“Oh, she’s just shy.”

A poor excuse for a quiet child. But adults would just shake it off. After all, I was a kid and it was pretty cute that I would just wave and run away.

I didn’t respond well to meeting new people or to speaking to anyone at all. At home, of course, I was hyper and loud, and I probably talked everybody’s ears off. That was my comfort zone. Outside of my happy little bubble, I was scared. I was scared to socialize. Even if I really wanted to, I found myself hiding behind my hair or my mom’s legs. Pretending I was invisible, and maybe if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. My heart would race. I would sweat and twiddle my thumbs or play with my hair, or try to run off and play on my own — anything to avoid talking. In school, I’d rather wet my pants than to ask the teacher if I could go to the bathroom. I may have been only four or five years old, but I knew this wasn’t a good thing, and I knew shy wasn’t the word for my behavior.

As I got older, this “shyness” was getting less and less cute. I dreaded reading aloud in class. The worst thing a teacher or anyone could ask me to do is to speak up.

“Can you speak louder?”

“Louder, please.”

“LOUDER, so the back of the room can hear you.”

OK, OK. Sheesh.

The more times I was asked, I think the quieter I got. That — or I would make myself audible and stutter like a complete buffoon. By the time I was finished, I would be flustered and I could feel the sweat raining down the back of my neck. And again, my heart would race and I watched the clock until it was time for dismissal. I was so embarrassed. I hoped the next day would be easier. It never was.

The funny thing is, the second I was out of class, I would meet up with my friends and be goofy and outgoing. Another comfort zone of mine. The pressure was off and I’d go about my day. I didn’t understand myself. But the physical distractions never pulled me away from my thoughts. I would replay these horrible, vivid memories over and over for the rest of the day and even for the next few days (or weeks, or months). I was restless in bed. My chest ached and my skin tingled or itched. I stayed up with my thoughts until I was so exhausted that I passed out. I always wondered why everyone could just fall asleep so fast. Why was I the only one awake all the time?

Shy was definitely not me. Shyness doesn’t prevent me from sleeping. Shyness doesn’t paralyze me. Shyness doesn’t make me want to sink into my own skin and curl up in a dark corner. Shyness doesn’t force me to think that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Shyness doesn’t lead me to think that people don’t like me. It doesn’t leave me with the inability to trust people. It doesn’t let me live my life without negative and irrational thoughts racing through my mind. It doesn’t come with the fear of having a panic attack at any given moment. It doesn’t make me vulnerable.

Childish Crying

I was in high school when I finally found out what was wrong with me. My psychiatrist explained it to me. Until now, I’ve been working on myself. I never believed in medication for it either. Medicine makes me anxious. Tragic events have happened in the past few years, life-changing things, both horrible and exciting. The responses to timely events fluctuate, but nevertheless the overthinking never stops. Post-traumatic stress lingers, ready to pounce on me the second I’m triggered.

I read about other people’s experiences with anxiety and even talk to them about it, whether they are strangers on forums and blogs, or are my closest friends. Note that there are six types with distinct attributes: social anxiety, obsessive-compulsive, phobia, post-traumatic stress, anxiety attacks, and generalized anxiety disorder. Although anxiety is different for everyone, being able to understand each other in one way or another on the varying scale is comforting. It’s satisfying to know that I’ll never be alone through this despite being stuck with my own thoughts. It drains me. It takes a lot of patience to learn about myself as well. I think self-awareness is important when it comes to knowing what to do in certain situations, or what to do when I’m having a panic attack. It may not go as smoothly as I hope, but it helps to know myself.

This is me:

Once something is in my head that I could possibly be nervous about, it does not go away. I won’t advise you to watch what you say around me, but just know that particular things will fester in my mind until I hyperventilate about it sooner or later.

I will rewrite my notes if I think my handwriting is ugly. And I will organize anything that can be organized in color, size, and alphabetical order. Yup, it’s me, your local librarian.

I will pace the floor when making a phone call, be put on hold for 20 minutes and hang up the second someone finally answers… followed by a short tantrum regarding how much I hate that I just did that.

I will take a million selfies until I get one that’s just right to post, and spend way too much time perfecting a caption for it. And even then, I’ll immediately want to delete it. I know I shouldn’t care about what people think of me, believe me, I really don’t. But the thoughts come and I just can’t help it.

I will hesitate and hold back on asking you an endless amount questions if I know you’re doing something with a potential for disaster — because if it goes wrong for you, it goes wrong for me and all the little people in my head that will tell me “we told you so.”

Scott and Ramona Awkward at a Party

I will be more likely to be social at a party if I know and am comfortable with most of the people (and even more likely after a few drinks). If there are too many people and the atmosphere isn’t right, you’ll find me helping myself to the less-crowded acclaimed smoking room or on the kitchen floor talking to the host’s dog.

I am not “over-dramatic” on purpose. Telling me to calm down will not help. Telling me that I’m freaking out over nothing will not help either. And if you tell me to stop thinking about it, I will certainly think about it more. Does anyone think I stay up late and sulk about the past and future events for fun?

Yes, I worry while I’m with you, and when you’re talking to me so I might only hear a small portion of what you say because my inner voices keep interrupting. I worry while I’m watching a movie, while I’m eating, working out, reading — it wouldn’t be abnormal for me if I was riding a roller coaster and thinking about the conversation we had last week (OK, maybe that’s a little dramatic. Humor me.) Worrying is constant. Overthinking is constant and it totally consumes me.

Anxiety Consumes

To those who have very little experience with anxiety, please do not doubt my reasons for anything that I do that probably comes off as utterly ridiculous to you. It may be part of us from as long as we can remember, or it may develop at any time within our lifetime. But in spite of that, it is real. Anxiety disorders are very real.

We all may not struggle with the same anxiety, but the nature of all emotions and feelings that come with it are completely valid.