Confidence

I often imagine (and hope, during darker days) what it would be like if a confidence-boosting drug came onto the market. It would almost certainly lead to the downfall of the current society but, for diffident creatures like me, it would at least be a welcome ray of light. Incidentally (and be aware that anything I write is never planned, hence the next sentence), I suppose you could argue alcohol, cocaine, heroine and a whole host of other drugs are actually confidence-boosters in themselves. Interesting.

Anyway, onto my point. On the bus this morning, which annoyingly is becoming even more crowded, I stood at the back near the doors. I'm walking more these days in a vain effort to negate the amount I smoke, so stood near the doors at the back to make my escape. In front of me was one of earth's beauties; she was so perfectly structured that I almost felt sorry for her, given how many stares and lures she must receive each day.

I'm nothing if not a contradiction to my own morals, and soon became her first lechering loser of the day. Given our proximity (she was standing the other side of the glass by the door) eye contact was inevitable, and sure enough it happened. That delicious moment, lasting just four seconds or so, when you wonder "Is she looking? Is she? Oh God, I'm looking back. Hang on, she's still looking…yep, and so am I. Oh when will it end, this is too embarassing for words" and it ends. When it ended, a delicate smile creased her face and thereafter she wanted to play. My hand was cemented to the yellow barrier (London bus drivers have a habit of assuming they're Mad Max), and hers soon parked itself an inch or so below mine. Glancing over at me, smiling, my day suddenly got better.

It's not often I knowingly get smiled at by a creature so weepingly stunning. So what happened? Nothing.

I got off my bus and went to work, and am now writing about another missed opportunity on a weblog.

Welcome to 2006. 

I survived. Just

Well, what an evening it was. I survived; I didn't die; I didn't faint, vomit, run or crawl on the floor. I ended the evening in a state of near total drunkedness which was excellent, but which perhaps masks my progress. Was it really that I coped, or was it that I got so drunk that my inhibitions were rendered a distant memory?

Whatever. Regardless of the alcohol, I did it. I did it and I arrived home worse for wear but very happy. How pathetic! How weak it is that I should feel such elation on overcoming a situation which most people (everyone?) adore to be in. Nevertheless, I'm convinced I'm not alone in fearing social situations and I'm also equally determined not only to overcome it, but to help others one day. I pray that I can do this as soon as possible.

Annoyingly and somewhat predictably, the confidence and spirit gained from the Good Evening has begun to diminish slightly. I'm still, quite clearly, being tested at work and I just feel they're not very happy with my work. There is a look in their eyes which says "Yes, but…COME ON, do better, do MORE" and I'm still struggling to really be on top of my work.

Worst of all, I was told on the Good Evening how good I am and how much potential I have. Now, this was excellent news to hear and I was a touch relieved, too – but my brain being what it is turned the good news into a long, dark hallway full of closed doors. When I sit down quietly and give myself five minutes, I'm just about able to see that "Hey! It's a job. It isn't your life. You're doing it to earn money in order to live. You're doing it to develop your career which, in turn will open up more opportunities" but it's a fleeting, momentary thought which can't stifle the butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

Confidence is a dreadfully complex notion. It's utterly false in many ways; a figment of our imagination. What is confidence? It's my belief that we're born a clean slate. Unless something happens to affect our ability to function, we will retain the same level of confidence throughout our lives. And from what I can gather from my friends and people I work with, they're blessed with the same exhuberance with which they displayed when they were throwing sweets and coke at eachother at their five-year-old party. Like I did. Like we all did.

Somehow, and I don't know when or why, I lost this ability to be me and to be loud and stupid and whatever. Part of me wonders it's my rebellious streak, my anti-establishment view on society and life and things. I just find some people are so comformist, routinal; bland, rigid and samey. Worst of all, I wish I was like them.

Jealous of their normality

The following phrase or situation has troubled be this past two weeks:

I am popular and well-liked. People want to go out with me and see me at parties. It's expected that Oops will be there. Yet I refuse to go. I want to be popular, yet I am my own worst enemy. I just feel completely, overwhelmingly inadequate.

So, broefly, that's my problem. Tomorrow night I have to go out with people from work and it's rather like someone has asked me to scale a bridge, with no harness, with butter on my feet with one hand tied behind my back. It is, genuinely, that frightening a situation and has consumed my waking moment for a month. My chest this morning was so tight, I thought I was having another attack (I wasn't, thank God). So sitting here, on the cusp of this self-made nightmare (which isn't even a nightmare; even I acknowledge that it's my own problem) I'm writing it all down to make sense of it.

I've even begun phantom-phoning (pretending to be on the phone in public! Yes! I do that! It makes me feel less lonely and stops people from looking at me, or so I think!).

Anyway The Doctor might be sorting me out with some pills or something soon. And as hard as I'm finding life these days, I had a flittering moment of awakening today when I dreamed of converting the nightmare into something positive. The people I have yet to get to know properly at work (most), for example, can become tomorrow's targets. I will try to speack to them and get to know them, and show them that yes I'm quite a quiet person but I'm by no means a freak. If only I could stop going bright red whenever I have to talk to someone. Blushing is the cancer of western society; our gluttonous, "feed me" lifestyles make us so pathetically self-conscious.

I wouldn't even care how my face looked if only people didn't care. You can tell that they think you're weird, or flushed, or sunburnt, or painfully red but you're powerless to change it. So I'm just praying tomorrow will, somehow, go smoothly; that people can realise not everyone is confident, cocky and bullish. Not everyone has had an easy childhood, a sex-filled teenage existence of drugs and sperm cocktails and broken love; of natural progression from schools, to uni. Nope. Not everyone is like you. Some of us have had it tougher – maybe, even, someone of us were born different and born shy.

Most of all, I just want my Father back. He like me would have laughed at these idiots (and at me, crucially) and all would be well again. No matter. It's just very sad to think how consumed I have become by myself that I can't appreciate how much pain he went through. WHAT AM I EVEN WORRYING MYSELF ABOUT?

I might write up tomorrow evening at the weekend, assuming I don't top myself in the morning. 

Low as can be

I've reached a horrible, sickly low point again. Thankfully it's the lowest for years – not a regular thing. But nevertheless, depression has a habit of tricking you into thinking you're absolutely fine – until you're not. Worse still, I think the people I work with are kind of giving up on me. Several times in the recent past, I've chosen to go out with my "real" friends – those who have known me for a long time, and who I regard as almost part of my family – instead of people from work who, on the whole, I detest.

But tomorrow I have to do a work thing, and laughably, it's that which has me in this pit of depression. I clearly have some sort of social phobia – all the more weird, considering I'm actually quite a popular and likeable sort of person. Doubly weird is I can see my old friends without concern, enjoy a nice evening and do whatever I like. But put me in a situation I'm not comfortable in, and the world swallows me up.

It's a bit like being asked to jump off a cliff without a parachute. It seems that impossible, that painful. And what makes matters worse is the work people are so disgustingly normal and social. Don't they have friends and family to go and see? I do. Don't they like seeing non-work-people? Don't they get sick of talking about bullshit all day long? I do.

The event isn't making me depressed, of course..I'm "just" depressed, and bizarrely it's quite comforting. It's a bit like a blanket; it's familiar, cosily alone with my problems, all wrapped up and messed up.

Worryingly, I have no idea where this could go. I'm on the cusp. I could slip disasterously, very quickly – I've already lost a stone in weight in 6 weeks as I can't eat. So interesting days and times are ahead.

Worst of all, I've remembered just how bad it is being this low. I was like this all the time, for several years. That I managed to escape it was brilliant, and I need to loosen its grip again this time. However it's just reminded me that, like an alcoholic, you're depressed for life not just for Christmas.