Someday there will be other people at my table

Why canceling dinner... and then eating alone... still felt like progress

Last Thursday, I had plans to go to dinner with some friends I made in outpatient therapy.

I backed out at the last minute, because the idea of being in a restaurant with other people at my table is still too scary to think about…

But I have to give myself credit where credit is due:

I’m in outpatient therapy.

I attend — and participate in — every session.

I’m making friends in outpatient.

I want those friendships to continue, and to extend into other areas of my life.

I’m willing to make plans to meet up with friends in person (even if I did eventually back out of those plans… I still made the plans and texted the invites…)

I was able, for a brief window of time, to picture myself in a restaurant, with friends, sharing a meal and a conversation, building memories, feeling connected… and in my mind, that picture felt good.

It felt like the kind of activity I want to be a part of.

From the time I sent the invites… until the time I texted everyone and said I’m not quite ready yet… for that brief period of time, I wanted connection more than I wanted the “safety” of always doing everything alone.

And, yeah, the thought of that connection scares the daylights out of me.

But even though it scares me so much that I had to back out of last week’s plans…

I still want the connection.

I want to have friends again.

I don’t know what that’s going to look like.

It’s scary to put myself back out there.

I could make friends with the wrong people, and they could hurt me, take advantage of me, and convince me to compromise my integrity in return for their approval.

I could make friends with the right people, and they could get to know me, and discover they don’t like me or they don’t want me in their life.

I could make really great friends, and for reasons nobody can explain or foresee, we could still drift apart and ultimately go our separate ways.

I could wind up alone again, after all is said and done.

I could be even more lonely than I already am, if I make new friends, and lose them…

But also…

I could make new friends, and they could add so much depth, meaning, and beauty to my life. They could give me feelings, experiences, and moments that I don’t even know how much I’m missing.

They could give me incentive to stay alive, on the days when I feel really down on myself and wonder if it’s all still worth it or not.

They could give me a reason to get out of the apartment and explore more of West Texas, and engage in some of the social activities I secretly want to be part of… but am too afraid to open up just yet, and admit how badly I want it…

They could bring my life a whole new level of meaning, fulfillment, and satisfaction.

They could help me finally know that I don’t have to carry all my burdens alone, anymore.

But I’m scared. Not just like, “Ugh, I don’t know if they’ll like me…”

But, “I’m terrified they’ll think I have too much drama and too many problems and they won’t wait to get rid of me so they don’t get sucked into it all… I’m convinced they’ll spend five minutes with me and then never wanna talk to me again… I’m afraid I’ll reach out for a hand to hold, and every one of them will only kick me when I’m already down.”

I have myself so thoroughly convinced that I’m nothing and nobody… and that no one would ever want to be my friend… the thought of putting myself out there isn’t, “Let’s take a chance and maybe they’ll prove me wrong!”

It’s, “I know for a fact this is what’s going to happen, and it’s safer for me to avoid it and always wonder, than it is to go out there and find out that it’s true that nobody wants me.”

But I’m tired of living alone…

I won’t do it anymore.

If I had to be alone for the rest of my life…

I would rather die.

That’s not an exaggeration. And it’s not a colloquialism.

It’s a statement of fact.

I will die before I will spend the next 50 years or more, living alone, having nobody to talk to, nobody to share things with, nobody to go out to dinner with…

And I’m not ready to die yet. I tried it; it didn’t work. (Sorry, is that too dark? It’s true, though — I know killing myself is not the answer I’m looking for…)

The only other option, then, is to stop being alone.

No matter how much that terrifies me.

And.

I.

Am.

Terrified.

But I know I’ve had friends, before.

And I know I’ve eaten in restaurants, with other people at my table, before.

And if I’ve done it before…

I have to believe I can do it again.

I have to show myself that I can do it again. Future me is counting on it.

But I’m too afraid, today, to go to dinner with friends, tomorrow.

* * * * * * * * * *

A year ago, my story would’ve stopped, right there.

“I’m too afraid today, so there’s no point in even hoping for tomorrow.”

But a year ago, I was still looking for reasons to die. And today, I want to find reasons to stay alive.

And dinner with friends feels like a fabulous reason to live!

So I have to figure out how to make it happen; how to work through the fear that’s holding me back.

Because my goal isn’t just “go to dinner with friends one time.”

My goal is “become someone who enjoys dinner with friends on a consistent basis.”

So it’s not just a fear I have to put up with one time, to get through one dinner so I can say, “See, I did it.” And then tell myself I never have to do it again.

No, no, no. This is a fear I have to sit with, and acknowledge, and allow to be present as I sit down at the table with my friends, and tell myself, “Dinners like this one are important to me — important enough to push through this paralyzing, overwhelming feeling inside, that tells me to turn and run the other direction.”

Old me would’ve given up, the moment I texted everyone and told them, “Hey, I’m not quite ready yet.”

I would’ve seen that as a failure. And I would’ve convinced myself I couldn’t recover from it.

And honestly… new me still feels that way, somewhat. I do feel like I failed to achieve my goal. Objectively speaking, I suppose I did fail.

I mean, I was going to go to dinner, and then, I didn’t.

But it’s not a failure that I can’t recover from. And that’s what’s different about me, today: a year ago, I would’ve quit trying, after the first failure. Today, I refuse to let go of the goal.

And that refusal is still progress. It’s still forward momentum.

It’s still one step closer to my ultimate goal, than if I’d given up, and stayed home, and isolated myself, and told myself I was a failure for not being ready to take the big step yet and go out with my friends.

Anything that cracks open the belief that “I can’t do this,” or “I’m failing,” or “There’s no point,” has to be worth holding onto.

Refusing to let go is helping me to destroy the belief that I can’t do it.

I couldn’t face going to dinner with friends last week, but instead of giving up completely, I did the next best thing: I took myself out.

And that’s not my ultimate goal…

But compared to telling myself I can never do it, and there’s no point in even trying…

Taking myself to dinner is huge.

Like, I probably can’t even appreciate yet, how powerful it is.

Last week, I took myself to dinner, alone.

Not because I want to be by myself.

But because I’m trying to learn how not to be… and this is the only step right now, that feels safe for me to take.

Someday, though, there’s going to be other people at my table.

I am going to have dinner with my friends.

Not because the fear went away.

But because I learned to stop letting the fear make my decisions.

That starts with me, sitting in a restaurant alone, learning to be comfortable in public, instead of isolating in my apartment and just ordering DoorDash.

And that’s not my ultimate goal.

But for today, I think it’s enough.