secrets

So for the first time in my 25 years I told someone that I liked them. I told him because it had been a number of years and I needed to express it. I realized that I needed to say how I felt because I couldn't go another six years with a not so secret crush on him. The reality of the situation is that I do kind of wish I would have kept it a secret or at least an unspoken truth. The truth is the truth hurts. Rejection hurts. The thing is he hasn't exactly rejected me which is far worse. His actions tell me that he isn't interested but his words say nothing. Therefore I am left to my own list of reasons why he isn't interested. It would be far more humane for him to just tell me the truth. Just tell me he's not interested. He doesn't even really need to give me reasons, just an answer would be nice.

I have learned from this experience that I never want to admit my true feelings to anyone ever again.