Other People

You’re afraid to go to the grocery store.

That’s what my old psychiatrist said to me when I told her I didn’t consider myself to be disabled.

But there’s a difference between being afraid to do something and avoiding it. Sure, you may have to force yourself. But you go to the grocery store, avoid eye contact at all costs, and silently dread the moment you check out. Because checkout time is that awkward span when you actually have to interact with PEOPLE.

I once tagged a random thought about my social anxiety on Twitter. And wouldn’t you know it, the Social Anxiety people were immediately on my case. I know they were trying to be helpful. But the entire point of the tweet was that people scare me.  BACK OFF.

The origin of my social anxiety can be traced to elementary school. We lived in New York until I was eleven. I had plenty of friends in New York, I was outgoing, a social butterfly of sorts. Then we moved to Idaho. I attended Pierce Park Elementary for a few months, and made friends. When we moved from a trailer to a house, though, I had to switch schools.

At Collister Elementary, I started sixth grade. I befriended a young lady who is still my friend to this day.  Another young lady (for lack of a better word) decided that she was jealous of this new friendship. She encouraged all the other sixth graders to make fun of me.  I already felt out of place because of my OCD symptoms. My hand washing was out of control. I came home crying from school almost every day. Nearly nothing was done about the constant teasing by the teachers, and my mother’s advice to tell them to “stick it where the sun don’t shine” was less than effective. I was judged for everything, from my haircut to my demeanor to my intelligence to my clothes. I was everyone’s favorite dodge-ball target.

Junior high school merged our classes with the other elementary school. I tried out for a talent show and though I didn’t make the cut, I was recruited into choir. I was accepted: I belonged. I still got terribly nervous every time I would sing a solo. Because people were looking at me. Judging me. And though I won music awards through high school and majored in voice in college, I never got over my stage fright.

As Satre might contend, “Hell is…other people!” Just kidding. I love people. I find them fascinating, like a scientist studying a venomous spider. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the grace of God and other people.

My own existential crisis happened six years ago. While waxing suicidal, I was forced to do things I was terrified to do. And one of those things was to reach out and trust other people, new people, with very personal information. Unfortunately, despite the efforts of those fine people I ended up in the hospital, where I had to deal with more people. This time they were people like me though, people who were wired a little differently. And I felt comfortable there. For the most part.

But now I have to deal with people every day. People at the store, people at the school, people who come to my door. I just have to remind myself that most of them are not out to get me. And I’m getting to the point in my life where I think, if they judge me, who cares? Then there is the part of me that tries on five different outfits before picking my daughter up from school because to me, I don’t look right. The sad sixth-grader in me is still there, weeping silently, just waiting for someone to pick on her.