I’m constantly observing, watching and learning instead of experiencing. I have always looked at being stuck inside my own head as a weakness. However, I am now trying to turn it into a strength. I will write what I see, what I learn and what I analyze. I will dig into the depths of what is around me, and try to make sense of this chaos around me.

I wasn’t always like this. I used to participate instead of standing off to the side at parties. I was able to become friends with everyone and anyone. Now, eye contact makes my head hurt, and a casual touch or brush against my arm from another person has me shrivel back within myself. Cringing at the thought that when I do look straight into someone’s eyes, they can see straight through me. Right into my soul, reading my thoughts as if I were screaming them out loud.

I try to rationalize with myself, I know this is impossible, they can’t actually read my thoughts. However, can they feel my discomfort? Can they sense how awkward I feel in my own body? Do they notice how often I tug at my clothes and hair? It has become part of my daily routine to remind myself that my thoughts are mine unless I choose to share them with others. The more dominant part, the socially anxious leech that resides inside me, thinks otherwise.

I apologize after every other sentence that escapes my mouth. Often, when I do speak, it is as if I watch the words leave my mouth and I wish with every inch of my being that I could just reach out and pull them back in. Did I say something wrong? Of course I did, I always feel like I do. Did I sound stupid? Of course, I’m not nearly as intellectual as those around me. “I am my own worst critic,” I tell myself. I try to convince myself that no one is meaner to me than I am to myself.

Coming to a new school had me exit my comfort zone and shocked my system. I don’t feel like myself. Some days are easier, I can strike up a conversation with someone in class, but meanwhile, my insides are churning and my mind is racing. I fear that I am being judged. When groups of people are laughing as I sit alone in the dining hall, I worry that they’re laughing at me.

This social anxiety eats at me during social interactions during the day, and again when I replay them in my head in bed at night. I’ve been told I’m good at hiding it, which amazes me. When I do confide in people, be it friends or family, they all seem to say the same thing: “You don’t seem shy!" It is a small sense of relief to hear this, but I also often wonder if they’re just saying that to try to make me feel better. I wonder what I could do differently, how to cope, but I’m not sure. The one thing I’m sure of though, is that while others may blossom in college, I grew a dark, hard shell in which I find it increasingly difficult to emerge from.