“And
then, there was a knock on the door…” a line that denotes the air of suspense among readers and viewers of the novel horror/mystery genre. The next part
would read, “I wonder who that could be?” chimed Clementine (or some other
absurdly dramatic name.) Or, in film, Clementine’s eyes would dart to the door
as chilling music serenaded the audience onward into a fit of fear. Of course,
these inflections are used by authors and film makers to incite that breath
freezing, hair raising dread that instigates the shock factor needed to brew
something scary.
Living
with social anxiety is much like living in a suspense story. When, “there is a
knock on the door” regardless of if you were or weren’t expecting someone, the
throat swells, and hair stands like needles. It doesn’t matter that no one is
going to be saying, “Here’s Johnny!” or hacking in the door with a hammer. They’ve
come, and the possibility of what could go utterly and terribly wrong during
the opening up of the door to speak swarms around until you are breathless, and
the screaming chasms in your brain are so overloaded you can’t hear or think
straight.
Today,
it’s a knock on a door. Tomorrow, it’s a parking lot. Or a grocery. Or the gym.
As a kid, I took solace in writing, using the pages of a notebook and a pen to
masque the overbearing amount of pressure I felt being amongst my own age. In
school, I hid in the library during lunch, reading or doing homework, as to not
face the daunting task of finding a seat in the lunchroom. As an adult, I don’t
eat around people I don’t know, and I use my phone as a buffer in new or
uncomfortable social places. Even then, I hold myself in and completely
controlled until I can muster enough strength despite myself to talk or run to
the nearest exit to have a good home spun panic attack.
I feel
like, most of the time, I live with two faces. My first face is warped by an
overwhelming fear and dread of people. When you meet that face, you might
become suspicious or think I am hiding something. You might call me rude
because I don’t engage the way society thinks we should all gather. You might
call me controlling, because I keep everything in order to make sure that
people don’t dislike me, even though that never seems to work. You probably, at
this point, don’t really like me. To be fair, you aren’t meeting “me” at this
point, the rude and controlled face you are meeting is that of Social Anxiety.
Once
that face can melt away, you get to see the real me. You get to see that I don’t
want to live with two face, but I am forced to because of my own anxiety. You
learn that there is a kind person that tries to overcome the clasp of the iron
mask that is social anxiety, that keeps this face hidden. You might even
realize how much effort I put into trying and failing to interact with people.
But, all of that only comes after you learn to see past the first face.
For the
last time, I’m not shy. I’m really not shy. Is a crippled runner a couch
potato? I can be bold, and adventurous, and even outgoing in right
circumstances. And for the most part, most of those faced with living with
social anxiety can be, too.
I live
my life trapped in two faces. All I, or anyone facing social anxiety, ask is
that you understand.
