I don't like people.

I get weird around people. I make plans and break them. Usually I end up hiding in bed instead of going out. I don’t know why I am so anxious. I’m barely threading everything together—so spiderweb thin and delicate. Everyday I wake up and I’m already anxious about the day before I get out of bed. The room is cold and I am lying next to a warm, living, breathing, pulsating person, far away in another dream that has nothing to do with this life. I would rather stay here than drag myself through the day. I would rather be alone than spend time with anyone almost all of the time. And other days, suddenly, without warning, the thought of being by myself and alone in my rabbit hole makes my skin crawl with feeling. And instead of being anxious about leaving, I am anxious about staying put. I want to be everywhere at once and experience everything. The depression sets in when I realize that I can’t do so, so I imagine a better life for myself, for us, until I fall back asleep.