I’m writing this post to stop myself from making vegan cherry ice cream at 9 o’clock in the morning. I froze all the ingredients yesterday around noon, hoping they’d be ready by the evening, but they weren’t, so I’m making it today. The reason I am distracting myself with writing is because I don’t want to be a cliché. I want to eat that ice cream in joy, not in sadness. My neighbours probably don’t want to hear my really loud food processor this early, either.
Usually, a little isolation is exactly what an introvert needs; however, we still like seeing our friends. I was supposed to attend a potluck yesterday, which my friend holds monthly, but as time grew closer, I freaked out. I didn’t know how many unknown people would be there. I didn’t know if there would be anything I could eat (I’m vegan and have some really strange allergies). I wasn’t confident in my own culinary skills (I made a huge batch of dip from chickpeas, black beans, garlic, lemon juice, salsa and a hint of mustard, but I don’t think the beans soaked long enough, so it didn’t have a great texture). I let my friend know I might not be coming.
She completely understands introversion, and even offered that I could come without bringing a dish (since I also cited my lack of faith in what I was creating). Why didn’t I go? Logically, that back yard can only hold so many people. Logically, I know a lot of her friends, and they are nice. Logically, given the demographics of our city and her friend base, there must be other people bringing items that I would be more than happy to eat.
Unfortunately, logic goes out the window when I start to get an introversion-related anxiety attack. I forced myself to shower, and to prepare the food I had set aside that morning, but I never made it back out of the pajamas I wear around my house, and the weird dip is in my fridge (I was hoping an overnight to sit would help it out; I also need so purchase some tortilla chips with which to eat it).
I didn’t want to sit in the guilt of not attending the event my friend lovingly invited me to, so I continued to binge through episodes of the fourth season of “Pretty Little Liars” on Netflix. I worried about their much more serious problems for a while, but this reflection only serves to down play what I was experiencing. Their problems are fictitious, whereas mine are real.
I feel angry at myself for not making it out of my pajamas. I feel angry that I didn’t go purchase a back up plan of an offering and attend the potluck, or that I didn’t accept the invitation to just bring myself.
And now I feel alone. I sure felt it last night, after I decided I’d had my fill in Rosewood. I felt it while eating the sushi I ordered to replace my meal plans for the evening. I felt it when I turned in for the night, not even 11 o’clock. Sure, I’d done some productive things that morning, but those activities were followed by eleven episodes of fiction about friends who always stick together.
I feel guilty that I am the only one to blame for being alone. As much as I value alone time, and conversations in small groups, sometimes it can be too much, especially when I am feeling the guilt of not being somewhere I had wanted to be, or not doing something I want to do. I didn’t write at all yesterday and beyond resting, writing was the second reason I wanted a week off work. I feel like I am wasting my time, wasting my potential, and that I might as well have just worked because then I would at least have had some use.
I hadn’t planned this topic for the series, but I am glad that I was able to identify that it was happening and get the words out. I’m sorry for all the social gatherings I miss. I’m sorry that my anxiety sometimes makes me feel powerless. I am sorry that I fear that I am unable to find balance between resting and laziness. I’m sorry that I am alone right now.