Confession #5

I'm utterly terrified by the prospect of going to college.


Today I mailed my transcripts and test scores to the Office of Undergraduate Admissions at Oklahoma State University, and suddenly this is all very real. HolycowtoosoonstoptheworldIwanttogetoff!!


Stop. Breathe.


Okay.


I want to go. Really, I do. I want to be back in a proper school, I want to learn, I want independence, and I especially want to be back among friends on a regular basis. (Well, friend. When my tiny group of close friends split up last summer, only one landed in Stillwater. But that's immensely better than being alone all the time like I am now.) I'm very excited about all of that. But, there are certain things that have me digging my heels in.

1. I really can't afford to have a private dorm room, but I'm completely absolutely positively NOT comfortable with rooming with a stranger. Seriously. My heart starts racing at the thought. Yes, obviously I would get to know my roommate and thus not live with a stranger, but until then, I'm pretty sure I'd be an awkward and miserable mess. So, I could take out a student loan and start out my independent life already in debt, or I could put on my big girl panties and deal with it. Part of me reeaally wants to go ahead and take out a loan, but then a nagging voice yells at me to be reasonable and room with somebody. After all, my New Year's Resolution was to get over my shyness and social anxiety, and rooming with a stranger would be a huge step. But I don't know. I'll probably make up my mind and change again it four hundred times before all is said and done.

2. I have a horrible feeling that I'm hopelessly underprepared for the classes. English doesn't worry me, but anything with math or science will be the death of me. Excluding Consumer Math, the last complete math class I was in (that is, I attended class for a solid year and did every single assignment) was Algebra in eighth grade. And I have slept since then. Science is almost as bad. When people ask me if I'm ready for college, I mention that I'm "kinda worried" about being unprepared, but they all say "Oh, you're so smart, you'll be fine!" But being clever won't get you by in something like math. If you don't know how to do it, you don't know how to do it! End of story. So, yeah... I'll probably have nightly panic attacks every single day of my first semester.

I'm sure there will be plenty more for me to freak out about in the coming months, but for now these are the biggest stress inducers.

Confession #4

For someone with high self-esteem, my self-esteem is pretty low.

That is to say, I am extremely confident in myself as a person. I'm proud of who I am, and if you don't like the music I listen to, the vocabulary I use, the shows I watch, the books I read, the jokes I tell—if you don't like ME, that's fine. Go away. I don't need you. I'll randomly break out in songs from the 60s if I want to. I'll quote Shakespeare when I feel like it. I'll read the dictionary purely for entertainment and there's nothing you can do to stop me. If that displeases you, that's your problem not mine.

However, I dislike a great deal of things about my body and the way I look. I hate trying on clothes because they never seem to fit quite right. Many of the clothes I have in my closet have been hanging there untouched since I bought them, because even though I really like them, I'm too self-conscious to wear them. I see pictures of celebrities and wish I could look a little more like that, then remember that they're all airbrushed and fake, so I look at pictures of people on Facebook and wish I could look a little more like THAT. It's a dumb and a common affliction, I know, but it's something I've been sitting on for years. So there it is.

Confession #3

I realize that I am late with this confession, but I think the insanity of the last four days gives me a reasonable excuse. I won't bore you with the details though. Straight to business:

I occasionally have otherwise dull dreams in which everyone—myself included—speaks with a British accent.

It's not just a typical American-trying-to-sound-English-by-failing-to-pronounce-any-and-all-Rs accent either. Nope, my brain goes all out and hands people specific regional accents and everything! (Some hold the opinion that I watch too many British television series. I say that's rubbish.)

The first time it happened, I woke up and thought, “Huh. Well that was odd...” then wished it would happen again so I could enjoy it more. It has happened numerous times since, but in my dreams it seems perfectly natural to have a mom from Cardiff and a brother from York, so I don't even realize that it's funny until the dream is over and I'm awake. But, I suppose if I were lucid in the dreams, the accents would fade away and it wouldn't be amusing anymore. (Yes, lucid dreams are controllable, but the most I've ever accomplished without accidentally waking myself up was making my shoes disappear. Trying to maintain all the fun accents would take too much effort and I would just give up and awaken myself out of frustration.)

On another note, I've also had dreams in black and white, and once I had one that was all cartoonified. Most of them are just so bizarre and twisted that I can't even begin to describe them. I think my brain must get bored when I go to sleep. Perhaps that is why it tries and tries to keep me awake all the time...?

Baby Steps

Today I made small talk with the lady at the allergy clinic as she gave me my allergy shots.


That's not an extraordinary feat for most people, but considering I've been going to the clinic for seventeen weeks now and I've never said anything more than "Hello," I'm fairly proud of myself. My nerves tried to get the best of me (something I paid for, as injections in a tense arm hurt more) but I kept talking. And blushing. I'm positive my face was red. But hey, baby steps.

Update 01/12/11:

I had an appointment with my ENT this morning. Anyone who knows me knows I have great issues with my allergies beacuse I am, as Dr. Visor puts it, allergic to the planet. With massive allergies come massive sinus troubles, so I see Dr. Visor fairly regularly, and have been since (I believe) late 2007. Dr. Visor is a very friendly man who clearly genuinely cares about his patients, and as often as I see him, he has gotten to know me fairly well in the sense that he knows what to expect from me health-wise and personality-wise. On more than one occasion, he has mentioned how quiet I am. Today, however, he smiled and said, "You're being more talkative than usual. I like that."

I like that too.

Confession #2

I speak to my dog as if he has good sense.

Jude. Also responds to Pup and Noodle Butt.

 

I know. Lots of people talk to their pets. Big whoop. “Aww, look at the cute wittle doggy! Who's a good doggy? Who's a good doggy?! That's right! YOU are! You're a good doggy! Does doggy want a nummy treat? You do?! Here, have a treat! Good doggy! Aww, such a cute doggy!” No. Just... no.

When I'm home alone every day, it's quiet. Very quiet. So I talk to Jude. More than that, I converse with him—that includes posing questions and waiting for a reply. He does reply, too. In fact, he helps me make many very important decisions throughout each day. Okay... so they aren't important decisions. Mostly he just gives his opinion on what TV shows I should watch.

But wait a minute, Michelle! Dogs can't talk! He can't specifically tell you what to watch!

Well, no, he can't voice his opinion like a human, but Jude lets me know what he thinks. For instance, the question “Jude, do you want to watch Supernatural?” often gets answered with a tip of the head and a thump of the tail. However, “Pup, do you want to watch House?” sends him flying to my bedroom and onto my bed, eagerly waiting for me to turn on the TV. When he sees something he likes, he watches intently. When he doesn't care for what I choose to watch, he simply falls asleep.

(Thus far, the things I have found that intrigue him most are Buffy the Vampire Slayer (mostly the scenes with snarling vampires), Doctor Who (the TARDIS is fascinating), and Band of Brothers. Also, for whatever reason, he is enthralled by Stephen Fry and Emma Thompson. He watched the film Peter's Friends with me a while back, and any time either of them had a line, his ears perked up and he sat up a little straighter. Can't say I blame him.)

And, on the off chance that he doesn't want to watch anything, he just stays where he is while I slink off to my room, my feelings hurt and my tail tucked between my legs.

It's hard not to treat him like a furry little person that comprehends everything I say to him. I mean, he follows me around wherever I go and displays such personality! (Just to prove that I'm not insane in thinking Jude actually responds to me, I've tried talking to my dog, Rascal. It doesn't work. He just sits and stares and looks rather dumb. Sometimes he rolls over and shakes.) Since I have such a social pup, why shouldn't I talk to him? It makes the days feel a little less lonely.

Confession #1

I am terrible at verbal communication.

Oddly enough, I used to talk to anyone and everyone, and even got scolded in school for talking too much. Now being introduced to someone new means me biting my lips, wringing my hands, shifting my weight from foot to foot, and blushing as I struggle to make eye contact for at least one second before looking at my newly interesting shoes. Making small talk is worse, because forming a coherent conversation that isn't entirely lame is very difficult when all of your energy is being focused on not looking like a total loon. These conversations typically include lots of fidgeting, several bouts of silence and my ears burning because I'm so flushed. Yep. Embarrassing.

Unfortunately, my issues are not limited to those I have just met or don't know very well. Even when I'm with a friend I sometimes find myself stressing out because conversation has hit a lull and I honestly have no clue what to say. Often when I'm with multiple friends, I don't even know how to join in on a conversation that's alive and kicking. And as if that weren't bad enough, I've discovered recently that it's growing difficult for me to maintain eye contact even with my family and the best of my friends. Seriously, what's wrong with me?

You know what? I'm not socially awkward enough yet. Let's add one more layer to that—I'm horrible at being open with people. What I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, hopes and fears, it all stays locked inside. (Yes, I know. Least original wording ever. But if I'm going to be a cliche, I'm using it to the fullest. Deal with it.) I often feel guilty for not talking to my friends more, because it's not like I don't trust them or anything... I just can't bring myself to open up. And I don't like it.

Now. What do I do about all of this? Make a New Year's Resolution to be less shy and more open! Huzzah! Those things always work out for the best, right? Right...? No. Never. Except this year, I have published my resolution on the internet for all to see. That's right! Pressure! If I don't keep my word, I'll let down not only myself but everyone else who may or may not ever see this blog! And I can't let that happen.

So, here is how this is going to work: Every week I will confess something. It might be something significant that's been bugging me for a while, or it may just be some odd little nugget of information about me that is utterly random and makes you wonder if I was dropped on my head as a baby. Either way, I'm laying it all out there where anybody can read it. Those who do will come away knowing more about me, and hopefully being open here will help me be more open in real life. (You were wondering when I would notice the irony weren't you? Haha, being completely open on the internet, nice and safe behind my desk in a veil of anonymity. Yeah. I know. But I'm just going to pretend each and every friend I have is reading this, so when I tell all, it feels real and will be helpful for future interaction with actual people.)

There you have it. Confession the First. I'll be back next Saturday with Confession #2.