I really do not know how to relate to human beings at all. There are exactly four people in this world I can say anything to. My mom. Steven. Lani. Josh. I can't say I entirely understand any of them, but I am comfortable with them, I can talk to them, I can with some accuracy predict the course of our interaction. Those four. That is all.

The list does not even extend to my father, who¹ I love dearly, and nothing in the world causes me quite the sort of pain knowing this is true does. I cannot discuss anything with him, though in no way do I distrust or doubt him. When I have a problem — with my car, with money, with anything practical — he is the first person I call. But I cannot talk about anything real with him.

¹ I really do not understand the use of the word whom.

Latest car catastrophe (of at least four, in the short time I've been home): my tailpipe is falling off. So within 24 hours he is here to look at it. He would do anything for me well beyond reason, I know, which only makes me feel guiltier. But as he's looking at my car, when my brother stepped away, he says:

Dad: I'm sorry, Lauren.
Me: (awkward pause; quietly) For what?
Dad: You know what.
Me: (honestly don't) I don't.
(long painful silence)
Dad: I can't help you with your loan.
Me: (wooden) Oh, god. Don't worry about it.
Dad: I know, don't worry about it, but I'm sorry.

Dad: I'm sure you noticed last time you were over Pam's gained some weight.
Me: (wanting to die) Yeah. I figured it was because of her medication.
Dad: It is. She's afraid if you guys are over this weekend she'll be tempted, so we're going to have to skip this weekend.
Me: That's okay.
Dad: I miss you guys.
Me: (wooden) We miss you too.
(long pause in which I feel woefully inadequate)
(horribly fake and chipper) But we're available almost any day and time for lunch or whatever!

Dad: It's been a rough year. All around. It's just been a rough year.

I'm sort of self-diagnosing myself with social anxiety disorder and an avoidant personality, I know that's five kinds of messed up, but I think it's somewhat valid. Listen, I'm not freaking myself out about it, I don't think I'm sick, I don't think I need help. In fact the more I think about it the more I think it's a perfectly acceptable variation of normal, which makes it more difficult to navigate society, yes, but nothing in itself wrong or broken. It's just how I am, how I've always been. I know it makes me seem distant and cold and unfeeling to most people, but the more I recognize this about myself the less I fault myself for it. It's just that it kills me with my own father.

It's just interesting — I think the truth is all this change, all the evolution I feel I've been through over the years from painful adolescence to somewhat self-assured adulthood, hasn't really been change at all so much as acceptance of what I always have been. In a lot of telling ways, I haven't changed a bit. I'm uncomfortable in social situations. I get nervous when I have to use the phone. I avoid responsibility. I am lazy. I am obsessed with other people's lives, movies and books. I am a loner. I am untrusting. I can only open up to a few people. I want everyone to know me.

It's just that I'm more okay with it. And I can deal with it. I can face what the world demands of me without seeming out of place, usually. I don't want to be helped, I don't want to be cured. I like myself just the way I am. I am introspective, avoidant, militantly antisocial, asexual. I would not change these things about myself. Except...

I can't relate, and that's a problem...
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