Quitter

Yesterday I sort of quit my job, except it wasn't exactly a job and I didn't really quit.
 
As part of my phobia treatment, the people I go to try and find ways to prepare me for rejoining society. In the past we did things like taking me out of the house and teaching me strategies for coping with panic attacks and gradually exposing me to difficult situations in which I'd be around more people. As another step towards their goal they had me to do some volunteer work, thinking that it'd be a constructive step towards a real job without the worry of being relied on too much or the threat of being fired for sucking or not turning up.

Since February I've been doing 3 hours per week of unpaid volunteer work in a local charity shop. It was supposed to be 3 hours per week anyway, but it ended up being more like 3 hours every 2 or 3 weeks, depending on whether or not I managed to force myself to go in.  Going there was every bit as horrible as I'd imagined it would be before I started, except I had also expected for it to gradually get easier over time.

Before I go any further, I'll admit something shameful. The reason I was even able to show up in the first place is because my grandmother volunteered in the same place. She picked me up, took me in, worked the same hours as me and then brought me home. I used my grandmother as a shield to hide behind when things got frightening for me. Alpha as fuck.

It didn't take long for even the incompetent manager to realise my social skills were about as useful as a paper teapot, so most of the time I was hidden away from the public eye in the back of the building, steaming clothes to make them ready to be put out on the shop floor. It was easy work, just sometimes disgusting and always boring. Handling clothes that are unwashed and covered in mysterious stains and offensive smells made my obsessive handwashing habit even worse than usual.

Each week we'd have new people in, and my anxiety would be reset back to the horrible first week while I watched them get used to everyone and be happily chatting away within a couple of hours. I'd been going from February through to October and still couldn't talk to anyone at all, so seeing new people do it so easily each week just made me compare myself to them and feel even worse over time instead of getting any better.

The reason I hadn't quit yet was because I didn't want to have to go back to looking for somewhere else to work, knowing I wouldn't have my grandmother there to hide behind. I also didn't want to have to tell the people at the mental health clinic that I'd given up and have them look down at me.

What changed yesterday was that the new face to show up was one I knew. Ever since I became a recluse, one of my biggest fears has been that I could somehow end up coming face to face with someone I went to school with. What would I say if they asked how I was doing, and what I'd been up to? What if they asked how my university course was going, and where I was working now? About romance and parties and social activities and travels and all the other things I should have been doing like everyone else, when instead I was locked in my bedroom watching Chinese girl cartoons? The time had come to find out, because here in front of me for the next 3 hours was one of those loudmouthed guys from high school who would throw things at me during lunch break.

Or maybe not. He didn't seem to even recognise me. That or he thought I wasn't worth the effort to talk to. Either way, the stress of those 3 hours brought me to my limit and I left the place knowing I'd never be able to make myself go back in there again. I still have to figure out how I'm going to tell everyone, though.

The churchbells nearby were ringing out as I walked away. Maybe they were celebrating my escape, or mourning the death of any chance I had of expecting to get better. Or neither; they're just bells and don't give a damn about me. Whatever.