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Waiting To Leave

It was only when I reached my late twenties that I realised I only really liked a lot of things "in theory". 
As an extroverted introvert, social interactions can be fun but they drain me. See me over there, cracking stupid jokes and holding a conversation? I'm talking. I'm animated. I'm laughing. I'm going to need a day to recover. 
I've been teetering on the edge of exhaustion since I was a pre-teen, and my favourite part of activities is to come up with excuses to not do them. I fall into the "I'm fine when I'm there" category of socialising, where everything up to excursion itself is pure dread. Leaving the house becomes a scientific study in how many mundane chores one can undertake rather than slipping on a coat and shutting the door. Being almost four years sober probably doesn't help, with no way to "pre-game" yourself into enthusiasm.
Standing in a busy venue, jostled by elbows and sloshed with lager, I stared up …

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