I’ve spent the last seven years living with anxiety. I didn’t know I had it until about two weeks ago. I was sitting in my environmental biology class and these nursing students came in with a four-page survey about social anxiety.
For the past couple of years, I would joke about having social anxiety. Someone would ask me why I’m not going out and I’d say “I have social anxiety. Leave me alone.” But I had never looked it up or questioned whether I was actually speaking the truth instead of being sarcastic.
I never questioned that I could possibly have the disorder, but I do. I filled out that survey and I had all the symptoms. Not a few here or there. I had ALL of them to a large extent, not just in a mild way. It raised a lot of questions, so I went home and I spent a good few hours researching symptoms trying to figure out if I had it. I’m not big on self-diagnosis through WebMD because I was raised by a sister who no doubt has hypochondria, but I wanted to know more.
Turns out there’s an explanation for all those feelings I have had since I was about thirteen. Those constant nagging thoughts that I’m worthless. Like I shouldn’t go out because no one wants to see me. Like I don’t deserve to be with normal people because I am somehow beneath them.
I fear all situations where I could be judged, so talking to strangers, talking to an entire class, going out in public on a bad day, getting caught off guard by someone, walking into class late—they all end the same way: me over-thinking. Me trying to figure out why someone would want to talk to me or put me on the spot. Why someone would want to take time out of their day to speak to me, someone who is easily embarrassed, someone who hates attention, someone who can barely function in normal situations.
Those situations like going to the store, to dinner, to the movies, out with friends—situations that are fun to everyone else but make me feel like I’m on display. Like people are waiting for me to humiliate myself so they can judge me. Once I finally do feel judged or put on display I freak out more because I know people can see that I’m anxious, like I don’t behave like everyone else, so I get more anxious. I know they can tell because people point it out. “Why are your hands shaking? Why is your face so red? Why does your voice sound strange?” They ask and I freak out more because I didn’t hide my reactions well enough, so my hands and voice get shakier and my face turns more red.
How have I been coping for these last seven years? I avoid these situations. I try to hide. On my bad days, I won’t even leave. Those are those days where I am extremely anxious. When I feel like everyone is pointing at me and laughing in their minds. I can’t go to parties because I feel like people are wondering why someone like me is there because I know I don’t fit in. I don’t speak up in class when I know the answer. I shy away when I am put on the spot. I panic. I don’t talk to people outside my friends and family because I think people wouldn’t want to be my friend. I don’t wear clothing that will attract attention. I don’t wear makeup that makes me stand out. I don’t change the way I look just in case someone may notice. I try to live as secluded as possible, and people assume I like it like that, but I don’t. I wish I wasn’t like the way I was. Where I could wear something that made me feel beautiful or stand out in a good way.
On good days, I make an effort. I’ll go out and I’ll feel good about myself. I’ll walk through the aisles instead of racing through to avoid human interaction. I’ll talk to the person sitting next to me. I’ll even do it without extreme blushing. But those days are so few that they don’t make up for all the other days. Most of the bad days involve me wishing I wasn’t like the way I was. Wishing I could do things normal people could do without having all these negative thoughts about myself and wondering if everyone else can see my flaws.
It’s a constant struggle living day by day, and now I know I’m not the only one. I’m not defective. I can get help. I feel relieved that there’s a name to the feelings I have had for so long, and I can actually get medical attention to improve something I always thought I could never overcome.
