I am being hit with another anxiety attack.

I do not know what brings these on, specifically. I am only conscious of fear, mindless fear, maniacal fear, a fear that no self-talk or meditation can defeat, no amount of reason or persuasion can alleviate. It is a fear that sends my stomach tying in knots, creases my forehead with lines of worry, haunts my sleep with nightmares of death and desertion.

And today what is inevitably happening is thoughts of romance have come back to haunt me. I try to fight them using the various exercises taught in therapy but it is like wrestling with a lion. I will always be alone. I will live a life haunted by aching loneliness and longing, fall into a horribly empty old age, and die a lonely, miserable, unmourned death.

Fear quivers within me, fear and certainty of rejection, that cold-blooded process when a woman rips my heart to shreds with no more hesitation than when stepping on an ant. Fear of dependency, when what I cherish cruelly destroys me for something better and handsomer.

All the advice I've received swirls around me, mocking me in its accusations. "I want a real man." "I'm sick of men who want me to mother them." "I hate guys who wear plaid shirts." "Young men are all immature." "I've never dated a guy shorter than 5'8"". "I hate beer bellies." "I want a guy who's tall, handsome, and has lots of money." "I'd never go out with someone who's depressed." "I only like confident men." "I want a guy who loves to party and have a good time." I have heard these things in many times, in many places. The old voices jeer at me, torment me, condemn me to a life of despair and loneliness and isolation.

Dating is a morass only a genius could figure out. Every phone call carries a significance of its own. Timing is crucial. The 'first approach' has to be carefully planned out and implemented. Constant plotting of strategy and tactics are required. Every weakness, every vulnerability, has to be carefully hidden and kept a secret. Even body language has to be schemed. Go too fast and I'm slapped in the face. Go too slow and I'm dismissed as a mouse. The whole thing is like walking on eggs....containing baby cobras, ready to strike.

My therapist tells me all these thoughts are irrational. But fighting them off is impossible. They have a life of their own, their power over me is very nearly absolute. They make me scream in fear during the lonely nights, cry tearlessly at the morning dawn, haunt me in my office, grind me to powder on the subway.

To please Woman, that capricious, choosy goddess, seems to me impossible for even the greatest of men. To think about her makes me sick with fear. But I cannot stop thinking about her.

Soc-phob, Nov. 28, 1997.