My parents feel that my social anxiety is a product of the way I was raised and by the people that are around me. I recently have been seeing a psychologist to “rid me of my social anxieties,” which I understand that to them that I have social anxiety even though I know that is far from the case. So Mr. James Orandaz, the psychologist, has suggested that once a week every week, I am to write down what I am feeling and any events that have happened that feel important in any way, unless said events happen in a row then I am free to write as much as I feel needed to relay the issue. So I will begin on the journey that is my life.

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October 10th

It seemed as if my thoughts were only capable for me to hear, from past arguments to future memories to come, I thought alone. While the kids from time to time would walk past me over to their friend’s desks to talk about the days fleeting happenings, whether big or small. But I was alone.

I have not the slightest clue when was the first time that I started to feel this way but it fits how I live my life, socially and personally. There are only two things that I truly care for and they are my books and my drawings. I read whatever I can bring into my immediate focus to distract myself from the dark, unnerving outside world that encapsulate and confuses my very being.

The main part of why I write so bitterly, as you might view this as, is because I cannot distinguish faces apart from each other, so I don’t attempt to try. It’s more of a disease that I have had to live with since young, so I don’t try to make any unnecessary connection with anyone or anything.

Even the parents who have undoubtedly loved me since the day I was born have been cast away into this veil of darkness that haunts me. The only way to tell anyone apart is by voice and mental integrity. I mostly sit on forums that discuss ancient artifacts and modern art, the place where I don’t have to see a face to tell the people apart, only a creative, or not so creative, name and an online status symbol.

In essence, I am not alone but the emptiness and loneliness still stands. How can I care or feel if I can’t tell who the person I’ve grown to care for from anyone else? What decides person’s experiences but what the person himself is hindered by? Am I a puppet that the gods have decided to change one aspect of as to separate me for the masses as sort of a punishment from my ancestors? I don’t believe so, but that I feel, might be the reason. So in that aspect, I feel sorry for myself, which I know I shouldn't. But that is the hand in which I am dealt.