Chelsey M Syndrome

I'm pretty sure they should name a social anxiety disorder after me. Maybe call it Chelsey M Syndrome, Chuck Disorder, Chols Complex, Welby Condition, Chelferlane Sickness, Cholo Disease, Chunky Ailment (f u Kevin) or possibly even Chelper Problem. I'd be thrilled with any of these options.


I'm sure you all know and understand social anxiety. Terrible thing it is. For as long as I can remember, I have had social anxiety, though it was much worse when I was a child. My dad would say "Let's order pizza!" and I'd be all like "Hoorah! Pizza!" and then he would say "But you have to order it." Oh God no. You can't possibly be serious. Call them? And speak to them? You have GOTTA BE joking. I'd rather starve.
The rare times I would actually try to attempt to order the pizza, I would get so flustered that I would hang up the phone and cry a little.


"We can go to McDonalds, but you have to order your own." Nope. No f'ing way. I'll just have this glass of water and crusts of bread.


I remember when I was about 5 years old and I wanted to call my neighbour to play but she wasn't home. After several minutes of coaching on how to leave a message on her answering machine from my sister, I finally got the balls to do it.


"Hello Barbara? This is Barbara. UGH!" click.


I think I must have left about 15 messages not cluing in to the fact that they would probably know I called after the first 4 botched messages.


I'm still a mess when it comes to social interactions. If I'm out at the mall or grocery shopping and I see someone I knew in high school (someone I was friends with, even) a lot of the time I will a) pretend my shoe is untied, and I just can't manage to do that sucker up, b) stare the other way like something has really caught my eye, or c) intently read the nutrition facts on a box of crackers I have no intention of buying.
"I'm trying to calculate the percentage of calories from fat. What? I'm only eating things with less than 30% calories from fat!"
Calories, smalories.


When someone very rarely catches me in a good enough mood to say anything, I usually do something really stupid and embarrassing. A guy I knew in high school drives a bus and as I was exiting said bus he said "See ya later Chels." and I in turn, yelled "BYE!"
I immediately turned around and said "I have no idea why I just did that." and walked away.

Maybe I don't so much have social anxiety as much as I dread the awkward conversation.  9 times out of 10 with me, you're going to have an awkward conversation. I'll mostly just stare at you and make weird facial expressions. It's honestly not something I can control. 


These days when I have to phone someone, I will rehearse a thousand times over. I'll even pause for laughter at something witty I said. Yeah, that never happens. Instead, my palms get really sweaty, my voice gets caught in my throat and they think I'm rude because they have never spoken to anyone who says "Thanks, bye." so many times in one conversation.


"Hi, may I speak to Chelsey?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, I'm calling from the medical clinic as a reminder about your appointment tomorrow?"
"Thanks, bye."
"...So you'll be there?"
"Yepthanksbye."


How do I fix this? How do I escape this crippling fear of having a simple conversation? I don't have any idea, I'm sure I'd have to speak to someone to find out. Thanks, bye.


"Shit. The phone is ringing. I can't answer it, it's ringing!"

Wanna know how much I hate my cat? This many.

Question: Louie, why are you such a dick?

10 months old and this asshole has accumulated more hate than any one person can in a lifetime.


What's that? Louie pee'd all over the clothes in the bathroom? And in the bedroom? And in a laundry basket of my clean clothes? And on a box of cheerios? And on my face? And ON MY LIFE? And then he took a shit in front of my bedroom door? And then I stepped in it? And then he ate the plant and threw up all over the place?
"Surely you'll understand, that bath mat looks just like my litter box."
"You mean to tell me that your pillow ISN'T supposed to be shit on?"
"Oh sorry, was this yours? What, you don't like the smell of my piss? Yikes, I guess that's my bad."
"I'm gonna have to plead the fifth, here."


Here's a little anagrammatic poem I wrote just for the occasion;

L- Louie, I hate you.

O- Oh man, I hate you so much.

U- Urine.

I- I hate you.

E- ...I hate you.

                                 This is what I wanted:

                                     This is what I got:

Look at you, your beady little eyes, too close together. Laying around like you don't have a care in the world. Little do you know, as soon as you fall asleep, I'm going to spray you in the face with the "Louie's a dick" water bottle. Not just once. No, no. Each and every time you fall asleep. Me? I don't need sleep. This is more important. You can hide, but I'm going to find you. In the chair, or on the back of the couch, or underneath the kitchen table, or against the wall downstairs, or on the bottom stair where you lay purposely trying to kill me, or in your litter box... Wait, what am I saying? You and I both know that I won't find you in your litter box.


You'll get yours.