Other people are scary.

Talking to them, interacting in various ways on a daily basis, can be difficult, to say the least. Especially if you're like me, and can't help but wonder - was that guy looking at me? Oh no, did I accidentally make eye contact? Oh dear, I smiled, does that person think I'm smiling at them? That would be awful.

Stuff like that.

I'm not crippled by it - far from it, I live what I think is a somewhat charmed life - but the worry is there nonetheless. I do my best to ignore it, or even defy it. I wear a trench coat in the winter, daring people to judge me, simultaneously begging them not to on the inside. I joke about everything. I can't remember the last time I had a serious, solemn conversation with anybody. Talking about beliefs leads to judgment and avoiding judgment is perhaps overly important to me. Even with close friends, I find myself conscious about movement, about what I say, about where I look, about everything.

I sometimes have to remind myself about how good I have it. I'm getting a solid education, I've got solid prospects for my life after school, and everything's generally going well. But then, I'll bump into someone in the hallway. I'll wonder, for the rest of the week, maybe, what that someone thinks of me. Last year, an entire year ago, I handed someone a pen they dropped. We exchanged maybe five words. And yet, because I didn't know this person, I'd never spoken a word to them before, I was terrified to even speak up about that dropped pen. I haven't spoken to them since haven't even seen them, but I still worry every now and then that there's somebody I don't know with a bad opinion of me.

It's ridiculous, of course. I know, objectively, that most people couldn't quite care less about me, especially someone I spoke to once ever. Most people are too busy living their own lives to spare a thought about someone they'll likely never talk to again. If our roles were flipped, I know I wouldn't. In the words of Eleanor Roosevelt, “You wouldn't worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.” Ironically, worrying like this is a bit self-important, thinking people don't have anything better to do than think about you.

So, why write about this? Why let the world know that I'm terrified of people? I guess it's a bit like I said earlier. I'm trying to defy myself. I want to prove to myself that it doesn't matter. The opinions of all the people I'll never interact with again - which they may not even have of me - don't matter. I don't care.

Except for when I do, which is always. Well, I never said it was a perfect plan.