Moving On/Out/Away

After three years of working in retail hell, I've finally landed a job that doesn't require me to deal with hundreds of people per day in a messy, chaotic environment. Most of my interactions with the public will be limited to the phone instead, and probably won't compel me to keep at least two bottles of hand sanitizer within reach at all times. It's a major change for the better, and I can't help but be just as terrified as I am excited to leave. The promise of working alongside one of my best friends offers some solace from the fear that this wonderful development is nothing more than a cruel joke, but one key question still remains     what if I'm just not good enough? Not clever enough? Not 'normal' enough?

All right, three questions. Still..

With one more day left at my old job, I find myself wondering what it'll be like to start from scratch in a new place again. My earliest experiences in retail were very uncomfortable, to the point of  making me feel like an awkward and unwelcome outsider. The only positive thing I can really draw from working there was the unexpected benefit of learning how to deal with the general public, as well as getting some sort of exposure therapy in the process. I'm not as socially anxious as I once was and I'm gradually learning how to connect with people on something deeper than a superficial level.

This new job represents more than just better pay and a better environment, though. So much hinges on having the means to support myself, not only financially but also emotionally. This is the first big step in the right direction, towards having a life that isn't overwhelming at every turn.

Contentment(?)

Recent events have lifted my mood over the past few days, bringing forth something entirely unfamiliar; something close to genuine happiness. Though, living in an obscenely over-cluttered house has still managed to taint everything with a sense of being stuck regardless of how hard I try to make progress. I still feel as though the process has been too slow. Getting to the point of feeling comfortable in a social setting after a lifetime of social anxiety or getting a much better job are things I feel I should've been able to do years ago. Nonetheless, I should feel happy about accomplishing them anyway, shouldn't I?

Being surrounded by piles of old newspapers and mail while being able to hear mice gnawing away at the walls always has a way of overshadowing anything positive that might happen. When facing a difficult situation such as living in an unfavorable environment, can one ever truly know what it feels like to be content?

Connection

Until recently, I firmly held onto the belief that erring on the side of being too aloof in social situations was better than putting myself out there and coming off as overbearing. The fear of being seen as annoying or unlikeable often made me avoid anything that involved more than two people. It made me dread work and parties of any kind, and it still does, but I've realized there's the possibility that I just haven't had enough exposure to socializing with the right kind of people. People that are actually mature, genuine and accepting.

"Normal"

Everyone has a different interpretation of what 'normal' is. At its most basic, the meaning of having a normal life would include having a safe place to live, enough food to eat and little to no concern about the possibility of facing injury or death as a result of one's evironment. I do not have a normal life.

In my life, things happen that most people wouldn't even be able to make up if they tried. For example, as unsurprising as it is that the hoard has also taken over my mother's car, the way this affects everything else is unfathomable. She can't park anywhere near the front door of a restaurant, store or relative's house because someone might see what a humiliating state the car is in. She recently spent twenty minutes trying to decide where to park, as well as think of a cover story to explain why we parked so far from where we had agreed to meet my friend and her mother. Thinking of the perfect lie to hide the embarrassing truth is her version of 'normal'.

Obsessive-Compulsive Explosive Depression

Living in a house filled beyond its capacity with useless crap isn't just difficult for someone that's dealt with OCD for the majority of their life. To put it lightly, it's traumatic. There are triggers everywhere and no 'safe' place to go to, which means I tend to deal with the issue by not dealing with it at all. All the anxiety, frustration and anger gets bottled up until something finally sends me over the edge, and being set off turns me into some sort of wild animal that screams and curses a lot.

Part of me feels completely justified in being angry that there are mice leaving little 'presents' on my furniture, while somewhere else there's a nagging feeling that maybe I'm making a big fuss over nothing. That self doubt permeates absolutely every thought I have, it minimizes things that I know are too serious to keep ignoring. It tells me things are just fine the way they are, and that I'm just being selfish for ever feeling otherwise.

Self-Diagnosis

Being intensely interested in psychology as a future career path lends a unique point of view when it comes to having depression, rather than being the one treating someone else with depression. It's easy to come to a conclusion and suddenly think 'Oh god, am I bipolar? Narcissistic? Autistic?' At one point I thought I had been all of those, and it was only with thorough research and therapy that I realized it wasn't the least bit true. Self-hatred and paranoia probably led me to believe it, because I do tend to assume the worst and constantly feel as though there's something horribly wrong with me.

I've also learned over the last ten months that being diagnosed with any kind of mental disorder doesn't automatically mean anyone's a bad person, or weak, or that they don't have their shit together. It varies, and knowing that makes getting out of a depressive rut seem a little bit easier because I know it doesn't define who I am. My circumstances and childhood influences may have fucked me up, but who I am isn't fucked up.

On Self-Worth

In the last ten months since beginning therapy, my opinion on several things concerning myself has been questioned and even reconsidered. Am I really as unintelligent, ugly, or annoying as I feel I am? I've been told the opposite on different occasions, and yet my own opinion of myself has stubbornly remained the same.

Through a lot (and I mean a LOT) of introspection, I've come to realize that my understanding of self worth is very skewed, and tied directly to feelings of depression rather than some immediate outside source. Regardless of how often someone tells me their opinion is very opposite from my own, I still loathe myself deeply. It ebbs and flows with the depression, worsening when I'm feeling at my lowest. Yet even on good days it's still there, just not so overwhelming to the point that I begin to question the point of my own existence. I often wonder what's preventing me from moving on from this, which has undoubtedly held me back from achieving all the things I'd like to eventually accomplish. It causes me to fall into old patterns of self-sabotage, and what's worrying is that I'm still comfortable in that state. It's familiar in all its dark doom and gloom, like an old sweater that I just can't bear to throw away for some inexplicable reason.