An unrealistic recovery, part III: I'm all sorts of screwed up

(parts one and two here https://steemit.com/introduceyourself/@ooxide/an-unrealistic-recovery-part-1-coming-to-terms-with-the-jerkass-that-i-was
https://steemit.com/introduceyourself/@ooxide/an-unrealistic-recovery-part-ii-the-monster-in-the-sky)

Remember that one kid who was completely unable to flirt with and/or ask another person out due to their own intense fear of either rejection or embarrassment? The common narrative is that that kid eventually overcomes their fear and goes on to live a happy life. America.

I'm what happens when that kid never overcomes their fear. At 25 I was tested by some fancy official diagnostic test and discovered to be suffering from a phobia. A phobia of approaching anyone romantically. It doesn't even have a fucking name. Joy.

25; 25 years is what it took to find that out, which means there were all sorts of shenanigans prior. Fred just adored trying to break my fear; it seems like every week he had a new method meant to cure me, but it was always the same. "Just go up and talk to them!" "You won't even go and talk to them, you're not even trying. You can't complain about this anymore if you won't try."

I wish I had the same powers of communication then that I do now, I would have grabbed him by the shoulders and screamed "MY BODY LOCKS UP YOU STUPID FUCK, I'M INCAPABLE OF MOTION IN THOSE MOMENTS, THERES NO FUCKING CHOICE!" But it's embarrassing to talk about this even now, it was almost anathema to me then; I certainly wasn't going to reveal something so weak to the person who still held so much sway with me.

It was April of 2010; I was well into my self imposed deprogramming and my head was quite a wreck. Brief as it was, I finally had had a developed world view that gave me meaning, and to accept it was fake and harmful left me feeling empty. My mother was soon to be in prison, and I was struggling to find some sort of reason to go on. I was at my job, a line cook at Applebees, and was ignoring whatever work-related responsibility was on my plate. Sydney comes in, catches my eye, and smiles.

Sydney, also known as EAC, was a very nice and thoughtful amazon woman with giant tits. Im sorry to be so blunt, but this woman was like condensed sex appeal; more so, she liked me. I'm still not sure why, but she was genuinely interested in talking with me, she was flirty, I knew she was waiting on me to make a move, but no, there was nooooo way she was really into me. I was going to make a fool of myself, turn everything awkward, be mocked by the entire restaurant. I was far to frail to face such a scenario.

I know, I shouldn't think that way, etc etc. It's called a phobia for a reason. It's irrational.

Anyway, eventually she tires of waiting, and a coworker named Timothy asks her out in front of me. She looks at me and says yes. I lost it. I thought I was frail before, I thought I was in my own head before, but oh boy did that set me off.

I went through the normal song and dance of child-like self obsessed self praise, followed by equally child-like self-scorn, until finally settling on an existential crisis. That's right, failing to ask a girl out caused an existential crisis. My title was accurate.

What do I have to live for? Really, there's no goal in my life, I don't have any marketable skills, and I certainly won't be able to start a family. Those were the thoughts racing through my head, and I allowed them to simmer. I couldn't go to Fred, no, there was no way I was giving him such sensitive info. I couldn't bear his callousness and scorn.

After a couple of days, I reached a pseudo-equilibrium; I say pseudo because I was still a wreck, but I was a predictable, stable wreck. I "discovered" that my problem was rooted in generations of family dysfunction, and that the pattern that had led to me being the weeping pile of neuroticism I had become would only continue unless I changed something drastically. I chose education as the agent for this change.

I applied to the nearby community college, was accepted, fixed up my financial aid, and said my goodbyes. While I was doing this, Fred relapses, and his wife divorces him. As much resentment as I had towards him, I couldn't help but feel bad for him; he had taken me in when I was a grungy screaming junkey desperate for a second chance. If it weren't for him I could easily be dead, and I still had a begrudging respect for the man he once was. Cest la vie.

The last words I ever spoke to him were "If you ever need to detox, you can crash on my couch." He just smiled.