Mad

I'm mad. I'm mad at the woman who posts about how much her anxiety affects her, and then posts pictures of herself out to eat with friends, going to fancy parties, and how her dates went. Because as much as I've busted my butt to go outside my comfort zone, I can't do those things. Don't get me wrong, I'm worlds better than I was. I bought season tickets to the local theater, and I go alone. I can go to Target by myself, and not feel judged. I can talk to a stranger without thinking about it. But I can't get dressed up and go to a cocktail party alone. I can't find a fun meetup to go to, because I have no hobbies, and the ones I have seem populated by people outside my target. I can't go on a million dates, because my anxiety makes it hard to find people TO date. But more than mad, I'm sad for the lost years of social interaction. Sad for missed chances, lost meetings, forgone escapes.

I'm mad at the woman on YouTube, who uses amazing makeup skills to hide her insecurities, to feel more confident in herself, and the way she is perceived. Because despite watching a dozen YouTube tutorials, and buying every product they talk about, and doing exactly as they say, I'm not magically transformed as they are. I don't ever feel confident, or good, or decent, about my appearance. I long for a time where I go to work feeling like "I look nice today!" Like my skin will magically heal. Like my looks will magically change into someone pretty. And confident. And accepted. But more than mad, I'm sad that I can't do what those women do. That I don't have those skills. The skills to accept myself as I am, and trust others to do so as well.

 I'm mad at the woman who talks about how crippling her ocd can be, and then talks about how she gets through it with the helps of her loving husband and kids. Because I don't have that. Because when other kids talked about the careers they would achieve when they grew up, I longed to be a mom. To be a wife. To have a family. Even going into college, there was never a long term career plan. The plan was to do the job until I found the husband, had the baby, and doted on my child while letting my career drift away into oblivion.  But I don't have that. I'm 30, and I have no prospect of that. But mostly, I'm sad. I'm sad that I've reached a point where I don't believe I will ever have a boyfriend, a husband, a baby. And there's not much I can do about that. And it's infuriating, and depressing, and it's life. It's my life. Because no matter how far I've come, how much I've accomplished, my anxiety and ocd define me. And that sucks.