Lonely in My Shell

I love my home. It isn’t fancy: built in the 1960’s, it hasn’t had many updates, and none since the late 90’s. We don’t own the house, but rent it for an incredibly cheap amount considering that it comes with a large shed, fenced backyard, and small garage.

It is a three bedroom, one bathroom, one floor little home, with slanted ceilings and laminate wood floors. There is that cheap, beige carpet, that seems ubiquitous in rentals, in the bedrooms. The bathroom is so small it may as well be a closet, with cracked tiles and the tiniest sink area.

The fiancé and I each use one of the bedrooms as a private office/dressing area, to store all our clothing and the accruement of our hobbies (bin upon bin of comics for me, and records for him, as well as a plethora of books for the both of us). The third room is our bedroom, and hold only the bed and side tables. I’m a firm believer that where you sleep should be for that activity only, and nothing else.

Suffice it to say, as an introvert by nature and someone who is probably clinically depressed, or at least bowing under the weight of anxiety, my home is my shell. It is my comfort, and the only place I ever truly feel okay. I like to have friends visit, but not really, okay not at all, I can’t stand it and constantly apologize that my home doesn’t look like Martha Stewart puked all over the place. I hate the affront it is; to pierce my stronghold leaves me defenseless and defensive. To know that others smell the odor of 2 cats and 3 dogs, and probably judge me.

I venture out, but not as often anymore. Bars are tedious, and I can get just as happily drunk at home (and for much less money) as I can out and about. Being around that crowd of people depresses me. It’s fine when it’s before 2am (on the weekend), and you’re at a nicer bar having a delicious drink and you feel fuzzy and bright and not like a dumb idiot. It’s a totally other thing when you decide to keep going, hit the local dive bar, and leave at 5am feeling like that dumb idiot you swore previously you weren’t.

I wish I knew how to socialize properly. Once upon a time, when I was younger (as though I’m ancient now), I was quite good at interacting with others. Now I struggle just to make sustained eye contact. Bar friends are easy. You buy a few rounds, are egregious yet gregarious , and no one wants to know or care that when you are alone you could scream from the intense panic inside that is slowly curdling you into paste.

I love my home, but it is also my prison. I have Netflix, and cats and dogs, and wifi. I can purchase a mediocre bottle of wine or 6 pack of beer at the gas station just a block away, flip open my MacBook, and have an excellent night. If by “excellent” one means “sad, lonely, and mostly boring.”

I want more, but don’t know how to go about it. I know only I can fix all these issues. Yet I have no clue how to go about it. So, for now, when you want me you can find me curled up in my shell, hiding from the world.