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The Dark Veil

My parents feel that my social anxiety is a product of the way I was raised and by the people that are around me. I recently have been seeing a psychologist to “rid me of my social anxieties,” which I understand that to them that I have social anxiety even though I know that is far from the case. So Mr. James Orandaz, the psychologist, has suggested that once a week every week, I am to write down what I am feeling and any events that have happened that feel important in any way, unless said events happen in a row then I am free to write as much as I feel needed to relay the issue. So I will begin on the journey that is my life.


October 10

It seemed as if my thoughts were only capable for me to hear, from past arguments to future memories to come, I thought alone. While the kids from time to time would walk past me over to their friends desks to talk about the days fleeting happenings, whether big or small. But I was alone.

I have not the slightest clue when was the first time that I started to feel this way but it fits how I live my life, socially and personally. There are only two things that I truly care for and they are my books and my drawings. I read whatever I can bring into my immediate focus to distract myself from the dark, unnerving outside world that encapsulate and confuses my very being.

The main part of why I write so bitterly, as you might view this as, is because I cannot distinguish faces apart from each other, so I don’t attempt to try. It’s more of a disease that I have had to live with since young, so I don’t try to make any unnecessary connection with anyone or anything.

Even the parents who have undoubtedly loved me since the day I was born have been cast away into this veil of darkness that haunts me. The only way to tell anyone apart is by voice and mental integrity. I mostly sit on forums that discuss ancient artifacts and modern art, the place where I don’t have to see a face to tell the people apart, only a creative, or not so creative, name and an online status.

In essence, I am not alone but the emptiness and loneliness still stands. How can I care or feel if I can’t tell who the person I’ve grown to care for from anyone else? What decides person’s experiences but what the person himself is hindered by? Am I a puppet that the gods have decided to change one aspect of as to separate me for the masses as sort of a punishment from my ancestors? I don’t believe so, but that I feel, might be the reason. So in that aspect, I feel sorry for myself, which I know I shouldn't. But that is the hand in which I am dealt.

Submitted: November 23, 2014

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