The Gambler

The Gambler by Kenny Rogers. As a small child in the early 80s who hadn’t yet developed her own musical taste, this story song of a young man who receives life advice from a seasoned poker player was one of my favorite songs. I never thought that much about the lyrics or what they meant, until this weekend.

Gambling is illegal in the state of Texas, but I live close enough to Louisiana that almost everyone I know goes to one of the casinos there several times a year. I’d only gone once, with one of my mother’s friends about fifteen years ago. The thought of playing the slot machines appealed to me, but the thought of going alone did not. And I never had anyone to go with.

Enter my aunt Teresa. I got to know her a few years ago when she came to live with my mother (I was there too at the time). She had fallen on hard times and had no where else to go. Teresa is a good person…generous, complimentary, thoughtful and kind. That is, until she starts drinking. Then she turns into a selfish, argumentative, impossible person to deal with. Unfortunately she drinks the majority of the time.

I had heard from various relatives how difficult she could be and how wild she lived. Despite our differences (her: impulsive, uninhibited, me: shy, anxious, nervous) we became fast friends. At one point, she got a job cleaning the church down the street and she offered to share the job and the pay with me. It was the first time I had worked in years.

She also suggested fun things to do, like going to the Bingo hall and the comedy club. Even though she had too much to drink at the club and got in trouble for heckling the comedian, it was still my first time going out like that…ever. We went to the beach together and then talked about making a trip to Louisiana to gamble. Unlike my mother, Teresa was interested in gambling, having gone to Vegas before with her friends, and was excited about the prospect of going.

Not long after that, she got picked up for some past DWIs she had been dodging. She’ll be in prison for at least two more years. Part of me was relieved because her drinking had really gotten out of hand, but the other part of me was sad that I no longer had a friend I could do things with.

The summer passed by, and I never forgot about that casino trip we had planned. One day, I impulsively booked myself a room for September 24th. It was a couple of weeks away, time enough for me to get used to the idea. I’m not sure exactly what I was scared of. I just pictured myself walking in there and everyone staring at me as I frantically tried to work the machines. I worried that my anxiety would take over and I’d leave not having had a good time. Still, I didn’t change my plans.

I wasn’t worried about the actual traveling to Louisiana and staying in the motel by myself. I was looking forward to that. But then my developmentally delayed sister got angry that I was going on “vacation” without her. I reluctantly agreed that she and my mother could come along. I felt this was somehow taking away from this challenge – that I wouldn’t be doing it completely on my own.

The day came and I began to feel anxious. I stopped myself when I began worrying too much. It occurred to me that this trip could be fun – if I’d let it. I’d let my anxiety prevent me from so many good times in my life. Why couldn’t I concentrate on the fun part and push the anxiety to the backburner? So I imagined walking into the casino, thinking only about the parts that I was excited about and forgetting the rest. I thought about the flashing lights, the possibility of winning money, the new experiences, all the little things about Louisiana that I love (the swamps, the accents, all the Cajun stuff) and the fun of playing the games.

Before leaving for the casino, my sister and I swam in the motel’s pool while our mother stayed inside the room and read. As I walked toward the pool, I got a sinking feeling inside. There were other people there already swimming. I made some comment out of their earshot about my displeasure and my sister asked why I cared if other people were there or not.

She wouldn’t understand. Erica could talk to anyone. Despite her developmental and behavioral issues, she has plenty of friends, a serious boyfriend and lots of admirers. We got in the pool and unsurprisingly, Erica made fast friends with the two middle-aged women and their year old God baby. I exchanged pleasantries with them, but then gave them a wide girth, keeping on the opposite side of the pool that they were on.

After a while, one of the women swam over to me and asked what my sister and I “did.” I explained that I worked and my sister went to school. This somehow morphed into a conversation about my sister’s behavioral problems, which I won’t go into in depth on this blog. Suffice it to say, Erica had had a meltdown before we left for Louisiana that day over her phone not working. She cussed at us and hit my mother. I explained these things to the woman, who, as it turned out, has a mentally challenged daughter. We exchanged stories and commiserated a little. I left the pool feeling proud of myself and invigorated for the larger challenge that lay ahead.

By the time I arrived at the casino, it was dark. A tour bus of older people let out just as I arrived at the main doors. I walked into the fanciest hotel I’ve ever been in. There was a huge fireplace in the waiting area out front and numerous restaurants, most with French names, lining the halls. I felt like one of the Beverly Hillbillies. The casino room, the main attraction, was right as you walk in. People streamed past a man standing behind a podium into the large room, some stopping to show an ID.

The room was much larger than I had imagined. I guess I had envisioned a sort of adult Chuck E. Cheese. The room was lined with banks of slot machines with the card games set up in the back. The best part was that no one was paying attention to anyone else, least of all me. Music was blaring and everyone seemed to be hunched over a machine. I was free to make all the mistakes I needed to.

Nerd confession here: I had actually watched some You Tube tutorial videos in preparation for playing the slots. None of them compared me for actually playing one. I was confused about several things and didn’t learn until I had wasted two twenties. I finally found a penny machine at the end, which, with the small amount of money I brought with me, I should have stuck with the whole time. I ended up losing over a hundred dollars.

But I don’t feel like I lost. I feel like I won something intangible that can’t be taken away from me. The small victory is that I now have a new weekend hobby to enjoy. The bigger triumph is that I completed yet another “challenge”…this one of my own making, and I lived to tell about it. And I had fun! Something I haven’t had very much of in my life.

This challenge will lead to bigger, scarier challenges. My co-blog writer and I plan to have a video chat soon. It’s really hard for me to talk to someone face-to-face, but I’m going to do it. This will prepare me to meet with two of my internet support group members so that we can plan a larger group meeting for everyone.

I think I know what those song lyrics are about now. Life is all about risks. You can’t be so focused on where you came from or where you’re going that you miss out on what’s right in front of you. Unless I fall into another major depression (which is entirely possible), the rest of my life will be about playing the hand I was dealt to the best of my ability.

 

Unfavorable Comparisons

 

I just got back from the mall. That’s not something you’d expect someone with social anxiety to say, yet this was my second trip in the span of a week. See, I’m using this app on my phone called Youper (this is not an advertisement, by the way – I’m not even sure if it works). Youper does two things. It gives you information about social anxiety using two cartoon characters – a young male college student and an older, cleavage-displaying female professor. (If you’ve used this app, can you tell me…do these two get it on in the end? I find myself looking for clues as to whether or not this will happen instead of paying attention to the medical information…)

It also gives you little challenges to do which increase in intensity as you go along…at least that’s what I assume. This was the second time I was told to go to the mall and “wash the hands.” Washing my hands in public is no problem for me, though that is not to invalidate the feelings of someone who would find it difficult. Now, counting out change while someone waits for me and watches me, carrying on a simple conversation with someone I don’t know that well or at all, giving speeches even in front of a small group, job interviews…all things that terrify me, in case you were doubting my sincerity when it comes to this social phobia thing.

stole this pic from Google – no I would not have been brave enough to take a picture too

 

So I went to the mall, sat at the food court and people-watched for about a half hour. It was a weekday afternoon, so a few people were alone like I was, but mostly it was mothers out with their small children with a few couples sprinkled in. I found myself feeling envious of people who have more than their mother to rely on. I began thinking of the upcoming holiday season and how these people would have someone to spend it with…someone who isn’t forced to love you because you came out of their womb. The best Christmas of my adult life (and interestingly, the worst) was spent alone in my shed, doped up on my brother’s prescription pain medication.

I know that this is a thought fallacy called “unfavorable comparisons.” I know that I started the proverbial race with a broken leg and a mile behind everyone else, so I should cut myself some slack and stop beating myself up that I don’t really have anyone. But still…

I have this fear of being unlikeable. Sometimes I think that because I have no friends (except for my co-blog author) and family, that this proves I am unlikeable. Yet, despite the overwhelming evidence, I don’t really believe that. I care about people, I empathize, I’m a warm person (though it’s hard to see that sometimes if you don’t know me), I try constantly to improve on my problems, I try hard to be friendly (sometimes too hard) and I would never intentionally hurt anyone’s feelings…unless they did something to me first, but that’s natural. In fact, if I were someone else, I would like me. So what’s wrong with the rest of the world?

I left the mall, forgetting to go to the restroom so I could wash my hands and complete the challenge. I thought about how I felt, sitting there alone. Except for the jealousy in watching other people who seemingly have it better, it didn’t feel so bad. I’ve accepted that I’m going to have to get used to doing things on my own. Once my mother goes, it’ll be just me. In time I think I’ll get over my envy of “normal” people, just like I’ve had to accept some other cold, hard facts about my life… I also need to check off “stop feeling sorry for myself,” because that is not an attractive trait.

Introduction – blueroseoftx

My co-admin and I are going to each take a turn to introduce ourselves. This is mine. I am 36 and female. I live alone with my two cats and have very few people in my life.

My anxiety started as far back as I can remember. I didn’t speak in school until the third grade, and then rarely after that. I don’t know why. I was a curiosity to the other kids – “the girl who doesn’t talk.” They constantly asked me questions, trying to get me to say just one word, and once a whole group of them descended on me and covered my mouth and nose. I didn’t struggle. And I didn’t talk. Then finally in third grade I answered one of their questions. A girl asked me what I was going to be for Halloween and without thinking much about it, I answered “a clown.” It must have been funny, my not talking all those years and then replying to such a meaningless question, but I remember the teacher telling the kids not to make a big deal of it (everyone wanted to ask me a question after that).

me at school, circa 1988

 

I had a few friends in the neighborhood, where I was comfortable, but at school until that day I went all day without talking. It was called selective mutism, I learned when I was a teenager watching an episode of the talk show Donahue. I had been obsessed with those talk shows for a while, keeping my eyes peeled for absolutely anything that sounded like my condition. I didn’t even get to see the full episode because my local station cut in to show a kid carrying the Olympic relay torch across town. But I knew I finally had my diagnosis.

I worked up the courage to tell my mother about what I had seen. Here’s the thing: I didn’t like to admit that I had a problem, not to anyone. But it was a day when I was freaked out over having to give a speech in English class. I broke down in tears and told my mother about the show I had seen on selective mutism. I don’t want to sound bitter at all because I swear I am over this, but my mother didn’t remember the name of what I told her I had. In fact, she later wouldn’t remember the conversation at all. So nothing happened.

Back up a few years. When I was twelve I began to sink into a severe depression. I had switched from public school to a private Christian school for my sixth grade year and I had several tormentors in my class. Despite my issues, I had never really dealt with bullying before. My depression started then, and though I’ve gone through times where it has lifted slightly, it has never really stopped completely. Because of my depression I no longer wanted to go out and do things, so I lost the few friends I had. Since then, I have only ever had online friends. Thank God I live in the age of the internet.

So anyway, I never really got help for my problems. I refused to go back to school one day in eighth grade, so I was made to attend a summer counseling program by school officials. They diagnosed me with depression (okay) and ADD (what?-I never had trouble concentrating!). But at that time, 1994, ADD and ADHD were all the rage. So I received a trendy diagnosis.

College was a nightmare. It’s supposed to be a social, carefree time in your life, but I was able to be neither. I often cried at night, thinking I was the only one home alone while everyone else was out having fun and starting their lives. I was pretty much right.

I did everything I was able to improve myself. I read every self-help book I could get my hands on, I ordered anti-depressants over the internet (which I don’t recommend), I saw an online therapist. Once, during one of my emotional tailspins, I opened the phone book and called the first therapist listed. I made an appointment, but found out that therapists cost a LOT of money. She referred me to someone else, but by that time my mood was over and I’d lost my nerve.

I went out on dates with two different guys in my twenties, none before or since. It was a disaster because all I wanted to do was run out of the room. I wrote pen pals to fill the void I was missing from having no friends, but sometimes that lead to hurt feelings too. Finding a job was also impossible. I would go in for an interview and not be able to answer some questions. I wouldn’t smile or talk enough. I just didn’t have the skills to make anyone like me enough to hire me. I did finally land a job typing addresses for the post office, where I worked for five years. It was a job where I didn’t have to talk to anyone. Sure, it hurt when everyone on my crew went out for coffee after work except me, and sometimes I had the urge to look for a job that would force me to be more social, but for the most part I was content in my cubicle, hiding away from the world.

I was going through a reasonably (for me) happy period in my life when disaster struck – I was laid off from my post office job. I was 27 and felt my life was pretty much over. I had to move out of my apartment and back in with my mom. I remember my last day in that apartment, laying on the floor wrapped in a blanket like a burrito, crying as though I would never stop.

I didn’t want to move in with my mother. I felt people would look down on me for this, and besides, I didn’t want to see anyone or have anyone see me. Instead I moved into a tiny tin shed in the backyard (much more dignified, right?). This was the beginning of the darkest time of my life so far. Several possible jobs fell through for me, and I felt more and more hopeless each time. I left the shed less and less and when I did it was to only come into my mother’s house at night to use the computer. I took pills and slept most of the day. I used the bathroom in a bucket – I didn’t even want to come out for that.

My mother began to see that I wasn’t leaving any time soon. She had a larger shed built in the backyard for me. She got someone else to do respite for my adopted, mentally challenged sister. I had severe crying spells constantly and talked excessively about killing myself. Any time my mother would refer to something happening in the future, for instance, I would remind her that I wouldn’t be there. I began to research suicide methods. I won’t go into detail about the one I had chosen, but I had everything ready for that. I used a number randomizer to chose a date in which to kill myself. I believe it was April 27th.

One day two cops came knocking on the shed door. I was taken against my will to a “behavioral hospital,” an institution that mainly served people who were trying to get drugs out of their system. I never did drugs in my life, if you don’t count prescription pills. I will leave the details of my experience there for another post, but it wasn’t fun. However, I was given the choice to continue treatment at a clinic when I was discharged, and I agreed.

April 27th came and went. I was still depressed, but too chicken to do anything. I never spoke of suicide after that, except to say I might do it when my mother dies. I went to the clinic regularly and received medication. It wasn’t a night-and-day difference, but I slowly began to see an improvement.

I was referred to a job counselor named Amber, who was to help me with my resume and direct me to places looking for help. Amber was unlike most of the workers at the clinic. She wore casual clothing, dropped an f-bomb on occasion and discussed things with me such as religion (we are both skeptical about it) and movies. She never helped me find a job, but we eventually began talking about my life and experiences. Her theory was that I had low self-esteem and a tendency to think negatively. We began work on a workbook, The Self-Esteem Workbook, doing a chapter or so each session. I learned about the theory that we can control our thoughts and feelings (which I’m not sure I agree with) and how to reframe negative thoughts. I learned that “worth begins at birth” – everyone is worthy of love and good things in life, simply because they exist. We are almost done with the workbook, meaning I’ll have to stop seeing Amber soon, but that’s a subject for another post too.

Since I was doing all this other non-job related stuff with Amber, she sent me to another job counselor, Sara. After several misfires, Sara was able to point me in the direction of a site featuring a ton of work-from-home jobs. I filled out a bunch of applications and finally landed a job working from my home computer, calling people about quality assurance surveys. I don’t enjoy the work, but it pays the bills.

Before I even got the job, however, Amber sort of pushed me into signing up for a housing program. I was unsure, because part of me was comfortable in the shed. I did finally agree (sort of), and got on a clinic sponsored program that allowed me to chose a place to live and have the clinic pay for most of the rent and some of the bills for a full year. I was considered “homeless,” so I was readily accepted into the program. I got my new apartment last October, and my confidence soared. I finally felt independent again. I had forgotten how good that felt. Then two months later, I started working.

I decided that now I needed to make some friends. I looked into support groups in the area for people with social phobia, but was told there was nothing. By that point, I was getting desperate to meet someone else who understood what I was going through. It seemed like everyone I met was married with kids and/or had some fantastic job. I often got strange looks when I answered questions about my personal status. So I asked about starting a group myself. It was suggested to me that I start an Facebook group first and then gradually have in-person meetings.

I followed that advice and started a Facebook group for people with social anxiety in my area. To my chagrin, though, pretty much everyone who joined up was very high-functioning. You know, married, kids, fantastic job.

Around this time, I made a friend online. We were both writing stories and found each other on a writing forum. She was very warm and friendly and willing to help in any way she could. Once I made some remark about friends, and she said “I’m not that social.” That lead to a conversation where we learned we had a lot in common. I’ll let her tell you about herself in her own post, but I did find out that she was experiencing a lot of the same problems I had in the past.

So that brings us to today. I am better, I am learning to function in society again, but there are still times when I want to throw it all in and go back to my shed. I still have a long way to go. There are things I want to do and see that I have never experienced. I want to push myself way outside my comfort zone and really live life like I haven’t before. I will document my journey on this blog and I will do my best to give help and information as I can. Thanks for reading this post and getting to know me. It means a lot to know that people care.