On more than one occasion my panicked ramblings were so horrific that everyone was rendered speechless, and the silence got more and more palpable, and in desperation I just blurted out my credit card number and ran to the bathroom. I did this both because I hoped that yelling random numbers would make the baffled spectators suspect that I must be one of those eccentric mathematical geniuses who is just too brilliant for them to understand, and also because I felt a bit guilty for making them have to listen to the whole “I may or may not swallow needles” story, and if they wanted to charge their wasted time to my credit card then they now had that option. Except that I’m not actually good with numbers at all, so I can never remember my real credit card number and instead I just make up a random string of numbers. In short, some random strangers are paying for my shortcomings because I have a bad memory. And because I can’t carry on a conversation like a normal human being. And because identity fraud is so lucrative. So basically, we all lose.
I assume this must be quite confusing for people whom I’ve communicated with only via e-mail and texts, since I can actually come across as reasonably witty and coherent in e-mail, because I have time to think about what a normal, filtered, mentally stable adult would write before I press “Send.” This is why I prefer to talk to people only electronically. I’ll write up an e-mail and then ask myself whether normal people would bring up the fact that Lincoln died from a lot of people sticking unwashed fingers into his bullet hole, and then I’ll convince myself that they don’t, and I’ll also take out the part about how vegetarians are allowed to eat human placenta because no animal died for it, and then I’ll be left with a tight little e-mail that just says, “Congratulations on your baby!” which is much more bland, but is also something I’ve totally heard normal people say before, so it seems safe.
A lot of people assume I’m comically exaggerating this point, but the only people who really think that are the people who don’t have an anxiety disorder. The rest of you are nodding your head in agreement because you, too, have been stricken by this rather shitty disorder that makes an e-mail conversation (which should take only minutes) stretch on for hours of rewrites.
For example, here’s a reenactment of the work that went into a simple e-mail conversation with my coworker Jon this morning:
Jon: I just wanted to email all of you to let you know I won’t be into work today because we have to put our beloved dog to sleep.
Me: Jon, my heart is with you today. Attached is a copy of Rainbow Bridge, and a small poem by Maya Angelou.
Jon: This is exactly what I needed. How did you know?
Me: I know how hard it is to say goodbye.
In short? It is exhausting being me. Pretending to be normal is draining and requires amazing amounts of energy and Xanax. In fact, I should probably charge money to all the normal people to simply not go to your social functions and ruin them. Especially since I end up spending so much money on sedatives to keep my anxiety at least slightly in check, and those expenses are not even tax-deductible. Still, it’s worth the personal expense, because being drugged enough to appear semicoherent is preferable to being treated like an unwelcome polar bear at a dinner party.