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Feb. 3rd, 2002 01:51 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
johnpalmerIf you click ahead, you'll about to read a phobia-based, anxiety ridden livejournal posting. It'll be your choice, and I'll take no responsibility for it.
So, I finally got registered as a member at The Wet Spot, Seattle's "sex positive" meeting place. I also stayed for the pansexual BDSM party that started at nine; I made it for three hours and a little bit more.
It wasn't too bad. The orientation was fine, of course... you're supposed to deal with people in a specific way, in a well-recognized pattern.
The party was a smashing success, as well... only about as painful as donating blood by cutting open a vein in my arm, and cutting a new spot whenever it clotted up. I avoided going into crying jags twice with no serious problems, had only a few moments of incredible anxiety, and managed to, overall, feel only like an out-of-place loser with no redeeming qualities, rather than a poisonous presence the world would be better off without.
You might guess from this that I don't like open social situations where I don't know anyone, and where no one has any vested interest in knowing anything about me. If you guessed this, you'd be right.
I can wander around and put a stupid half-smile on my face that I think makes me look like I'm in control, and about which I'm probably very wrong. I can panic if/when anyone comes near me because when people come near me I panic and lose my speaking ability... and thus, end up "snubbing" them. I can think of things to say, or do, or ask, and realize that unless the conversation continues naturally, I'll have that lovely awkward, panic-inducing silence that makes me want to scream... except, of course, I *CAN'T*. The only thing worse than looking like a complete idiot is stealing people's attention with sympathy-garnering ploys.
Looking like an idiot only makes me feel like my guts are being ripped apart with hot pincers... the fear that I need charity, and sympathy, to succeed at everything I do peoplewise is akin to having my guts ripped out with a mixmaster. (That's US brand name on a mixer, if anyone doesn't know, and just had to understand. The beaters on the mixer are dull, by the way.)
The woman I was negotiating with hasn'tcontacted me back, and I'm ready to go begging for word of what's going on, but I still have some pride - don't ask me why - and I'm willing to wait until Tuesday, when she said she'd call by. Part of me hopes she calls... and part of me would rather just have her not call, so I can write it off, and have it be over. Hell, as I feel too frequently, part of me wishes that there was some wonderful, life-sacrificing way to do something Really Important, so that I could write *EVERYTHING* off, and have it be over.
The other person I was talking to a couple weeks back hasn't responded either... meaning, at least, I *CAN* write that person out of my life, however much it sucks, and that *IS* a relief. It's better than having no way to fix things, and a desire to fix them.
I'm tired of the anxieties. I'm tired of having no idea how to change them. I'm tired of having to think about fighting anymore.
Realistically, I can hope all of this will be better tomorrow, or maybe the day after. I hope so.
But, today, I wanted to write down a reminder of how I felt, to remind myself what I'm fighting against.
And I'm sorry if the things that make it sound permanant were upsetting to people, but while I don't feel that way all the time, I *DO* have to worry about those feelings all the time.
So, I finally got registered as a member at The Wet Spot, Seattle's "sex positive" meeting place. I also stayed for the pansexual BDSM party that started at nine; I made it for three hours and a little bit more.
It wasn't too bad. The orientation was fine, of course... you're supposed to deal with people in a specific way, in a well-recognized pattern.
The party was a smashing success, as well... only about as painful as donating blood by cutting open a vein in my arm, and cutting a new spot whenever it clotted up. I avoided going into crying jags twice with no serious problems, had only a few moments of incredible anxiety, and managed to, overall, feel only like an out-of-place loser with no redeeming qualities, rather than a poisonous presence the world would be better off without.
You might guess from this that I don't like open social situations where I don't know anyone, and where no one has any vested interest in knowing anything about me. If you guessed this, you'd be right.
I can wander around and put a stupid half-smile on my face that I think makes me look like I'm in control, and about which I'm probably very wrong. I can panic if/when anyone comes near me because when people come near me I panic and lose my speaking ability... and thus, end up "snubbing" them. I can think of things to say, or do, or ask, and realize that unless the conversation continues naturally, I'll have that lovely awkward, panic-inducing silence that makes me want to scream... except, of course, I *CAN'T*. The only thing worse than looking like a complete idiot is stealing people's attention with sympathy-garnering ploys.
Looking like an idiot only makes me feel like my guts are being ripped apart with hot pincers... the fear that I need charity, and sympathy, to succeed at everything I do peoplewise is akin to having my guts ripped out with a mixmaster. (That's US brand name on a mixer, if anyone doesn't know, and just had to understand. The beaters on the mixer are dull, by the way.)
The woman I was negotiating with hasn'tcontacted me back, and I'm ready to go begging for word of what's going on, but I still have some pride - don't ask me why - and I'm willing to wait until Tuesday, when she said she'd call by. Part of me hopes she calls... and part of me would rather just have her not call, so I can write it off, and have it be over. Hell, as I feel too frequently, part of me wishes that there was some wonderful, life-sacrificing way to do something Really Important, so that I could write *EVERYTHING* off, and have it be over.
The other person I was talking to a couple weeks back hasn't responded either... meaning, at least, I *CAN* write that person out of my life, however much it sucks, and that *IS* a relief. It's better than having no way to fix things, and a desire to fix them.
I'm tired of the anxieties. I'm tired of having no idea how to change them. I'm tired of having to think about fighting anymore.
Realistically, I can hope all of this will be better tomorrow, or maybe the day after. I hope so.
But, today, I wanted to write down a reminder of how I felt, to remind myself what I'm fighting against.
And I'm sorry if the things that make it sound permanant were upsetting to people, but while I don't feel that way all the time, I *DO* have to worry about those feelings all the time.
