My social anxiety

Hey all, this week I thought that I would break from my "norm", and talk about something that I would usually stay quiet about...

I have social anxiety. I am self-diagnosed, (via the internet) but I certainly do have social anxiety. For years I thought that I was just shy, but thanks to Pinterest, I've recently (over the last two years or so,) learned that my issues aren't normal; and that I actually have social anxiety.

So first off, I wanna talk about 2 things that social anxiety isn't. 'Cause I feel like a lot of people kinda "don't get it". 

1. Social anxiety is NOT the same as being introverted or shy!

2. Social anxiety doesn't mean that I don't like people, and don't want to talk to them.

So what IS social anxiety? I’m not really qualified to talk about that; I only feel qualified to talk about what it is to me… so here we go. First off, I do know that my anxiety, or rather my specific fears are for the most part all in my head; I don’t really think that ya’ll act this way, or feel this way about me… except when I’m in the middle of a worry-fest. I am actually an empath, and I can typically read people pretty well, but I’m also really good at over-focusing on the minutia and reading into things that mean nothing, so, with no further ado, here is what my social anxiety means to me.

First off, oddly, it is at its worst, not when I’m in the middle of a social situation, but rather immediately before, or after I spend time in a social setting; be it Church or my best friend’s birthday party. Social anxiety is, rather obviously, anxiety, and presents like that, through vicious, repetitive thoughts breaking through my otherwise logical mindset. In my case, it presents as an overarching, paralyzing, fear that everyone is judging every move I make… If I speak at all, I’m certain that you will misread my meaning, and if I don’t, for fear of what you think, then I’m sure that you will hate me for my silence. 

As such I never say what I’m really thinking; and by the time I have rechewed my statement to the point where I feel confident enough to say it, the conversation has already moved on. 

Have you ever said something REALLY dumb, and felt incredibly embarrassed afterward? Imagine, for a moment, that you have a voice inside your head telling you that EVERYTHING you say, or think of saying is stupid, and, if you don’t say it, that everyone will know that you chickened out, and hate you for that. I’ll try to break down a “social” day for you (in my case this means something as simple as going to Church).

Before an event, I think of everything that could possibly go wrong, I’m super prone to rashes, and I could break out, attracting tons of unwanted attention. I could stutter, when I get nervous I do this not infrequently so I don’t dare worry about that… I could even say something that could be misinterpreted as being insensitive, or racist… gosh, everyone would REALLY hate me if that happens! 

These thoughts continue through the entire event, and get louder any time I want to say anything, or do anything; I won’t use the bathroom unless I really can’t hold it any longer, because then you’d all talk about how long I was gone. And I’m sure that you can read my mind, focusing on every slightly off-color thought that goes through my mind. When I leave, I’m worried that ya’ll are going to talk about how weird I acted, how quiet I was, and how I was all nervous.

Within the first few hours after an event, my anxiety tends to peak. In any conversation we naturally change our expressions a dozen times and have a few seconds of “blank face” this is perfectly natural, but as I go back over every comment I made (yes, every single one,) I focus on those blank moments, or the moments when you didn’t quite get what I was saying. I’m sure that you thought that I was stupid if I stuttered a single time, and if I mentioned myself once or more, then I was far too self-obsessed, as a matter of fact, I don’t really deserve friends, do I? 

Yes, this is as exhausting and painful as it sounds, that’s why straight up avoidance is my preferred way of coping… But no, that’s not healthy, and yes, deep down I really do want to talk to my friends. So, not to put pressure on you but, I have just 3 things that I would like to say to ya’ll, in regards to dealing with me.

1. Please don’t avoid me. That is not to say that you need to talk to me if you don’t feel like it, but please don’t think that I’m more comfortable if you leave me alone either.

2.  If you do genuinely want to talk to me. Please instigate. I really hate to put this on ya’ll, but I really can’t instigate, as it makes me feel like I’m sticking out like a sore thumb, and that makes me feel super uncomfortable.

3. Please just be frank. Even if I did say something weird, then I'd feel better if you actually say it, rather then my spidey-senses telling me that you feel weird, so that I can read into it later.

Thanks for reading through this, I know that it’s rather long, and a little less upbeat, than normal. But one of the only places that I feel comfortable expressing myself is through my keyboard; and yes, that’s why I write.  

And if you have any questions about any of this, please feel free to ask me!

My first ever story!

Hi there and welcome to my 2nd ever Flash Fiction Friday!

This week I decided to do something a little bit different... (in all honesty I couldn't come up with any ideas for a story.) So I decided to look back on my FIRST EVER BOOK!!! AND re-write it... Almost 11 whole years later!!!

A quick reminder; these stories are likely to vary greatly, so if you have younger readers with you, you may want to screen the posts before sharing. I won't write anything kinky, I'm really not that type... But I may write slightly more intense stories from time to time, or I may simply have some content that you don't want to get in to with your kids right now... I will try to include a "common sense rating" for my stories every week though.

I first wrote this story at 9 years old... so it's totally G. My rewritten version is also totally clean.

(This is the original paper copy... literally written on plain lined paper and bound with yarn. For ease of reading and accuracy I've copied it exactly, misspellings and capitalization errors intact.)

THE PENGUiN with Blue Toes AND A BLue NOSe.          By KAT, 8/17/09.

ONeS UPON A Time THeRe WAS A PENUGiN WiTH BLUe Toes AND A BLUe NoSe… BeCAuSE EVERY WiNTER HE STAYED Home WHERe THeRe WAs FisH TO EAT. AND oF COURSE THE OTHERS pICKED oN HiM.

BUT THe NeXT WiNTeR THeRe WeRe Less PeNGuiNs. So THe HuDDLeiNG ToGATHR THiNG DiDN’T WoRKOUT So WELL. So THEY HAD TO STAY HOMR AND THEY HAD BLUE NOSES AND BLUE TOES. AND HE HAD A ORNGE NOSe AND GREY TOes JusT BeCAUSE HE STAYD Home.

THE END

(Caption- LooK AT WHOS BLUE NOW!.)

(Back cover)

WHAT iF yoU FEEL LiKe you DON’T FiT iN? DiSCOVER WHAT HAPPNS WHEN yOU DON’T FiT iN AND LEARN THE INPORRTANCE OF WAiTiNG FoR YOUR Time To CAmeTOe.

Fascinating read right? Now I know what you are thinking... "The story is good alright.. but with skills like those why didn't you become an artist?" I know... I know... The world of art was calling out to me, but two of my Aunts are already artists, and I didn't want to steal their thunder. ;)

This is sure to be hard, especially with my industry-challenging redundancies, and call to action with the ever shrinking population of penguins... and my youthful professionalism with creating a tantalizing back cover... but I'll see if I can one up it with a few extra years of experience behind me.

The penguin with blue toes and a blue nose. By Kat, 3/23/2020. Once upon a time, there was a penguin named Blizzard, and he didn’t act like other penguins. Most penguins huddle together for warmth when it gets extra cold. But not Blizzard, he didn’t want to wait until winter was over to eat! So he stayed home where there was plenty of yummy fish to eat! But penguins aren’t meant to stay home when the temperatures are so low, and poor Blizzard got SO cold that his toes AND even his nose turned blue! Once it was warm enough for Blizzard to visit the other penguins, he covered his feet in charcoal and went to see his friends. But as soon as they saw him they began to laugh at him. Chilly, Blizzard’s girlfriend didn’t even want to stand next to him! Poor Blizzard was confused! Penguins don’t use mirrors, so he didn’t know that his nose had turned blue; and he had covered the blue on his toes with charcoal, but no one would tell him why they were laughing at him. So he sadly slipped over to the edge of the beach on his own, to figure out why no one wanted to play with him anymore. As soon as he saw his reflection in the icy water, he began to cry… He didn’t want to look so funny, he just hadn't wanted to be hungry! He had such an especially big appetite for a penguin that he couldn’t imagine not eating for such a long amount of time, but now he wished that he had listened to the other penguins when they had told him to huddle up, and he decided that next year he would join the other penguins no matter how hungry it made him. Blizzard spent the next year getting ready to huddle with the other penguins, but he was still worried about getting hungry half-way through the winter. So a few months before they planned to huddle, he went on a diet. He hoped that if he could get used to eating less food, he wouldn’t get hungry so quickly. But poor Blizzard was making a mistake, as the other penguins were eating extra food to make sure their tummies would be full as long as possible. The day before the huddle started he met up with his friends, who looked especially waddly and round. “Blizzard!” they exclaimed upon seeing his slender body, “Why are you so skinny? Have you been sick?” “No,” Blizzard explained, “I’ve been on a diet… now I can go much longer without eating!” Snowball, Blizzard’s best friend, took him aside to explain his mistake. “Blizzard, you were supposed to eat extra food before the huddle so that you won’t start out hungry! If you were to huddle now, you would starve!” Blizzard felt very foolish, and he began to sniffle. “But can’t I just eat extra today and still huddle with the rest of you?” Snowball shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid it’s too late now… you’ll have to stay home again this year.” Blizzard felt miserable. He didn’t want to starve, but he also didn’t want the other penguins to pick on him. So he went straight home and began to eat all the fish he could, hoping to fill his tummy SO much that the other penguins would HAVE to let him join the huddle. But instead he got a big tummy ache and had to stay in bed the whole next day, as snow began to swirl just like his name. Blizzard knew better than to try and join the huddle after the snow had started falling this thickly, but he couldn’t help but remember how the other penguins had avoided him when he was all blue the year before. So he sadly paced around his cave, salty penguin tears slipping down his beak and onto the floor. He kept kicking at the feathers that were on the floor of his cave; he had molted several times the year before, and they were all over the place. He looked down at the piles of thick, warm, downy feathers, and suddenly he had an idea. He gathered up all of the feathers he could find, and he began to weave them together. It took a lot of time, especially as penguins don’t have fingers. But after a few weeks he had a cozy pair of slippers, and a long black and white scarf to cover his nose. And he couldn’t wait to show all of his friends what he had made! Winter lasts long enough when you are a penguin, but it’s extra long when you are missing your friends… and when you want to show them the smart idea you had. But even the longest winter eventually turns into spring, and as soon as it was warm enough Blizzard slipped off his slippers and scarf and hurried out to find his friends. He could see them from the top of the hill where his cave was, and he was far too excited to walk down to them, so he slid down the snow-covered hill on his tummy, (there’s always snow where Blizzard lives) so that he could get to his friends extra quickly; and it was fun to play outside after being stuck in his cave for such a long time. Blizzard went right over to his friends, but as soon as he was close enough to talk to them, he noticed something strange; all of their noses and toes were blue just like his had been the year before! “What happened?” Blizzard asked, “Did everyone forget to huddle this year?” Snowball shook his head, and sneezed, before replying. “No, we all huddled, but they're just weren’t enough of us. We all got cold anyways!” Snowball wiped his eyes, which were all blurry because he had a cold, and he exclaimed “Blizzard! Your nose isn’t blue! And your toes aren't either! What did you do?” Blizzard blushed. All the white feathers on his tummy turned a pale shade of pink (that’s how penguins blush you know,) and he took all the other penguins back to his cave to show them his slippers and scarf. All the other penguins were very impressed with Blizzard, though they all agreed that they were still going to huddle the next year and hope that there were enough of them. The next year Blizzard stayed home again, but this time he wasn’t alone. He had his wife, Chilly, and their new egg to keep him company, and as he went to get a snack for himself and Chilly while they watched their egg, he was very glad that he had decided to stay home. The end.

What do you think? Did I improve upon "perfection" or do you prefer the original?

Thanks for the read!

If you have a story idea that you would like me to tackle please comment it below, I'd be glad of the help!

Vlog post #1!

Welcome to my first ever true vlog post!

Enjoy!

Guardian angel ghost.

Hey y'all!

I'm posting on a Friday! Trippy huh? Well, there is a reason.

Covid 19. We read that phrase a couple of times a day, and I'm sorry to add to that for you, but I swear this is a fun post. Within my Church, there are a lot of people working on social distancing right now, just like thousands of others around the country, and globe... That means that everyone is stuck at home away from people, and eventually, boredom is going to set in, (if it hasn't already). So I've decided to have a "Flash-fiction Friday" I'll be posting short stories every week for the next ten weeks, to see if I can help fend off some of that boredom. 

The stories are likely to vary greatly, so if you have younger readers with you, you may want to screen the posts before sharing; I won't write anything kinky, I'm really not that type... But I may write slightly more intense stories from time to time, or I may simply have some content that you don't want to get in to with your kids right now... I will try to include a "common sense rating" for my stories every week though.

This first story is called Guardian angel ghost. It deals a little with depression, and self-loathing. There is a little bit of suspense, but nothing terrifically scary. Anyone older then 9 should be fine, but if you are willing to get into a conversation about self-loathing and depression with your kids, then there's nothing that should stop you from reading it.

I’ll never forget that night when I met Angela, she wasn’t like anyone else, but to be fair, she was the only ghost that I have ever met.

It was late, maybe two or three in the morning, but I was well past caring about the hour by then. You see, I’ve struggled with depression and self-loathing for quite a while, and that was one of my hard nights. I had been crying and beating myself up in my mind for hours by then, “You’re going to be dead in the morning if you don’t go to sleep soon you idiot… and no one would even miss you.” And in that way my self-destructive cycle continued. I knew that sleep wouldn’t be an option until I could calm myself and that I wouldn’t be calm until I had cried myself out.

I was upset enough that I wasn't really worried about anything except my own misery, with even my safety coming second. So when I heard creaking in the hallway I just disregard it; even when I was sure that I heard footsteps, I only shivered before continuing to cry silently. I was facing the wall opposite my bedroom door while I cried, so I didn’t notice the white glow until she had walked through my door. Despite my anguished soul, I had to turn when I saw the light cast upon my wall. And there she stood, a ghost, real, and in my doorway. I was a little bit emo, and I had read far too many stories which had started this way, and almost none of them ended well, so I began to quake in my bed, too scared to move, with my temporary sorrow forgotten.

She wore a long flowing dress the color of freshly churned butter, and her curly brown hair had so much body that it almost looked like it was floating around her head. Her skin was sunkissed, and she was somehow beyond age… as she was neither young nor old… and yet neither was she middle-aged. Her eyes showed the wisdom of extreme old age, as well as the youthful earnest glow of a young child. The glow which I had seen upon my wall seemed to come from all around her, as well as from within herself, not only her skin but even from her dress itself. She drew closer, each step so light that she almost appeared to be floating. She continued to walk closer, slowly but consistently. I wanted to scream, but I had no breath to do so, and besides that, there was no one else home to come even if I had.

By then she was close enough that I could have reached out and touched her, and she was starting to reach out for me. I pulled myself flat against the back of the bed frame, effectively trapping myself in the corner, now shaking hard enough that I could hear the bed rattling against the outside wall. She took one step closer, and I closed my eyes, I wasn't sure what she was going to do, but I certainly didn’t want to see it happen. I could still see the glow through my eyelids, no matter how tightly I scrunched them shut.

The next thing I felt, shocked me down to my bones; it was her warm rather dainty hand; gently stroking my hair. I opened my eyes, tears of terror shining in my eyes, and watched as she sat lightly on the edge of my bed and softly began to shush me.

“It’s alright Sam. I’m not that type of ghost. You see, I was sent from heaven, by God, to help you. He could see that you were going through an especially rough spot… Although it is odd that you can see me, most people can’t you know.”

I straightened up for a moment, finding that my nose was still running from my tears.

“Most people?” I sniffled.

She smiled gently, one of the most beautiful sights which I expect I will ever see until I can see heaven’s gates with my own eyes.

“Yes, Sam. You didn’t think that God left people to struggle on their own did you?”

I considered this for a moment.

“No… but I thought that He just kept a hand on our shoulders from afar.” She nodded.

“He’s with you all the time, and He walks with you on all days. But some times, in special circumstances, He’ll send one of us down to keep an eye on you for a little while.”

“Really?”

“Really.

It was then that I noticed the odor which clung to her, lavender and cherry-wood, and as strange as it sounds, that also describes how I felt around her; comforted and at home.

“My name is Angela by the way, I’m going to walk with you for the next few days.” The glow which surrounded her felt like an aura of love, and within it, I felt safe and loved, and that was just enough to make me burst back into tears.

Angela didn’t say anything during this time, she was far too wise for that, but instead, she just let me cry, wiping away my tears with the soft hem of her dress… though somehow it remained perfectly dry.

When I began to calm down again, I began to talk; about my insecurities, my self-loathing, and my sorrows. I typically wasn't a talker, but something about her made me feel comfortable, and I had known for a long time that I shouldn’t bottle up my emotions, lest I either explode and hurt my friends, or implode, and hurt myself, and everyone around me. Usually, I was afraid that I would burden others with my problems, but with Angela, I felt like she grew stronger with each worry that I shared.

Just like she had promised, Angela stayed with me for nearly a week and a half, during which I had one of the worst episodes of my young life, but I soon felt stronger then I had for quite a while.

I knew that she wouldn’t stay with me forever, but it still took me by surprise when she told me she needed to leave.

“I will remember you Sam, and I hope that you won’t stop praying like you have these past several days… and that you will keep talking to your friends and family like you’ve started to do under my tutelage… But I need to go, there are others who need my help right now, and you’re already well on your way. Please remember that you aren’t alone, and be as strong as I know that you can be.”

I nodded, tears in my eyes, just like they had been when I first met her, but these tears weren’t borne of self-hatred, but simple loneliness; as I would miss her.

I wish that I could say that I never struggled with depression or self-loathing again, but that wouldn’t be true. I still have hard days, and I still spend some of my nights in tears, and self-destructive cycles, but whenever I felt like I can’t go on, or that I didn’t deserve the oxygen I breathe, I can see Angela’s face light up when she spoke about how much God loved me, and the pain in her face when she wiped away my tears.

If I had the voice to speak to everyone else in the world who hates themselves at 2 AM, I would say this; bad days come and go, and it’s likely to be like that for the rest of your life. But they do GO, and if you make permanent decisions on something so changeable, then either you or your family will regret it. So remember that you are loved, by your family, your friends, and by God, even more then you can fathom and that you aren’t alone. There are a thousand others laying on their beds, feeling worthless and alone, and a thousand people have a whole lot of worth, even in the eyes of the world. And every single one of you is worth more then you can imagine to our true Father.

Keep calm and try to enjoy yourself!

Thanks for the read!

PS. If you have an idea for a short story that you'd like to see me tackle please share it below!

An Irish American historical adventure

Happy St Patrick’s day, and welcome to a history-packed post!

My genes are predominantly composed of a mix between Scandinavian and Celtic roots, and as such, I am Irish. In honor of St Patrick’s day and my Celtic roots, I thought I would talk about some Irish American history; specifically during the American Civil War.

There are two big mistakes you could make when thinking about Irish involvement in the Civil War. One would be to simply overlook it; MANY Irish immigrants fought and died on both sides. While the other would be to think of it as glory-laden, war is messy, politics doubly so.

I want to start by saying that the Irish were highly flawed, most of them were not only fine with slavery, but even in favor of it, and displayed the racism which most people associate with the South during the Civil War, so that you don’t get the wrong idea off of the bat, BUT… 

Immediately before the Civil War broke out, Ireland went through the Great Potato Famine, which wiped out almost 1/3 of the population, one way which the Irish managed to survive was to immigrate in America. But when they got here, they were treated horribly, the strong anti-Irish sentiments at that time kept them from finding employment, or even found them doing jobs deemed too dangerous for even slaves, and starving in the new world was not preferable to starving at home, so many entered the war, and those who didn’t were later conscripted. And even after fighting and dying in the Civil War, the Irish continued to get a bum rap for several decades. (There’s much more to this story and I would encourage you to look into it! I would also recommend you listen to “By the hush” an actual Civil War song about Irish conscription. But I’m gonna move on for now.) 

So in honor of the rough trip, many Irish Americans had throughout the Civil War, and their often ignored struggles, (and the fact that I couldn’t find any historical Irish cookbooks,) I decided to have a Civil War-era bake day.  

As always I tried to keep to 2 big rules.

1. 
   
   
   As much as possible, keep to tools that were already around, IE I needed to use my stove and oven, but the stand mixer? Nope. The rubber scraper? (as I’m not sure when that was originally created) Not really a need no.
   
2. 
   
   
   Use authentic recipes as much as possible. Being one of two vegetarians with two gluten sensitivities as well as living in a house FULL of lactose intolerances, some things did need to be tweaked.
   

These recipes were taken from “What to do with the cold mutton: a book of Réchauffés.” Published in New York in 1865, the year the war ended. And this time, for fun, I invited a friend who happens to love baking over to help! And just like last time, I had a marvelous kitchen elf named “mom” to help me as well. 

Needless to say at this point, some things didn’t go as expected, so here as our menu as it technically should have read (there were also green beans on it originally, but we straight up forgot to make them, so I pulled them off for accuracy.)

Breakfast: Ravensworth pudding- An apple “pudding”, (think English puddings, not wet and squishy, more like bread pudding.)

Lunch: Soupe à la bonne femme- “Soup of the good woman” Basically potato soup.

Dinner: Roman pudding-Basically macaroni and cheese with rabbit added, (we used vegan chicken.)

Dessert: Strawberry Soufflé.

Let’s go through the day chronologically shall we? 

I started the apples for the Ravensworth pudding at about 8:00, they needed to be cooked through and cooled before I could start much, and my friend arrived at 9:00, just in time to help me “pulp” the apples. At that point, we realized that we should have already toasted some bread to make crumbs, and proceeded to spend the next half hour or so trying to toast and crumb some freaking bread. Gluten-free bread doesn't toast well to start with, but even by those standards this was ridiculous.)

After we had stuck the Ravensworth pudding in the oven to cook for an hour and a half, we started the Soupe à la bonne femme, which had some odd instructions of its own. I decided to make an executive decision that cooking onions for a full half-hour was madness, so we fried them up and tossed them in the boiling broth. The really odd instruction came in here; we were supposed to fry the potatoes BEFORE tossing them in the soup, and, that is exactly what we did, albeit with a little confusion.

By the time the potatoes were cooked up, (it took many batches to finish frying all of the potatoes) the soup was nearly done, but there was still about 45 minutes till the pudding was done, and there were loudly growling stomachs to address by that time, so we went ahead and ate the soup-lunch, BEFORE the pudding-breakfast. 

All in all, both of these dishes were well received, we could see exactly why the potatoes were pre-cooked, as this imparted a delicious raw-fry type taste, and we were all quite glad to have officially become “good women” by making this soup together, and the Ravensworth pudding was amazing. 

Two success under our belts, we gathered our confidence to stand united against my old foe; Soufflé. 

This time the instructions told us to beat the egg whites to “snow” which we all agreed was quite vivid imagery, and much more descriptive than “stiff peaks”, and we set to work. 

Once this rather exhausting task was completed we took to the stovetop, melting butter and cooking jam and milk together. Once these many parts were combined into an oddly fluffy looking batter, we poured about half of it into a soufflé pan, while the other half was chucked slightly less ceremoniously into a dish in the oven to cook, and proceeded to play peek-a-boo through the oven window for the next hour as it cooked. We chattered and wondered at what would come out, although there was no way to predict what would happen next.

The first of the two came out much like the last Soufflé I attempted, without an abhorrent amount of salt that it, while the other dish, being a little larger, and oval rather than a circular thick sided dish needed to cook a little longer. Once the second Soufflé (which was BREATHING!) came out we decided to try a little bit, to see if it cooked any differently… and as it happened it came out completely opposite to the other, as you can see in the photo. But what the photo fails to show is that they even TASTED different! While the first was sweet and almost a little fruity, almost like some sort of sweet bread in flavor, the second tasted like straight sweet butter! It was quickly agreed that some sort of scientifically impossible transformation had happened.

After this confusing episode, we started dinner, which as you can probably guess by now, had a rather strange instruction. We were to “sprinkle vermicelli and place paste around the edges of the pan.” I misread this to mean that we were meant to paste the raw vermicelli (spaghetti, they don’t seem to make gluten-free vermicelli) around the edges of the dish decorative, although I’m still not exactly sure what was meant by this, with hindsight I’m sure that it didn’t mean this, as the paste burned quite badly, and the paste remained completely raw.    

With the exception of this massive error on my part, the Roman pudding was a success, quite good, although it tasted more like a hot dish than macaroni and cheese. 

It seems that with every historical bake day, I grow as a baker, and I certainly use the failures as a chance to continue practicing the ancient art of laughing at myself. All in all, this was a great bake day, with nothing being inedible, and we all enjoyed a wonderful time to laugh and hang out together. And if I may go this far, I think that we are all beginning to grow a deeper appreciation for the housewives of old, and envy for the bulging biceps that they must have had with all of that mixing. Although I’m also sure that somewhere, a Victorian lady is rolling over in her grave at those three fools who put RAW pasta on the sides of the pan, and we are rolling with her, although we’re rolling in laughter.

Happy St Patrick's day, and thanks for the read!