Victories in Disguise

Part 5: January 17, 2015 [2:15 PM]

No one suspected a thing.  It’s probably the glasses.


The next step in settling into any social function after casing the joint like a thief planning a convoluted heist is to find a seat.  Now, for most people, I think the process of finding a place to sit goes something like this:  “Huzzah!  This chair is unoccupied and appears quite comfortable to be sure!  The cushion is positively exquisite!  I think I shall take a bit of respite posthaste!”


Or maybe it doesn’t.  I’m not psychic.


For me, it’s like Goldilocks after her unlawful, and ill-advised, entry into that home owned by bears who offer the less appealing type of hug.  There are so many variables to consider.  It has to be easily accessible to allow quick exits, but it can’t be too exposed or overly crowded.  I have to have good visibility to watch everything going on in the room, but I can’t be too close to the focus of all the attention.  Also, and this is most important, it can’t appear as if I’ve spent so much time choosing a spot in the first place despite the fact that it is exactly what I have done.  One misstep could lead to oblivion, or so it seems.


I selected a chair that was just right off to one side of the room.  It was part of a ring of seats that had not yet been filled.  This was good.  I could camp out, sip my bottle of water, and observe the others conversing without appearing standoffish.  Since I don’t like to initiate conversation, the empty seating would allow others to come to me.


Socializing is all in the checks and balances for me.  I can’t help but feel overwhelmed in these situations, so I have to choose which of my anxieties need the most attention and deal with those first.  In this scenario, the crowd, and their expected focus on me later in the evening, was the most troubling detail about the event.  Sitting in the empty circle of chairs allowed me to mentally shrink my world to a manageable size.  I may not be perfectly comfortable dealing with strangers on an individual basis either, but the stress is a good deal more controllable.


As in all things, there are, of course, exceptions to the rule.  My social writing group, which I’ve mentioned before, is a prime example.  I host meetings once a week in a public coffee shop for an average of ten attendees, at least half of which are often complete strangers.  The final hour of these meetings is dedicated to introductions and discussion, meaning that all eyes will be on me for a period of time.  On the surface, this appears like the sort of thing I would avoid at all costs.  I’m not going to lie.  It was very challenging in the beginning.


What makes this group special is that, before meeting any of them, I know we have at least one thing in common.  We all love to write.  Knowing that helps me feel like I have something of interest to contribute to the conversation.  I don’t feel that sense of commonality with most people I encounter and, therefore, often feel like making any sort of connection is impossible.  So, my brain twists my proverbial arm until I agree not to even try.  With this group, I can be just brave enough to socialize and have formed some wonderful friendships as a result.


Sadly, I couldn’t bring my writing group to the scary party.


I didn’t have to wait long for somebody to say hello.  There were two of them, a man and a woman, from an organization that was partnering with MHAI for the project.  We traded names, neither of which I remember.  I’m terrible with names.  I can recall your face if we haven’t spoken in years, but your name might as well have never been mentioned an hour after meeting if it’s not used regularly.


We sat and talked for several minutes.  They told me about their service organization and I got to talk about how I was associated with the project.  I know I said it before, but it bears repeating.  I really like being able to introduce myself as a writer.  That little boost was enough to carry me through nearly every conversation that day.


When they sheared off into a new discussion with someone else, I slipped away unnoticed.  At the same time, Mary Ruth was welcoming a trio of gentlemen to her home.  They were entering the family room as I turned to leave.  Naturally, that meant I was the first person she introduced.


Apparently, I’m not as skilled at being invisible as my experiences in high school suggest.


They were just as friendly as the first pair with whom I spoke, but there were three of them this time.  The numbers were compounding more quickly than anticipated.  I forget how, but we eventually landed on the subject of my writing group, which is a source of great pride to me.  Somehow, I did most of the talking if for no other reason than they kept staring at me, or maybe they were staring at me because I was talking.


I never can tell.


Anyhow, they were all associated with nearby schools that were working with MHAI as forums for future conversations regarding the unwarranted stigma surrounding mental illnesses.  They were attempting to build a supportive, open community for people struggling with such issues, just as my fellow organizers and I are attempting to do for writers with Just Write Chicago.  It was here that a tiny revelation occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I had something with which I could relate to these strangers after all.  It wasn’t a shining eye-opener, just a glimmer of truth within the maelstrom of my thoughts, but it worked all the same.


Some epiphanies like to play it cool.


I found, as we conversed, that I was growing more comfortable in this environment.  The overarching dread subsided, lost in the distraction of maintaining my active role in the conversation.  The smaller insecurities were still there, bubbling up from time to time when I stumbled over my words or misunderstood what was said to me.  Those, however, are far more common and easily kept in check.  Still, I have my limits.


I excused myself during a lull in our banter, using my empty water bottle as a reason to head to the other room.  It wasn’t a complete falsehood.  Apparently, talking makes you thirsty.


Who knew?


The same intern as before was at the drink station.  I greeted her again and took another bottle of water.  There was still no chance I’d be able to ask her to repeat the drink options.  Sometimes, the trick to dealing with anxiety is to not beat myself up about having it.  At least water is healthy.


By the time I returned to the family room, Mary Ruth had gathered everyone in a semicircle around the blank wall, onto which was projected the image of a woman calling via Skype from California.  I was gone two minutes and the whole environment changed on me.  All of the seats were filled.  There was no way I’d be able to dissolve into the crowd.  I couldn’t cross in front of her after she’d already started her presentation.


I was left standing in the archway next to the projected video and Mary Ruth with two thirds of the crowd facing my general direction.  My stress level rose, but not to the point of panic.  After all, their focus was not on me directly.  Yet.


Still, I attempted to appear nonchalant in case a stray gaze should come my way.  Have you ever attempted to act casual?  It’s impossible.  I never know what to do with my hands.


Pockets are lifesavers.