I Can’t Let Anyone Get Close To Me

I can’t let anyone get close to me such is my fear of rejection, judgement and my apathy to most things spoken.

Most people with anxiety seem to experience it in a way that’s entirely opposite to mine. They struggle with going out, answering the door, or being around strangers – but they’re often fine with people they know. They have that small circle: family, friends and partners.

I’m the opposite; I can’t let anyone get close to me, not one single person it seems. I’m at the point where I can only manage a few sentences spread out over time, and then I stutter and stumble and then feel as if I might pass out. I’m not listening to what people are saying or even that interested to be honest – probably due to being in my head too much.

It’s a lonely kind of fear. Because it means I can function on the surface. I can open the door for deliveries, I can chat to the postperson, I can even be weirdly charming for 20 seconds if needed. But I can’t sustain it. The minute there’s a third exchange, a second laugh, a lingering conversation, I crumble. My heart races, my words tangle, and I feel this inner pull to retreat before they see too much.

Because when they see how odd I am, they can’t get away fast enough. 

The Mask I Wear

I can’t let anyone get close to me, because I don’t even know who they’d be getting close to. I’ve spent so much of my life performing – picking and choosing pieces of myself depending on who’s around. I’m like a patchwork of personalities, stitched together to seem passable. Funny. Normal. Easy to be around.

But it’s exhausting. And eventually, every version I try to be wears thin.

Take my neighbours for instance. When I moved into my new home in 2022, I told myself I’d try this time. I’d try not to worry about how I was coming across and really listen to them. After all, when you’re in your head and not listening, you can’t exactly flow with the convo. But even in those early garden chats – I just couldn’t stop worrying about how I was being perceived. So obviously, I wasn’t concentrating on what was being said and couldn’t respond like a normal person does.

By the third “hello,” I was already peering through the front door like a fugitive, timing my gardening around whether the coast was clear. That initial, beaming version of me was already falling apart. I can’t let anyone get close to me, because I know I can’t maintain the version of me they think they met.

Almosts And Maybes

I did manage to speak to one woman a few times. She was gentle, a good listener, the kind of person who waits for you to finish your sentence. We even went to the cinema together. But then, there we were, sitting in silence in the foyer with coffee, and I froze.

Fifteen seconds of silence. That’s all it took. I panicked. She asked what I’d done that day, probably just to fill the space, but in that moment, I shut down. I’ve barely spoken to her since.

Another time, an old acquaintance messaged me out of the blue and we arranged to meet for drinks. I knew I shouldn’t have agreed. I knew I’d end up shapeshifting again, and I did. She got drunk and loud, so I pretended to be drunk and loud too. But none of it was real. I was performing. Again. I couldn’t wait to leave, and when I did, we never spoke again.

This is what it looks like when I try to connect. And it’s why I stop trying.

A Deep, Unspoken Fear

I can handle transactional interactions. I like hospital appointments, if I’m honest. They’re neat, structured, and safe. A beginning, middle, and end. The doctor doesn’t want to be my friend. They don’t care about the real me, and that’s a relief. I also feel that I have some worth, as they are being paid to give me their time.

I can’t let anyone get close to me because rejection is always waiting just around the corner. I pre-empt it by disappearing first. I ghost, I retreat, I vanish – because at least if I’m the one to walk away, I get to avoid the full weight of that crushing confirmation that I was never enough to begin with.

It’s lonely. And it’s not poetic, movie-scene loneliness. It’s raw, silent, clock-ticking, how-did-I-end-up-here kind of loneliness.

And still, I can’t let anyone get close to me.

When Isolation Is Survival

Sometimes I think about what would happen if I died at home. How long would it take for someone to notice? Maybe years like Joyce Carol Vincent who’s skeleton was found in her flat after three years (with the TV still on and working oddly enough).

The only comfort I have is that my two rescue cats have a cat flap. I hope they’d meow on the garden wall long enough for someone to wonder why and that they would be saved. That’s how deep this isolation runs. My biggest concern in death isn’t that I’m gone – it’s that no one would know or care that I ever existed.

A Complicated Kind Of Coping

Some people might read this and think, but if you want connection, why not just push through it? But what they don’t see is that wanting something and being able to tolerate it are two different things. I want connection. I ache for it. But I also feel exhausted, not knowing who I am and how I should be acting. When people say, “just be yourself”, I don’t even know who that is.

I can’t let anyone get close to me. Not because I don’t want to – but because unless I feel they adore me, I feel rejected. Just being okay with me isn’t enough.

I feel as if I’m unique in this way.

I’d like to end on a more positive note though. Despite everything, I’m genuinely grateful for the things I do have – my home, my two rescue cats, and the small comforts like gardening and getting lost in a good book.

Even with this AvPD thing hanging around us, life can still have its good moments. It might look different from other people’s lives, but it’s still a life.

And let’s be honest – at least we’re spared the chaos of other people’s dramas and those never-ending one-sided conversations.