A side effect of social phobia, to me, is depression.
Major depression for me is usually kept at bay by Prozac but relapses happen. And the centre of relapses are being alone.
When depression hits it is like a knife twising inside, a cancer within whose malignant fury seizes my innards and turns them to sodding remains. It robs my sleep, haunts my dreams, burns my soul, fuels my rage.
I feel worthless now, crushed, alone, doomed forever by a giant beast named Social Phobia that cruelly holds me in its grip and tortures me to a life filled with loneliness and despair. It is invincible. It is indomitable. Months of therapy have accomplished nothing. I will always be alone.
So I think of dying. I think of dying rather than live like this. I have not thought of suicide in quite many months, but I do tonight. I cannot live night after night, longing for a body to hug. I cannot be a coward anymore, not inviting the co-worker for lunch, not inviting a classmate out to a drink, shivering in fear at a girl in a nightclub and then complaining about endless loneliness.
Talk of accepting this and adjusting to it means nothing to me. I cannot live like this anymore. I am sick of the isolation, sick of the despair, sick of the craving, sick of seeing it happen, daily, in the world around me. I loathe living in a vacuum, no hope of family, no hope of intimacy, no hope of caring, or ever being cared for.
I regard my own life is too worthless and too full of misery to continue it much longer.
Soc-phob, Oct. 14, 1997