My Apartment is My Boyfriend (and He's Way Less Drama)

Leaving the house these days requires the same amount of planning and emotional fortitude as storming Normandy. I'm talking spreadsheets, contingency plans, and a full-on pep talk in the mirror that usually ends with me just… staying inside.

My apartment?

Now that's where the party's at. My living room? My personal sanctuary. My cocoon of blissful solitude. I've got everything I need right here: snacks, Wi-Fi, and a distinct lack of awkward small talk. Honestly, I haven't seen the sun in, like, six days. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. But still, my vitamin D levels are probably lower than my tolerance for unsolicited advice.

Why venture out into the wild when I can binge-watch Sex and the City in my pajamas? The outside world is full of… people. And people require… interaction. And interaction requires… energy. Energy I'd rather spend perfecting my online shopping skills.

It’s not that I hate people. It’s just that I’m… socially challenged. I’m like a delicate houseplant that wilts under the harsh glare of social interaction. I get overwhelmed. I pour all my energy into being “on” for everyone else, leaving absolutely none for myself. It’s exhausting.

Then, my brain, in its infinite wisdom, decides to play a little game called “What If Everyone Forgets About You?” It’s a real nail-biter. My anxiety whispers sweet (and by sweet, I mean terrifying) nothings in my ear: “If you’re not there, they’ll move on. They’ll forget you exist. You’ll become a social ghost.” Dramatic much? My brain is basically a telenovela writer.

And let’s talk about these intrusive thoughts, shall we? They’re like uninvited guests who show up to the party in your head, trash the place, and then leave without even offering to do the dishes. They whisper worst-case scenarios, concocting elaborate disasters that have a 0.0001% chance of actually happening. But my brain? Oh, it’s convinced these improbable events are practically guaranteed. And they’re definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent going to happen only to me. Because why not? My life is a special kind of chaotic.

I know it sounds extreme. I know my brain is sometimes a jerk. But anxiety isn’t exactly known for its rational thinking. It’s a master of manipulation, twisting perfectly normal situations into anxiety-inducing nightmares. So, if you see me hiding in my apartment, don't judge. Just slide a pizza under the door and know that I’m fighting a valiant battle against the tiny, tyrannical dictator that lives in my head. And sometimes, winning that battle means staying exactly where I am. In my pajamas. With my snacks. And definitely, definitely away from the general public.