Hello, whoever you are.
*You’ve stumbled across this AvPD blog, which is for anyone who either has Avoidant Personality Disorder, suspects they do, or simply finds themselves typing things like “Why can’t I make friends?” into Google at 3 a.m.
I did that for years. Why do I freeze when someone talks to me? Why do I feel sick at the thought of going to a birthday party? Eventually, I discovered AvPD, which explained everything – and nothing. Everything, because the traits read like a police sketch of me; nothing, because knowing what you are doesn’t magically fix you.
For the record, I was “diagnosed” in 2023, during a one-hour phone call with a psychiatrist. Yes, an hour. Over the phone. Brackets very much intended.
This isn’t a clinical blog. There are plenty of those, written in the comforting tones of people who can still make small talk in a lift. This is about what it feels like to live with AvPD: the awkwardness, the shame, the absurd coping strategies, the moments so bleak they circle back to funny.
I should mention something upfront: I have no one. No partner, no family, no emergency contact. No one to list under Next of Kin except, perhaps, the hedgehog in my garden. And before you start thinking this is a cry for help, it’s not. I like my own company. Mostly. It’s just that sometimes the silence feels like it’s pressing its hands around my throat.
People always say, “Just be yourself.” I’d love to, honestly, but I haven’t the faintest idea who that is.
I’ve searched for others like me in forums, groups, all those places introverts are supposed to congregate – but I’ve never met anyone quite as… solo. Most people, even the lonely ones, still seem to have someone. I don’t. And yes, I know you can feel desolate even in a crowd. I’ve read the same quotes on Instagram as you.
This blog, then, is part diary, part SOS. A message in a bottle from someone who spends most of her life indoors, reading books, feeding foxes, spoiling her two rescue cats and wondering if she’ll end up as one of those headlines: Skeleton of Woman Found in Suburban House. Cats Appear Well-Fed.
I was born in 1965, which technically makes me… well, let’s not do the maths. But I’m a young mid-lifer in looks, flexibility, and the things I still find exciting. Thanks to some cosmetic help thirty years ago, I’m surprisingly well-preserved – more rollercoaster than rocking chair. Give me a day at a funfair, hair flying, stomach dropping, over a genteel afternoon of tea and scones any time. After all, tea and scones require conversation.
About Me In A Nutshell
I’m hypervigilant for any signs of disapproval or disrespect and can show some not so nice personality traits in response.
I’ve had three and a half lots of therapy – all with different therapists. One was made redundant halfway through my treatment (my fault probably), another was a fairly nice woman who tried to teach me that not everything ends in disaster and that I should look for actual evidence people don’t like me. I looked. I found the evidence. Verified.
The third therapist… well, I had a mad crush on him and I’m fairly sure it was mutual, which made therapy a lot more interesting for a few weeks. (Nothing happened, unless you count excessive eye contact.) My fourth therapist was lovely, but I gave up after several weeks because I was just telling the same stories on repeat. Also, I never actually went anywhere to test my “new skills,” so it was more theory than practice.
I’ve decided I’m too old and too tired for more therapy. It’s never really worked for me, and I’ve finally admitted the truth: I just don’t like being around people.
I live as a recluse such is my fear of people, and spend my time reading and watching true crime (I have recommendations), home improvements, looking after my cats and hiding from the world – especially pervy Nigel from down the road.
I’m vegan and love all animals.
My extreme social anxiety is back to front; I can maybe approach certain people, and funnily enough appear super confident when uttering those first few words. After that, I’m a quivering wreck.
My weirdness around people started when I was around 25 and slowly escalated.
I didn’t learn who my biological father was until my mid thirties. Mother – capital M, because theatrics – spent decades rotating between three possible dads. None applied for the role. If you’re thinking “Ah, attachment issues with men?” gold star. I spent a good chunk of adulthood auditioning for male approval like it was a West End revival.
I know most of us with AvPD will have similar stories.
So if you’re here, welcome. You’re not the only one terrified of other humans yet still craving connection.
And if you’re completely, utterly alone? Then this AvPD blog isn’t just for you – it’s for all of us. We can be alone… together.
*I know a little about SEO but it’s going to take until around summer of 2026 before my pages come up in Search. I might (I am scared) create an X page before then though so maybe you will find me through there. I also suffer from chronic migraines, so doing too much isn’t possible for me – but I hope to add one new page per week.
