Before I get into the intended content of this open letter, I would like to start by mentioning that I hate open letters. There are two reasons I decided to write this. The first reason is that this is something that I really believe I need to address, but I can't very easily express it to everybody separately. The second reason is that I am an awful procrastinator, so I didn't have enough time to finish the article I intended to write (and which will now be slated for next week.)

Now back to our regularly scheduled program.

I'm sorry that I'm such a terrible flake. I can explain. Living with social anxiety isn't easy. It's hell on wheels, and it's doubly hell when that anxiety gets so powerful that it morphs into something entirely different. Typically, my anxiety is a nagging lesser-demon on my shoulder telling me all the reasons something isn't going to work. It's a pixie laughing at me for thinking that girl I've been considering saying "hey" to would ever find me worth her time. It's a goblin tripping me up when I move to speak out against an injustice that I see; however, sometimes, it's much worse.

Sometimes it's a lumbering beast standing in my path. It's a grotesque boar with bald patches of skin rubbed raw and bleeding between cracked scabs left over from scratching at ticks that were never there. It lies, splayed out across the trail I am walking, eyes darting erratically, occasionally making eye contact for just long enough to make my stomach churn at the sight of those glazed over silver orbs. It lies in such a way that I have plenty of room to pass through and continue on with my day, interrupted no more. But the threat of danger is too real. It cackles at my fear, goading me on, all the while sneering to itself and wheezing through crooked teeth threats that it will devour me whole.

Sometimes I muster enough courage to take it on, but more often than not, I'm paralyzed by fear. I know it's an empty fear. I know that I can press on, sneak through my anxiety. I know that it'll never do me any harm if I try to push through it. None of that has any bearing when I'm in the moment though.

This is the feeling I face when I ultimately find myself cancelling plans. It's not that I don't want to hang out. It's not that I dislike you. It's simply that I'm in an abusive relationship with my anxiety. My anxiety prevents me from pursuing new adventures, and sometimes even from revisiting old adventures with which I should be completely familiar and comfortable. To make matters worse, it guilts me. It makes me belive that I've done all of this to myself. It lies in front of me, reminding me of my fear and of the fact that I'm letting somebody down by refusing to pass by.

The time between when the anxiety hits and when I decide to flake is the worst part. There's no reason to it, just an abject fear of interaction, a manufacturing of scenarios in my mind that provide a comprehensive flowchart of absolutely everything that could go wrong. This hyper-oganized, exhaustive assemblage of pessimism leads the way to a complete crumbling of my mind's infrastructure.

As the appointments near, I start to question if this is something I really want to do. I know I made the plans, but I've been ignoring every text for the past three days. I need to respond somehow. Hey, are we still on? Oh, god. Now they're questioning. They think I hate them. I'm a terrible person. I begin to pull at my hair. My chest pounds. My head goes light. My vision fades in an out. I can't focus my eyes on anything. Everything is in a haze. Reality drifts away from me. I'm scratching feverishly at the base of my neck. I pace the room. I sit down and choke back tears. Why am I so emotional right now? I struggle to convince myself it's not because I'm a piece of shit. I need to chill. I need to collect myself. What am I going to do?

Sometimes I just swallow my pride, and say I need to cancel.

Sometimes I make a bullshit excuse, like saying I have laundry that I have been putting off doing (which I do, but I know it won't get done for another week anyway.)

Sometimes I just completely ignore the person and hope they never bring it up again.

Sometimes I make it out the door, drive all the way to my destination, then sit in my car and let the panic mount until I have to leave.

For all of these, I am so sorry.

Now, let me be clear. I'm not sorry that I'm canceling on you. I'm not sorry that my anxiety got the best of me. What I'm sorry for is that I couldn't just tell all of you from the beginning that my anxiety is the reason I'm flaking. I'm sorry that I couldn't be open, because while my anxiety holds me back from engaging in social situations, it doesn't stop me from telling other people that it's there. I'm sorry that for all this time, I had rather you just believe that I'm a terrible person and a terrible friend than let you see that I'm afraid of this giant, ugly boar that's all talk and no walk.