Social Anxiety

As far as quirks go, I have many.  More than ten, for certain. I am not ashamed of my phobias, however - there is a small area that I wrestle with and am confronted with daily...a small, albiet very real, thorn in my side.  The preverbal thorn of social anxiety.

I know I can't be completely alone in my suffering.  It's not a constant state by any stretch of the imagination.  She is a mild, thrushing heat that quickens my heartbeat by a hair and a half. My cheeks may blush slightly, my eyes may dart, but to the untrained eye, you wouldn't be able to tell I was in the thick of some type of mild turmoil.

Allow me to explain. I want to disengage from any type of medicated state of anxiety or stress that is often found commonplace among adults (not to confuse myself as an 'adult', I use this word strictly for my readership).  This is a much more juvenile sickness, and perhaps not as taxing.  Social anxiety can be featured in a multitude of situations.  At first, I misdiagnosed the bedlam I was experiencing.  It's just heartburn, I said to myself. Or maybe you've just been smoking too many cigarettes, I would say. And perhaps, the latter is a gaining factor in the intensity of my troubled state. Allow me to expand:

It began when I was in 4H - the dreaded speech night.  Standing alone at the front of the Domain Hall, speech cards shivering in my clammy, inexperienced hands; vacant, blinking faces staring at me, transparently expectant upon my ability to entertain. The girl who went before me delivered a top-drawer speech on her family’s trip to Stonehenge.  I had never even heard of Stonehenge. Stone what? Sounds made up.  But honestly, she really nailed it.  Suddenly my speech on my dad's new combine didn’t seem to equate. Deep breaths.

Piano recitals also paralyzed me with social anxiety. My fingers became lead on foreign ivory keys in a large and elegant white room echoing hushed tones; paper programs fanning proud mothers in the audience.  
No pressure, my piano teacher would tell me.  Just pretend you are in your own living room.  Yeah. Right.  Whose living room is this? A Kardashian's, apparently.  I have never overcome my fear of public speaking but it's especially poor in front of an intimate crowd.  I mean, if I had to? I bet I could play the Opry. No sweat.  But ask me to sing at church in front of 100 people. Not on your life, baby.

Remember grocery shopping with mom? 
I forgot milk, Mom says, can you just wait in line while I go get it?  I nod and watch helplessly as my mother disappears into the chasm that is the grocery store. 

But wait, the line is moving!  

Mom, I call out. Mom, the line is moving.  I see no sign of her anywhere. Mom can you please hurry up the cashier lady is about to check out our groceries... 

I suck in a deep breath and hold it as long as possible, hoping to wake from my current nightmare.

The cashier looks at me. Next!  she says. 

Mom can you please hurryI'mhavingaminimeltdownandIcan'tbreathe...

I'm at a restaurant with my friends, and the server comes back to the table for the second time in less than two minutes.

Are you guys ready?  She asks, and starts taking orders immediately while evidently ignoring my panicked breathing.  I'm still grazing the menu like it's my first time. I haven't even passed salads!  I can't live with just salad.

Hurry, I tell myself, just close your eyes and point to something on the page. I shut my eyes and point.  What! That’s not what I want at all.  Our server is taking orders like she's got some type of personal vendetta against my indecision   The circle is closing in on me and it's down to the wire. Hands. So. Sweaty. My appetite is rapidly diminishing the closer it gets to my turn. 
And for you?  She smiles at me so condescendingly...she must know my secret.
I'll have what he's having,  I point to my friend beside me, following blindly.  What a bitch.

Missed the deadline for all my bills this month... I have no idea if my credit card is maxed. Did I even pay last month? I can't recall, my mind is blank.  My truck is a thirsty gal, can't fill 'er up for less than $120.

Just insert your chip, says the 17 year old boy behind the Co-op gas counter, instructing me to pay for my petroleum with my fraudulent credit card.

You go to Sanford, right?  I used to go to school with your cousin, I tell him.  I'm trying to stall him.

You can just insert your chip, he repeats.

Oh, like this?  I feign ignorance and deftly embed my card into the machine.  I hit enter rapidly; secretly praying it won't be maxed out.  The 17 year old just stands there, judging me.

I'm at a reception, something for work probably.  I'm being introduced to people I would normally never cross paths with.  I'm hanging out by the shrimp cocktail, and officially just became the weird girl who just eats all the food standing alone by herself all night.

Hello there, says a guy with skinny lapels.  How are you?  I cram more shrimp into my mouth.

I'm great, I tell him, these shrimp are to die for.  He smiles back so clearly he's not getting the message.  

What's your name?  He extends his hand in my direction.  Here we go again.

Chandra, I say.

Kendra?  he asks.

No, no, it's KANDRA. Like Kendra, but with an A.  I lean on the A extra hard for good measure.

How do you spell that?  Skinny Lapels asks. I sigh.

C-H-A-N-D-R-A, I tell him. But you don't say the H.

Shawndra?  he asks.

No no no no no no no no NO, I say. It's KAN-drah. Get it? It's like a silent H.   I try to resolve the situation by adding humour but regret my decision immediately.  

My mom must have had too much epidural in her system when she named me... I start to say, but Skinny Lapels has taken a pretend phone call and politely shrugs and points to his phone with his free hand in a "hey sorry but I gotta take this" kind of a motion.  I go back to my shrimp cocktail.

Maybe I should just stay at home.