Victories in Disguise

Part 10: January 17, 2015 [4:25 PM]

Everyone was looking at me again.


I bet you’re wondering why the second time was just as, if not more, nerve-wracking as the first.  After all, I had survived that ordeal with nary a singed eyebrow.  The answer is simple.  Each outburst of anxiety is a self contained event, having no relation to the events that preceded or follow it.  Analytical reason has no bearing on uncontrolled emotional reactions, so my knowledge that no harm will befall me is of no help either.


The gut reaction is uncontrollable.  I can’t keep my stomach from tying in knots or prevent my legs from quivering, but I can control my breathing, slow my pulse, and remember to smile.  Perception is reality, as they say.  Fake it ‘til you make it.  Build your own dreams.  Look both ways before you cross the street.  Buses take a while to stop.


[Insert The More You Know! theme here.]


I elaborated on my story, which detailed a rather peculiar evening wherein I conversed with a girl at a bar while completely unaware she was flirting with me.  Some people chuckled at that last bit.  My brain, in traditional fashion, leapt to the worst possible reason for this reaction:  that it was laughable a girl would ever flirt with me.  I know the thought is wrong, but it’s still there, floating between my ears like a cloud blocking out the sun.  It takes real energy to sweep the negative assumptions away.  Sometimes, I just don’t have it in me.


It has to rain eventually.


I know my audience probably found the situation I described without context to be humorous.  On the surface it is.  Had it happened to a character on a sitcom with a clever writing team, that scenario would have been hilarious.  Only, comedies aren’t funny to the characters on the show.  They’re just trying to get through another day where life is throwing them for a loop.


I grinned through it.  Sometimes, it’s easier to let them think I’m funny.  People like funny.


I admit the outing detailed in my story was not exactly my proudest moment.  It was, however, a significant one because it was a rare evening of socializing that didn’t include heightened anxiety.  I was calm.  At least, I was calmer than usual in similar circumstances.  Moments like that are very precious to me.  So, I wrote it down.  This time, as you know, I did something else.  Of course, had I known that sharing it would have resulted in me standing before a crowd of seventy people talking about it, I might have chosen a different option.


My hindsight is 20/20, but I’m near-foresighted.


That is a terrible joke.  Don’t laugh at that.  All it’s missing is a rimshot and a two drink minimum.


Tracy took over once I finished explaining the inspiration for the title.  I felt like dropping to the floor and curling into as tight a ball as I could manage.  Only, my curiosity regarding the artwork was slightly stronger than my desire to flee.  So, I remained, feeling the familiar weakness in my knees as the second wave of adrenaline cleared my system.


A very different weight bears down on me at moments like these.  Maintaining a sociable, outspoken façade is exhausting when my preferred ways to experience parties are either to observe from the wall or to never go in the first place.  It takes significant effort on my part to do anything else.  I do it because I know it is necessary and, depending on the scenario, can enjoy myself despite effort.


Perception and reality.  Faking and making.  Lying and teeth.


Shortly thereafter, the formal part of the evening came to an end.  The information had been shared and the stories told.  Dot-dot-dashing twice, in my case.


I’m not bitter.


The crowd broke apart into smaller, more manageable groups.  People got snacks and admired the artwork more closely.  I revisited the girl in the kitchen and, still unable to ask her about the drink options, got another bottle of water before retreating to the restroom for a breather.


Oh, restrooms, those porcelain-clad oases amid sandstorms of socialization, how I cherish them.  I’ve mentioned my esteem for them before.  There’s a particular wave of relief that flows over me the instant the roar of a dozen competing conversations is restricted to a dull, distant rumble when the door shuts.  I turn the lock, brace myself against the sink, and breathe.


Inhale, exhale, and repeat.  Slowly.


Even now, the worry isn’t completely silenced.  Though I know no one is paying attention, there is a time clock running in my head counting down the seconds until my average trip to the bathroom becomes cause for concern.  Staying a few minutes is okay.  Stay more than five and I imagine the ambulance is already on the way.  Again, I know this is irrational, but it’s one of those minor anxieties I let win now and again so I have the strength to face the more severe ones.  Tracy’s tightrope analogy wasn’t far off the mark.  Besides, I’d hate to hog the only bathroom.


Perception and reality.  Faking and making.  Sharing and caring.


Before the five minute mark, I flushed the toilet I didn’t use.  I washed hands that hadn’t left the edge of the sink the whole time I’d been in the room.  There is a slight pause as I catch my reflection in the mirror while I dry off.  I take one more deep breath and unlock the door.  The rumble becomes a roar again.


You want to hear something funny? 


Nothing makes people want to talk with you more than telling them you’re uncomfortable in social situations.  Those who have no social anxieties find those that do to be so confusing and fascinating that they seem to be compelled to completely ignore my potential discomfort in order to engage me in intense, near interrogative, conversation.  This always, always, always leads to the single most frustrating comment people say to me in these situations.


“But, you don’t seem anxious.”


Ba-dum ching.


Remember to tip your waitress.