October 4th 2026
I’ve had a few interactions this week which have confirmed that I just cannot be around most people because of the way my brain interprets communication. My whole self-worth is based on how other people treat me, and anything short of near adoration leaves me feeling rejected, humiliated, fundamentally unlovable and wondering whether I should just walk around with my head down. At night.
Episode 1
I went down to the lake, which is about six miles from where I live, and was feeding bread to the swans. A woman from the local swan rescue was there. She was nice enough, but she made a comment about me feeding them bread.
In my head I said, “Didn’t the Queen’s Swan Marker, David Barber, once make a statement saying it was OK to feed swans bread? It’s not the best source of food, but even the Swan Sanctuary says it’s OK.”
What came out of my mouth was, “Didn’t the Queen’s swan person say it was ok though?”
She agreed, but said that if everyone fed them bread, the swans wouldn’t be getting the nutrition they need.
Fair point, I thought. If everyone is choosing cheap bread as their sole contribution to the swan buffet, then yes, that’s probably not ideal.
But why didn’t she thank me for caring?
That’s the bit my AvPD brain couldn’t get past. Instead of “Oh, lovely, you’re looking after them,” it felt like I was being gently but firmly lectured.
Episode 2
I messaged the local swan rescue people to give them an update on the family of swans and signets near me.
No reply.
Chopped liver again!
They must know that I’m a liability or that I’m just too needy.
Episode 3
I feed the swans a mixture of swan food, bread and peas.
On this particular day they had bread and peas. I got caught.
A woman and a man were talking loudly on the bridge, but I wasn’t listening because my AvPD brain was too busy worrying about how I looked, how I was sitting, how my movements were coming across, and whether these two humans were people on my side or enemies who hated me feeding the wildlife.
Then the woman called out to me:
“Oh, it’s you.”
It was a near neighbour.
“You shouldn’t give the swans bread,” she said, loudly.
“I know. I have peas here too, look.”
She gave me a withering look.
I was sitting there shrinking into myself thinking, Oh God, she hates me, I’m so unpopular, I have no idea what to say now, she’s going to realise just how incompetent I am.
But there’s another thing about me that makes my personality surprising and confusing to people. If I feel I’m being rejected, I can transform from a whimpering wreck into a bolshy little bastard who suddenly wants to fight everyone.
She hadn’t been really nasty so there was no need for Mr Hyde to pop up, but I politely piped up with the Queen’s Swan Marker thing as a way of warning her that she shouldn’t go much further with me.
She went on about mouldy bread being dangerous. I told her my bread was fresh and perfectly fine.
Oh, fuck off, you ignorant bitch, I thought to myself.
Then she proceeded to cut me off and talk over me.
At this point I was feeling so bad that I was almost tempted to ask her to forgive me for my bread-feeding sins.
Either that or just rudely turn my back on her. As I’ve said, she hadn’t quite pushed me to the Mr Hyde point.
I carried on letting her chat over me and then she finally left me in peace.
So, anyway, I’ve decided I’m not going to do swan rescue volunteering.
A posh neighbour who lives by the canal once told me his wife used to volunteer, but the whole charity became consumed by egos and infighting.
But isn’t that just people, though?
Including myself, most probably, to a certain extent.
But you know what? If people have something to say to me, they can use a softer tone rather than blasting me with their opinions. That’s what I would do. I also wouldn’t cut someone off while they were talking to me. And if someone messaged me with an update about a family of swans they’d been following, I would reply.
Am I just too much of a people pleaser?
Do I expect other people to behave the way I would behave? Or is this actually just the norm when it comes to human interaction?
And because I still don’t know what my personality actually is, the next time I see my neighbour I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do.
Ignore her?
Smile pleadingly as though silently asking for forgiveness for my bread-based crimes?
Or give her a withering look, just to see how she likes it?
At the moment, I’m waiting for her and her husband to walk home so I can go about my swan duties and life in general without her condescending know all attitude pointed in my direction.
Avoidant.
September 27th 2026
I’ve spent all week alone, as I do most weeks, but yesterday there was SWAN DRAMA at Swan Food Harrassment Headquarters™.
To get out of the house, I walk along the canal for a couple of miles most days. I’ve been following and feeding nine signets for the past eight months and am completely addicted to them. They recognise me and come charging over doing that excited neck-wiggling thing they do.
But yesterday something awful happened.
A canal boat that had gone through the lock didn’t think to let two adult swans out. I am so unsure of myself and so convinced that I know nothing that, when I asked if the swans could get out of the lock area, and was told they could climb out or fly out, a little voice in my head was saying that this isn’t true, but I just thought, well, Kate, you’re thick and know nothing – so I accepted it.
Then an awful fight broke out.
A male swan – an interloper, I think – was trying to drown the female, and it was nasty.
He kept holding her head under the water for around seven seconds at a time.
I called out to the people on the canal boat and the woman said that swans drown each other all the time. No biggie.
I’m not having it though!
Everything happened in a rush. Someone came out of a nearby house and handed me a long stick, which I used to try to get the cob off the poor drowning pen, but they were too far out and all I could do was tap the swan with it.
So I threw bread and peas at them.
The cob stopped for a snack.
And then, stuff the peas. Back to murder.
I was shouting, “HE’S DROWNING HER! OPEN THE LOCK!”
Someone eventually did open the lock, and the female managed to get away. All was fine again.
I spoke to the woman from the house afterwards and she told me they can’t fly out because they need a longer flight path.
I thought so at the time, but then thought, everyone else probably knows better than you, you idiot.
When I got home, I contacted the local swan rescue and, long story short, I’ve volunteered to help.
Maybe this will actually suit someone with AvPD?
I’ll feel needed, I’ll be mostly dealing with animals, there’ll be absolutely no need for small talk, and it’s something I genuinely want to do.
Since then, however, I’ve become convinced that the swan people have been down to Swan Food Harrassment Headquarters™ and have been asking around about the incident. They’ve spoken to the witnesses, compared notes and concluded that a strange woman (me) became hysterical, was completely incompetent, nearly fell into the canal and probably shouldn’t be allowed within 50 feet of a swan.
I’m now fairly sure I’ve been quietly blacklisted.
A lot of people would worry about how they have come across in any given situation, but for those of us with AvPD, because our self-worth is so heavily tied to other people’s opinions of us, we experience a completely different level of self-consciousness, shame and fear of rejection. It isn’t simply, “Oh they must think I’m such a fool.” It’s more like, “They’re embarrassed even to think about me, if they were standing by me, they would look at the ground and shuffle their feet, they don’t want me around, I’ve made a complete fool of myself, nobody likes me, most people hate me, what’s the point of living?”
September 23rd 2026
Jackie cancelled that morning, saying she felt rough, and I believe her. So it was just me and Stuart who’s 41, a professional and, let’s say, unique. He doesn’t have trouble talking, but the way he is in general is slightly wacky. What’s the opposite of charismatic? Invisible, maybe?
Well, that’s me, so I shouldn’t judge. But even so…
I might be boring and bland in conversation, but I don’t want to be around people who are the same. Then, when I’m with those lovely charismatic people, I feel completely incompetent and on the verge of a heart attack – which is probably why I prefer staying at home.
Lively, charismatic people – I’m an incompetent mess.
Nervous, staid people like myself – I feel slightly less incompetent, but I’m bored and wish I could just stare into space.
And I’m constantly monitoring myself in both situations. I also find that chit-chat is performative and slightly point-scoring.
We had coffee for two hours and it was ok-ish. But, of course, I just wanted to get home.
And then I met Jackie on her own. This is the first time in around 20 years that I’ve met another woman for a drink. She really is lovely, but again, I just wanted to go home.
It must be the constant monitoring? Maybe if I/we didn’t have this goddamn thing, we would enjoy conversation – or maybe not?
I am losing the plot when it comes to what any of this means, and am wondering if I should accept that I just don’t like being around people, full stop.
September 13th 2026
To my surprise, Jackie actually did contact me. She left me a voice note asking if I wanted to meet up because she’d like to get to know me better!!
I cannot meet her on my own, so the other guy is coming along too. We’re meeting this week for something I absolutely hate doing: a walk and a coffee.
I need someone else there to take the onus off me so I can just chip in here and there, without revealing quite how useless I am at conversation.
And here’s an example of how I can spiral completely over something that would probably just make most people feel a bit pissed off.
I put my old car up for sale and, within about ten minutes, I had a call from a trader who couldn’t actually tell me what company he was from. He wanted my postcode so he could perhaps come over and buy the car that afternoon.
I thought he sounded a bit dodgy, but instead of saying, “Thanks, I’ll think about it as it’s only just gone up for sale,” I said yes, I’d send him the postcode. I was then going to Google his number to see if it was linked to his business.
But as soon as we hung up, another man called wanting the car for his daughter. He paid £100 into my account there and then, so that was that. Car sold.
Meanwhile, Mr Dodgy was ringing me and left a voicemail saying he was driving over now and that I needed to send him the postcode.
I called him back and said I was really sorry, but I’d just sold the car.
He told me we had a deal and that karma would get me.
To which I elegantly responded by telling him to fuck off and slamming the phone down.
He then called back and left me a message calling me stupid and a horrible person.
I started shaking, convinced he was probably going to trace my address from my registration number and put a brick through my window. I berated myself, decided he was right and that I was a stupid, horrible person, and then spiralled into, “What’s the point of living?”
I wasn’t going to kill myself, but I found myself thinking that I couldn’t wait for this life to end. I felt thick, stupid and completely pointless.
Eventually I spoke to ChatGPT, who managed to calm me down by pointing out that it was perhaps a little presumptuous of Karma Kev to get into his car and start driving over before he’d even been given my postcode.
We agreed that, yes, I probably shouldn’t have told him I would send it. But I wasn’t responsible for the fact that he decided to drive over anyway, and most car dealers presumably experience people changing their minds about cars on a fairly regular basis without resorting to lectures about karma.
So there we are.
I’ve been chatting to a couple of people who live on the canal boats. One guy actually walked off after having to deal with me for ten minutes.
We were chatting about the swans and then he was saying that watching nature is so much better than watching TV. I agreed (of course), and then I mentioned something the signets were doing. He said, “They do a lot of repeats”. I said, “What, farting you mean?”
Totally crossed wires as he was of course still on the TV conversation.
Is it any wonder people don’t like me?
I’ve also been chatting to Paul, a guy who lives on a canal boat. Usually it’s just ten minutes here and there, but yesterday we chatted for about half an hour.
It actually wasn’t too bad but this is the initial stage before I start avoiding.
I think this is because we are both two lonely old gits and we’re on a level where I don’t feel particularly inferior to him. There’s something strangely comforting about talking to someone who seems to be operating from roughly the same emotional postcode as you.
He’ll be moving on soon, but I told him that I do the canal walk almost every day, even in winter, so when he comes back I’ll see him then.
He said he’ll be back in about eight weeks and, weirdly, I’m actually looking forward to it.
We’re the same age and we both grew up in the same town, going to all the same pubs and clubs.
There’s absolutely no attraction there on either side, but honestly, how handy is it to make friends with people who don’t stick around for very long?
I can have a weak friendship – remember, I can’t let anyone get close to me – and then, when he moves on, I get a nice two-month break.
It’s almost the perfect friendship arrangement for someone with AvPD.
Friendship, but with an expiry date.
Also, I went down to feed the signets a couple of days ago and a woman was already there feeding them and so we got chatting.
Today I went for my daily walk and I saw her with her dog and said hi and isn’t the dog cute etc. Then I was stiff, awkward and just awful.
I walked off and she said something to me and I just laughed like a simpleton whilst carrying on on my way.
I hate myself.
September 6th 2026
I turned up an hour early and sat around outside pretending to look at my phone with “I’m popular” eyes.
Here I was, actually out for a social with people I didn’t know, pretending I meet friends in pubs all the time and have lots of important messages coming through on my Android.
Jackie turned up first and she was absolutely lovely.
Which meant that I immediately felt like a complete incompetent next to her – because Jackie doesn’t have anxiety. She’s a sympathiser.
She was witty, friendly and charming, and thank goodness she was there because myself and the other two men who turned up were definitely none of those things.
I did my usual thing of being ridiculously loud and confident, boasting that I had two cooling units at home.
I don’t know why I do that.
Maybe I think people will rate me as a better person if I tell them I have two of something.
It wasn’t a completely random thing to say. We were actually talking about cooling units. Someone might casually mention that they like them so much that they have two.
But I don’t say it like that. I say it in a way that sounds like I’m making an important announcement.
I don’t mean, “Cooling units are brilliant, so I decided I needed two.” I convey, “Look at me. I have TWO cooling units. I am worthy. Please rate me accordingly.”
Anyway, having established myself as an apparently confident – albeit a weird attention seeking – person, I slid back into my shoulders and turned into my default personality: a stuttering imbecile on speed desperately trying to fill in any nano-second of silence.
It wasn’t long before one of the men started talking over me, which made me shrink back even further.
We stayed for a couple of hours and, actually, it was okay inasmuch as I didn’t completely implode. But I felt uncomfortable and just wanted to be at home. I don’t know why I do this to myself.
It’s an awful dilemma this not wanting to be around anyone but also feeling desperately lonely.
Jackie also has no family or partner, which is unusual, and I’d love to be friends with her but there is no way that I can be. Being around socially buoyant and capable people makes me feel really bad about myself.
I created a little online group for us. There are two others in the group who couldn’t make the meetup.
Jackie has since posted in the group saying that it was so nice to meet me and that she looks forward to meeting me again very soon.
See? Competent!
I cannot be around her again, I don’t think.
Neil has been messaging me since, and he seems to be the only one who actually needs someone. I can only be around people with issues, and even then I have to choose carefully.
Actually, he has just messaged me and asked if I want to go to a festival tonight, which I’m super grateful for, but I’ve declined this time. Maybe I should go to the next one with him?
The other man I was talking to before the meetup, well, our chats have fallen back a bit, and I get the feeling he’s not really needing friends. Or friends like me, anyway.
And so we have this little online group, and yet no one is talking.
I feel like just closing it down and blocking everyone apart from Neil. Who I don’t fancy, by the way. He is 41 and has ADHD and RSD, so he’s probably having a meltdown right about now after I’ve said no to going out tonight.
Neil has given me links to a couple of local groups, which I’ve joined, and one of them seems fairly promising.
Maybe my social life could just consist of starting groups, keeping them alive briefly, ending them, going to events, meeting people once, going to different events to meet new people, and then completely forgetting the people I met previously?
And so I have been on a roll this week and posted in another group asking for socially terrified friends.
The responses range from people who seem remarkably competent – judging by their profiles, where they are out and about doing things with friends and family – to people who have physical health problems and can’t get out of the house.
The latter tend to answer in two-word sentences, which doesn’t exactly make me feel as though they like me.
I woke up this morning to what I thought was a voicemail message. Not Messenger – an actual voicemail, because I don’t have anyone who texts me.
I lay there in bed hoping it was from someone I’d blocked, because blocked numbers can still leave voicemail messages on Android phones.
Maybe my step-dad. Maybe my friend Anna. Maybe even the guy from the North.
But no.
It was a message reminding me that my MOT is due.
I need to be more laid-back and cool, so I have my eye on a book called Stoicism: How to Use Stoic Philosophy to Find Inner Peace and Happiness. (Update: I thought it was boring and not for people who have what we have. Although I only got to the end of the first chapter.)
I don’t think anything can help me because my personality is so deeply ingrained. But I love the idea of becoming the sort of person who just idles around with an inner confidence, completely comfortable with nano-second silences and naturally charming without having to try.
I don’t believe in miracles, though, so I’m not expecting to finish the book and suddenly become this effortlessly relaxed, mysterious woman who doesn’t care what anyone thinks.
But it can’t harm me to read it.
August 30th 2026
Well, I’m meeting a few people in a pub on Tuesday!
I had a mad half an hour and made a post in a local Meetup group asking if anyone had anxiety, specifically social anxiety. Five people responded, and somehow that’s how it happened.
Only one of them is really chatty, and we get along great over Messenger. He’s a 38-year-old guy who is actually quite similar to me as in he spends most of his time alone. He has his kids over but apart from that, no friends because he also struggles to let anyone get close to him.
And also – this is a biggie for me – he’s a bit of an adrenaline junkie and loves rollercoasters, so I’m hoping we can be friends, even with our massive age gap.
I usually find these online groups difficult because nobody really talks apart from the usual, “Have a great day!” nonsense.
How is that creating a friendship?
I have zero social graces, admittedly, but I’m not mad enough to expect people to tell me their entire life story straight away. I just want a bit of chit-chat, sharing stories, having a laugh – that sort of thing.
I’m lying and telling people that I’m three years younger than I am, but that’s nothing compared to what I did to the poor guy from oop North, who I totally gaslit and knocked a whole ten years off my age.
We’re meeting in a pub in the late afternoon, and I’m planning for it to be a short get-together of maybe two hours.
I haven’t been in a pub for eight years. The last time was when I tried one of these Meetup things, and that was quite an experience because the group turned out to be into polyamory – so basically a bunch of swingers.
At the time I thought, well, they’re alternative, so maybe I’ll get along with them.
A guy fourteen years younger than me took an interest, and we ended up having a fling that lasted two months.
The usual thing happened. Crazy about me, gets to know what I’m actually like, then bolts.
(I feel I have to explain. This man was very single, but a woman there who was married to his friend wanted his body. Luckily he wasn’t interested in her.)
Anyway, I’ve been carrying on with my walks and feeding the lovely wildlife. The swans now sit right beside me on the canal bank, and I absolutely love it. I’m not sure the neighbours are quite as enthusiastic, but I’m trying hard not to care.
Actually, I think the only way I would ever be completely happy is to live on some sort of animal rescue farm.
There’s something about animals learning to trust me that gives me a kind of validation I don’t seem to get anywhere else.
When a wild animal that has every reason to be wary of you decides you’re safe, it makes me ridiculously happy.
Maybe that’s what I need.
Not a social life.
Just a farm full of animals that have decided I’m wonderful.
But seeing as that isn’t going to happen, I’ll just carry on doing sporadic meetups with people I don’t know, who will think I’m quite nice for the first two minutes before watching me slowly unravel and deciding I’m about as wonderful as a pile of rotten turnips.
August 22nd 2026
I actually haven’t spoken to anyone this week.
I’m getting along really well with my new online friend, but I’ve realised I’m constantly testing her. The annoying thing is, I don’t even know I’m doing it until a few hours later when the penny drops.
I’ll reply to one of her messages in a slightly cool, aloof way, and then when I convince myself I’m losing her, I suddenly become ridiculously affectionate and start calling her Sugar Puff or Chicken.
She calls me Hun.
It’s such a game. And such a drag.
Why can’t I just be consistent without putting everyone through my own personal “How Much Do You Like Me?” assessment?
I’ve decided that what I actually fancy doing is going down to one of those proper old man’s pubs. You know the sort – sticky carpet, a dart board, a pool table and faded posters on the walls that have been there so long nobody knows whether they’re still advertising something or are just part of the décor.
I’d quite like to get a bit merry, have a flirt and, ideally, become the centre of attention.
I’ve come to this conclusion because I’ve been thinking about what I’d actually want to do with any new friends.
I don’t want to go shopping.
I don’t want to meet for coffee.
I don’t want to wander around old buildings pretending to be fascinated by medieval drains.
Because all of those activities involve talking.
And I find small talk – and life in general – so bloody boring.
So anyway, I posted in a local group asking whether anyone with mental health issues wanted to join me and my friend for activities.
I said I like things that give me an adrenaline rush, and that I also enjoy the occasional afternoon drink, which I haven’t actually done for ten years.
I made sure to mention the ten-year bit in case everyone immediately assumed I was an alcoholic.
How sad is it, at my age, that I only seem to feel socially comfortable if I’ve either had a couple of vodkas or I’m screaming my head off on a roller coaster?
Someone replied saying she has anxiety and would love a boozy afternoon.
I immediately looked at her profile and noticed she was a bit fuddy-duddyish.
The truth is, I don’t particularly want to spend my weekends with women my age who have hairy legs and wear white socks with sandals.
I realise I’m hardly in a position to be fussy and that I’m judging people before I’ve even met them.
But I also think it’s a fairly normal human thing to do.
Most people end up gravitating towards friends who are a bit like themselves, don’t they?
And so, once again, I find myself in my favourite place of all.
Planning an exciting new social life that will probably never happen.
Safe.
August 16th 2026
Seeing as I continuously need other people’s behaviour to prove that I’m worthy, this has been another shit week where I’ve almost decided that I’m just going to stay home, rot and not even bother trying to better myself.
Yes, I did block my old friend Anna after she hadn’t contacted me for a week, following her abandoning our voice-note conversation halfway through.
That leaves me with my one online friend, who I’ve been chatting to for six years but have never actually met, despite her living only forty-five minutes away.
Then, while I was feeding the swans and their signets on the other side of the canal, away from me and my neighbours’ houses, I was crouched down when I spotted Trevor walking his dog. He gazed across the water at me, clearly not wanting to acknowledge that he’d seen me, although it was fairly obvious that he had. So I waved at him like a maniac.
His response was to casually lift his arm in a half-wave and call out, “Hello,” in one of those nonchalant tones that sounds almost menacing in its fuckoffery.
Shit, I thought. I really am not popular.
Another neighbour offered me a Red Hot Poker plant about two weeks ago and I haven’t seen her since. So, needing to communicate my displeasure, I’ve just ordered three of them from Amazon, which I shall plant out the front in the dead of night in an act of passive-aggressive horticulture so she gets the hint when she walks past.
My new female online friend and I are getting along really well, but I’ve started to feel rejected by her too. A therapist would probably tell me to look for the evidence that someone doesn’t like me, but that’s not really the problem.
I don’t just need evidence that someone likes me. I need them to absolutely fucking adore me.
A limp-wristed half-wave isn’t enough. I want a manic wave, a beaming smile and a loud, “Hiya! How are you doing?” along with a coffee invite.
I don’t want my new online friend messaging me goodnight at 9pm. She should like me enough to want to chat to me all night.
And I don’t want her telling me she feels rough and is going to spend the afternoon reading a book and that we can chat soon.
WTF?
Even if she’s rough, reading or whatever, she should still want to message me. Surely she can read and adore me simultaneously.
I’ve had quite a few guys messaging me on Plenty of Fish, but I really can’t be bothered. Who would want this anyway? And, to be honest, I’ve been on my own for so long that a bloke would probably just get under my feet.
I know that’s not necessarily true. When you meet someone you actually want, everything changes. But I really can’t be bothered with the interview process required to find out whether that’s going to happen.
And then there’s my face.
For the last ten years, I’ve only really looked at myself in small mirrors at home, which I now realise have been positioned in flattering lighting. As I never go out, I don’t get much opportunity to encounter other mirrors.
Except when I met the guy from up North.
I remember looking at myself in the service-station toilet mirror and being absolutely horrified by what I saw.
So even if I did want to meet someone or start having a social life, I think I need a face and neck lift first.
Do I want too much do you think?
August 9th 2026
So, I’ve joined a free dating site. You can probably guess which one it is.
I’ve chatted to two men.
One blocked me and I blocked the other.
I was blocked after one particular man asked if I fancied meeting for a drink. I replied, “What? Now?”
Silly of me really, but the truth is he wouldn’t want to know me in real life anyway, so I think I was subconsciously trying to get rid of him. I need a fellow loner with his own issues.
The other guy seemed alright. We were messaging each other about the ducks plotting to murder me because of the cheap food I give them, when out of nowhere he said:
Having a couple of wet ones tonight which will invariably lead to an early bedtime and some solo shenanigans.
Me: Solo shenanigans? (I kind of guessed, but then thought, No… surely not?)
Him: Yeah, you know… 🙄
Me: I don’t?
Me: Singing love songs to yourself maybe.
Him: I’ll be enjoying myself in a solo manner, which will require a clean-up team. 😂
Right.
I’m chatting to two women online, and one of them is local to me. We’ve even swapped numbers. She has quite bad anxiety and seems a bit quirky like me, so maybe we’ll meet up eventually.
At the moment we’re messaging about fifteen times a day.
Each.
Other than that, I haven’t really spoken to anyone, apart from the people I pass on my daily canal walk, which mostly consists of “Hi” and “Morning.”
Although the other day I wandered over to feed the swans and a woman on a boat was filming them. We got chatting, she gave me a chair, and we talked for about ten minutes.
It was manageable but then I just muttered a few things and let her talk. People love that don’t they?
Which, of course, means I’m now going to have to alter my walking route to avoid ever seeing her again.
Then there was this…
I came out of the back of my house and bumped into a neighbour from about a dozen houses down who was walking her dog.
I froze.
For a split second I wondered whether I could casually turn around and go back inside, but it was too late. She’d already spotted me.
As usual, I put on my fake confident voice and said, “Hi, Tina.”
She said hello back and asked how I was. I could also tell she didn’t really want to stop and chat. To be fair, most people don’t, apart from a couple of pervy old men in the area.
So I confidently replied, “Oh, I’ve had two pizzas and I feel awful, so I’m going for a walk by the canal.”
Silence.
I asked if she’d been down there.
“Yes,” she said.
“Okay, see you,” I replied.
That was that.
And then on my walk I’m muttering, “Fcking btch.” She could have made an effort. Fcking slut.
Except…
…she isn’t.
She’d done absolutely nothing wrong.
I think, deep down, I’m actually calling myself those names, but somehow directing them at somebody else makes me feel slightly less awful.
I’m trying to think of things to do, and I considered joining a Buddhist group.
Not because I’m particularly interested in meditation.
I just imagine Buddhists as kind, gentle, safe people.
Then another thought occurred to me.
Maybe it would actually help if English wasn’t their first language.
Not because I mind accents, but because conversations might be a little slower, giving me time to think about what I want to say.
I don’t do quick banter.
My brain insists on proofreading every sentence before it’ll let me speak.
Or maybe I’m just thick!
Maybe I should deliberately seek out people whose IQs are in double digits so I might not feel so inferior?
Or maybe I should just give up, stay at home, eat too much, become fat and lethargic, and slowly waste away.
August 1st 2026
My friend Anna did message me a few days later, and everything seemed fine. Then, halfway through our voicenote chats, she just disappeared again. That was four days ago, and I haven’t heard from her since.
She must find my messages so utterly boring, she can’t even be bothered hanging around to listen to them.
I’m trying to remind myself that we’re all different and I shouldnt see this as being rude.
But still…
When Anna got back in touch with me, she mentioned she’d actually contacted our former mutual friend first. Apparently, that friend wasn’t all that interested in keeping in touch, so then she contacted me.
What am I? Chopped liver?
Not wanting to put my friendship eggs in one basket, I also got chatting to another woman on Facebook who has ADHD.
She seemed really keen to be friends, so naturally I started getting my hopes up.
She even mentioned meeting for coffee or a glass of wine, so I replied:
“Hiya ******, just found this in my spam folder. Glad you messaged me. I’m on a mission to get out of my comfort zone because I think it’s making my anxiety worse. Yes, let’s do something? xx”
Her reply was:
“Hey you, how are you doing? I think even having a friend to message is nice when need support etc. And good knowing just down the road in case do actually feel like we could be social lol x”
And I’m sitting there thinking…
I literally just suggested we do something.
Instead of answering that part, you’ve neatly sidestepped it.
But maybe the thought of actually meeting me (or anyone) when it came down to it, made her feel anxious, so again, I reminded myself that we are all different.
On a positive note…
The other day I was heading out to feed the ducks when my new neighbour came out of her house at exactly the same time.
My first thought was, oh nooooo, I’m going to have to speak.
I smiled and said, “Hi, it’s the woman who never goes for coffee.”
She laughed a genuine laugh.
We ended up walking along together, chatting quite naturally, which was shocking to me.
She told me she was heading to the garden centre to buy a movable plant pot.
I asked, “Is that so you can move it around to catch the sunlight during the day?”
She laughed again and said, “No, it’s because I’ve got a really heavy plant that needs moving.”
Then came the biggest shock of all.
As we said goodbye, we actually left each other laughing.
She was walking instead of driving, so I asked how far it was. “About two miles,” she said.
“Same as me,” I replied. “We’ll probably bump into each other on the way back.”
And somehow, it came out naturally. No overthinking. No awkward pause. Just a normal conversation that flowed.
Since then, I’ve been thinking about how that particular interaction came fairly easily for me – because if just a handful of my interactions were like that, my life would change dramatically for the better.
And I noticed:
- She wanted to be friends with me and didn’t have important eyes that needed to be elsewhere.
- We had an obvious subject to talk about – how she was getting along living in the neighbourhood.
- I felt useful because I could tell she wanted a briefing about the neighbours (and I, with my own important eyes, told her the gossip).
I definitely need to feel wanted because I fall to pieces around people who come across as just being polite but who would rather be elsewhere pronto. You know the ones who gaze over your shoulder or are only half listening? Those types bring my insides out in a rash.
I also struggle with knowing what to say, which is why I dread going for coffee with people just for the sake of having a chat. I would rather be doing a crazy activity where we can all get hyper-excited and the conversation takes care of itself.
So, that’s what I’m thinking about at the moment.
Meanwhile, I’ve been missing the excitement and the longing I had for my ex-online friend from the North (before we met IRL) and have for the first time ever, signed up with a dating agency!
If nothing else, it gives me something to do to fill the long hours of living with AvPD.
July 25th 2026
I got back from my two-mile walk feeding the ducks and swans to an odd voicemail from the bloke I met twice from up North.
I’d already blocked him, but my phone has the irritating feature where blocked people can still leave voicemail messages. Whoever designed that clearly enjoys drama. Still, I suppose it’s nice in a strange way. It’s reassuring to know that even someone with slightly stalkerish tendencies is thinking of me.
The message started with a woman saying my name in a little sing-song voice before giggling. Classy. Then my ex-friend chuckled and said he’d obviously realised I’d blocked him, which was “a shame” and “not good.” He added that if I wanted to get in touch, I should, but he’d understand if I didn’t.
I’m passing.
The whole thing felt like I was supposed to be the punchline to some private joke. It also seemed carefully designed to make me feel a bit jealous. How childish. And how embarrassingly obvious.
It unsettled me enough that I left my friend – the one I hadn’t seen for ten years and who got back in touch with me a few months ago – three voicenotes about it.
She isn’t online all the time, so she replied the next day to say she had a friend coming over and would answer me “later.”
“Later” turned out to be the following day.
My brain immediately translated that as: Rejection detected.
When she finally replied, she was laughing at my dramatic voicenotes about how tempted I was to respond to Mr Desperado. I know she was probably just busy, but part of me still thought she could have replied the day before. Am I being unreasonable? With Rejection Sensitivity Dysphoria, it’s sometimes impossible to know.
Naturally, my tiny act of revenge was to react to her messages with appropriate emojis and then not reply. It’s now four days later and we haven’t communicated since.
Apart from a sentence here and there to some shop assistants and saying hello to people while I’m out feeding the wildlife, I’ve spoken to exactly one other person this week.
I was putting the bins out when one of my neighbour’s sons, who’s in his late twenties, came outside smiling.
My first thought was, oh you’re good looking, pity you’re not 30 years older – my second thought was, oh no. A conversation.
So I just asked, “It’s blue bins this week, isn’t it?”
He laughed and said he hoped so.
I have this habit of acting cool, aloof, and possibly just a bit miserable. It’s a defence mechanism. If I say something funny and nobody laughs hysterically or tells me I’m adorable, I’ll immediately conclude that I’m completely worthless. So, with a slight frown, I simply replied, “Oh well, we’ll find out tomorrow.”
Silence followed. Rejection. Still, it wasn’t as bad as being the one who’d made the effort to start the conversation only to get very little in return, leaving me feeling abandoned and disliked.
I’m wondering what I’m going to do come autumn. I’ve almost finished decorating my lovely social housing bungalow, which has kept me busy. But then what?
Every day is much the same. I get up, drink coffee, do the housework, go for a two-mile walk, watch and read things, nip to the supermarket, and that’s about it.
I’m thinking of going back to my doctor and asking about Schema Therapy, which apparently is showing promising results for people with AvPD. But I feel beyond help, and I’m not even sure I’d want real-life relationships anyway. Conversation is so dull. I also wonder why I can’t just do it on my own – therapy can only do so much. I need to think about it.
I also started chatting to a woman on a forum. We exchanged about two messages before – horror of horrors – she tried calling me on Facebook.
What the hell?
I did actually try to answer, but thankfully my microphone wasn’t working. A genuine technological miracle.
So we switched to voicenotes instead. She has some difficulties that make it hard for her to speak completely coherently. “Blimey,” I thought, “someone who makes me sound articulate.”
I started to lose interest in our chats but then told myself I should at least give it a proper chance, so I sent her a two minute voicenote (hers were about the same length), but by the following afternoon when she hadn’t replied, I blocked her in a strop.
My online friend, whom I’ve never met, has just replied to my email. For the third time – in response to her emails to me – I asked whether she’d had any spiders in her house. For the third time, she completely ignored the question. Clearly, the only sensible response is for me to go silent as her punishment until she answers it.
July 18th 2026
I forgot to say – about a month ago, a new neighbour moved in. She lives three houses down and accosted me while I was putting the bins out. I tried not to look horrified and we exchanged about five sentences – mine averaging five words each. Somehow I heard myself saying we should get together for a coffee sometime.
I was really proud of myself for saying this because it’s a normal, polite thing to say isn’t it?
However, I’ve not had anyone round for coffee in over fifteen years, and unless she’s happy to wait until about 2042, when I’m old, senile and don’t care, it’s not happening.
Since then I’ve been darting out to the shops undercover so I don’t bump into her.
Then an ex-boyfriend from fourty years ago contacted me this week. I’d actually tracked him down last year and we’d spent about a month texting, but it was all painfully dull. It’s funny how someone can be the love of your life when you’re young, then fourty years later you can’t think of anything to say to each other – not that I’d be capable of voicing anything I wanted to say anyway.
A few years ago I looked up my first love on Facebook. My heart skipped a beat when I saw him doing a wheelie on a motorbike at a race track. Exactly as I remembered him bombing around town on his moped when I was sixteen.
Then I realised it wasn’t him.
It was his teenage son.
My first love was actually the fat bald bloke in the background leaning on the railings.
Anyway, this other ex phoned me this week. About thirty seconds into the conversation he announced his battery was low and he’d call me the next day.
See? I’m so fascinating people suddenly become aware of their battery percentage.
He never called.
I already knew he wouldn’t, but if I can’t be adored, I at least like to be in control. So the next day I sent him a flattering photo of myself with a message saying, “Where have the last fourty years gone?”
He replied immediately with lots of compliments.
Smirking to myself, I blocked him.
Another awkward episode this week: I had a man round to fit some flooring. I did my usual sparkly eyes and sweet smile routine, which sometimes gets me through the first few minutes of meeting someone. Then the performance started to unravel. I was mumbling, stuttering and leaving sentences unfinished. Before long he was talking over me and finishing my sentences in a bid to help me out.
I once read that if you want to bond with people, you should try being a bit vulnerable.
So instead of commenting on the weather, I told my floor fitter I have Avoidant Personality Disorder.
Apparently I’d skipped a few steps.
It wasn’t supposed to end the conversation; it was supposed to take it to a deeper level. He was going to be my practice run for all the future friends I’m never going to have.
Instead, he just looked at me.
I didn’t feel bonded.
He was actually nice. There probably could have been a friendship there if I were capable of having one. He’s vegetarian and hinted that he’d quite like to try my vegan spag bol.
Five minutes with another human is enough to finish me off. Cooking them dinner isn’t exactly the natural next step.
He also told me he’d become vegetarian after watching a documentary claiming human flesh had been put into sausages and burgers in the UK. I thought that couldn’t possibly be true because surely we’d all have heard about it, but because I’m so unsure of myself, I thought it’s probably a fact that everyone knows apart from me. I ended up Googling it.
It was a spoof documentary.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him.
Now for the most embarrassing part.
He’d had the radio on while he worked, playing loads of songs I remembered, despite being at least ten years younger than me.
Then Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On came on.
He was just about to leave and switched the radio off.
At exactly the same moment I came dancing out of the lounge, already halfway into the chorus.
Perfect timing.
He just smiled… and turned the radio back on so I could finish my little performance.
We shook hands at the door afterwards – I’m fairly sure he was relieved to escape, and I definitely needed time to recover.
I did spend some time ruminating over my actions which involved me bursting into song, shouting random things out and generally touching things twice with equal pressure, but that’s standard for me. I often add some quirky grimaces too.
July 10th 2026
I’ve started walking two miles almost every day, and the only way I can manage it (because I’m lazy) is by walking along the canal and feeding the wildlife. Yes, I even left some bread for a rat I saw.
If you saw me striding along with two loaves of bread in hand, you’d never guess I’m the way that I am. I cheerfully say hello to people, beaming across my grid, and generally come across as a super‑confident person. I’m honestly surprised I don’t call out “Oi oi, saveloy!” to everyone I pass.
There was a guy living on a boat with his dog; the dog looked lovely and well cared for. He looked like he was smoking weed. I found myself thinking that maybe I could build a sort of social life around this – just passing the time of day with strangers. They move on after a while, which is ideal for me.
I gave his dog some canine chews I’d bought by mistake for my cats, and the man was very grateful. It made me feel important or worthy, depending on how you look at it.
The next day I went back for my usual walk, armed with veg and porridge for the ducks (they hated it), and I was looking forward to seeing the man with the dog again. But he’d gone. I’d seen that he’d been there for well over a week in the exact same spot, but no, as soon as he meets me, he’s off. This is exactly what happens, and I’m laughing as I write this, because it’s true: people don’t want to know me.
Maybe he thought I was going to steal his dog, or maybe he just thought I was too weird to see again.
I also bumped into my neighbour from several houses down – the one I went to the pictures with twice before freezing on our second outing and never bothering again. She asked if I wanted a Red Hot Poker.
Charming, I thought, until I realised it was a plant. “Yes, that would be great,” I said. She hovered for a chat, and I just about managed to keep it together for the few minutes we talked.
She mentioned she still had my number and would text me the name of a good film she’d seen recently. But she didn’t, and now I want to kill her. Why do people say things they don’t mean? I know I see everything as rejection, and I’m far too bothered about what people think of me. Now I’m contemplating how I should react if I see her again. Part of me wants to totally ignore her so she gets the message, but really – is it that bad?
Would other people without this shitty thing be bothered? I think they’d just brush it off and stay polite, so that’s what I’m going to try to do.