Victories in Disguise

Part 1: January 16, 2015

Something significant is happening.


I’ve written on more than one occasion about my difficulties and revelations surrounding my social anxieties.  In the grand history of my literary pursuits, the trend is an odd one.  Nonfiction wasn’t a strong focus of mine until recently.  I’ve never even been one to keep a journal.  Not much happens often enough, you see, for me to feel the effort was necessary, so I relegated myself to the writing of fiction. 


There have been events, though subtle and fleeting, since I moved to Chicago that I have recognized as deeply significant.  These are the moments that bear remembering.  These are the moments I recorded.


Though I’ve shared these pieces with others in a limited capacity, their existence is a selfish one.  So much of my adolescent and young adult life was spent under the assumption that I was a hindrance to those around me.  I felt like I was in the way.  Never once did I feel like I belonged anywhere.  So, I withdrew onto a solitary world to let others go about their lives without me mucking up their path to happiness. 


Obviously, I’ve come to learn this view is false and it is one I must actively combat to this day.  I need to be reminded that my presence has value, that I can influence others positively by engaging with them rather than as a passive observer.  I’ve written these short pieces so I can read them on the occasions where my brain is screaming for me to withdraw.  They are evidence of what good can come when I choose to advance.


Recording these events has helped me grow.  That simple buffer of translating the huge, confusing world around me into simple text on a page allows me to understand things about myself and my interactions with others that I doubt I would discover otherwise.  The act of writing lets me recognize my positive and negative traits in a more honest light so I can find balance whether or not I choose to socialize. 


It’s made me more mindful of my false perceptions.  I’ve even been able to catch my brain in the act of sabotaging me.  Finally seeing how my mind distorts the truly innocent ways people interact with me into schemes of imagined malevolence has been the most significant revelation of my entire life.  I documented that discovery so that I would never forget to challenge my assumptions before leaping to conclusions.  It reminds me that it’s okay to trust others once in a while.  Not everyone is evil, you know.


My writing has done a great deal for me.  Now, it’s going to do a little more.


I’ve written a story that commemorates a rare moment of peace within the battleground of my mind.  Like the others preceding it, I wrote it so I would never forget such moments are possible.  This time, though, I did something more terrifying than share it with my friends on Facebook.  I entered it in a contest.


To my genuine surprise, the story, entitled Smart Cookie, was selected as one of the finalists for Mental Health America of Illinois’ Manifesting Healthy Futures: 24/7 Voices and Visions of Wellness project.  I agree it’s a mouthful of a title, but its mission is simple.  They want to highlight optimism in the face of mental illnesses because, if I am any evidence, we all need a reminder now and again that things aren’t always as dismal as we perceive.  My story, along with the 23 others chosen, is to be publicly posted on MHAI’s website this month, marking my transition from hobbyist to officially published writer.  The stories will also be used as inspiration for works of visual art to be featured at the organization’s fundraiser later this year.  I was honored to be selected.


Great adventures, however, are nothing without a bit of irony mixed in.


I’m writing this portion of the piece prior to a gathering, to which I’ve been invited to represent my work, conducted by the curator of the project at her home.  My prize, you see, for writing about my struggles with social anxiety is to face situations in which my anxieties will be at their worst.  The more I learn about the event, the more nervous I become. 


As of the latest update, there will be over 40 people, none of whom I’ve met.  Some are participants, like me, while others will represent MHAI in a professional capacity.  I’ve been informed there will be Skype conversations and conference calls to people in New York City and California, adding to the population of strangers I’ll face.  They want to bring in a film crew and conduct interviews because they hope to produce a documentary about the project and its participants.  I’ve never been one for having my picture taken.  Being filmed is worse.  Plus, if my story is chosen as one of the top four, I might be asked to read my story to all in attendance at their fundraiser.  My pulse races at the thought of it all, and my head is filled with every conceivable way I could be utterly humiliated.


I’m still going, by the way.  I RSVPed and everything.


As wonderful as my writing has been in helping me grow as a social human being, it is still, at its core, a solitary, selfish venture.  I sit alone in my apartment and I ponder the things that have happened and try to make sense of them in safety for my own benefit.  Treading lightly can only take you so far.  Sometimes, you have to run. 


If I’ve learned anything from my own stories, it’s that my most significant revelations occur when I’m out of my comfort zone.  This step I’m taking will put me as far away from there as I have ever been.  I’m choosing not only to write about my anxieties for my own benefit but to openly talk about them for the benefit of others. 


I’m not writing and sharing this to show everyone how brave I am.  Don’t forget, I’m a selfish writer.  I will always be a selfish writer.  When I wake up tomorrow with the knowledge that, a few short hours later, I will be knocking on a stranger’s door to attend a party where, in all likelihood, I will be expected to talk about my anxieties, which I try to keep hidden under most circumstances, I’m going to need a reminder that this isn’t the end of the world.  It might possibly be the start of a new one.


Deep breaths, people.