Victories in Disguise

Part 7: January 17, 2015 [3:30 PM]

Queue the theme from Mission:  Impossible.


One by one, the participants stood and introduced themselves.  They spoke of their contributions to MHAI’s project and how they came to know about it.  Each had deeply personal reasons for telling their stories or donating their art to the cause and each was equally courageous for sharing.


I wasn’t paying attention to any of them. 


You see, a fuse had been lit the moment the first contributor spoke.  With each passing turn, the winding line burned ever shorter, drawing closer and closer to me.  In my head, it felt as if I was clutching a bomb in my hands attached to that shrinking wick.  Doom was only minutes away.


My exterior displayed a façade of calm, but there was a familiar tremble building in my knees.  The knot in my stomach twisted into a double.  My heart raced.  Adrenaline filled my veins. 


I wanted to flee, but there were just as many, if not more, stress-inducing obstacles along that course of action.  Retrieving my coat and shoes discreetly was impossible.  Everyone would see me trying to leave and that would immediately put all focus upon me.  There would be questions.  My fumbling answers would cast me in a more humiliating light than I could bear.


Everything Captain Kirk taught me was a lie.


This was a no-win scenario.  Sometimes, the best way to deal with anxiety is to choose the least stressful option available and hope for the best.  So, I would have to remain where I was and let the fuse run out. 


Batman said it best:  “Some days, you just can’t get rid of a bomb!”


Still ignoring all but the distance between the latest speaker and myself, I turned my attention to my forthcoming bit of dialog.  In situations like this, it’s more comforting to have something prepared to say rather than speaking off the cuff.  It’s far too easy to make mistakes otherwise.  I’m sure you’ll agree that screwing up a casual introduction to a room of compassionate, understanding, friendly people is absolutely out of the question.


First, I’d say my name, as is tradition in these situations.  That’s always the easy part.  I haven’t forgotten that, yet.  Though, I can never decide whether to say Joshua or Josh.  Don’t get me wrong, I have no problem with either.  However, my full name seems to come with an air of pretentiousness attached to which I have never identified.  I feel like I should be asking people if they’ve found my missing monocle after a greeting.  On the other hand, the abbreviated form sounds more like a dude with sun-bleached hair living in Southern California who uses the word “bro” way too often and never wears socks.


I always wear socks.


The next part is tricky.  Smooth transitions are always difficult.  Most people were explaining how they heard about the project.  That seemed like a good approach.  I learned of it from a member of my writing group who has some affiliation with MHAI.  Of course, my lack of expert knowledge on what sort of connection that was weakened my desire to want to mention it at all.  I knew no one would interrogate me, but there’s always the possibility.  Half the room had finished by the time I decided to take a chance and mention the writing group anyway.


Okay, I’m making progress!


The third, and final, part of the introduction would be the hardest.  It was at this point that, if I’d managed to survive the initial concussive blast as more than a puddle of jelly, I would be expected to speak on my contribution to the project.  I would have to stand in front of fifty or sixty people and tell them about the story I wrote, the subject of which was my social anxieties, and how I am least comfortable speaking in front of large crowds.


It’s difficult writing on this subject.  If it is something that must be communicated, and I maintain that it is for my own well-being at the very least, I still prefer to write rather than speak.  There’s time to refine what I say and how I say it so that I’m certain I am not misunderstood or misinformed.  I can change it a dozen times, if I need to, before sharing it with others.  For example, I deleted the sentence that was originally here in the first draft and replaced it with this clever, self-referencing piece of text.


The original line was too weak to make the cut.


Once I’m as ready as I’ll ever be to share my words, writing has the wonderful attribute of a delayed audience response.  Because I’m more confident in how I communicate my perspective, I can post it online and walk away.  I don’t have to see how people react.  I don’t have to worry about immediately responding to questions. 


There’s a beautiful buffer to soften the exchange.  It’s kind of like a blast shield that protects me from any sort of verbal projectile sent my way.  Of course, I wouldn’t have the benefit of a shield in this instance.


All I had was the bomb, and the fuse just ran out.


Ka-boom.