Letter from a Social Anxiety Sufferer

Dear fellow guest

I don’t want to be here at this event tonight. There, I said it. You want me to be honest, don’t you? From your reaction you may have said you value honesty, but I’m not sure your demeanour shows you mean what you say. I have trusted you at your request. I’ve done what you asked.

My father can’t be here tonight, either. He too suffers at these kinds of events. And by not coming, weirdly, he feels even guiltier. Talk about a spiral of despair! Some people I know have to consume alcohol to survive this kind of thing. It’s difficult for some, and some find it impossible.

Imagine being in a room crowded with people you either know really well or with people you don’t know at all. Imagine feeling like your skin is crawling in a soul anguish because you crave deep connection, yet everyone’s either talking superficial nonsense or you cannot go there with someone because you cannot trust anyone. Imagine feeling like you need to be encountered at a very deep and felt level, yet all others want to talk about is the weather, how fast or slow the year is going, what they had for dinner last night or their zany boss. Imagine hearing someone blither away when all you sense is rising social dislocation and confusion. Imagine the soul loneliness of just wanting to curl up in a ball and howl. Several times you want to run, screaming from the building. But you can’t. Can you imagine it?

I want you to know, but I know you cannot. Unless you’ve walked a mile in my shoes you will not and cannot know. You must go about your business with hardly a modicum of concern, and most of the time you’re blissfully unaware of how tortuous this is for me. For me, every social encounter is a large-scale logistical event. It’s draining at best and debilitating at worst. Just the thinking that goes into preparing for any outing is exhausting.

I haven’t always suffered socially triggered anxiety. But I can tell you, right now I feel estranged to confidence, preoccupied of mind, and self-hateful. I wish I weren’t like this. I do not pray that you ever experience this, but if you ever did you might understand much more. I can’t ask you to fix this for me, and simply to understand (and not judge me for it) is like fixing it—it means I don’t have the awkwardness between you and I as an additional thing to manage.

How do I begin to describe how bad it can be in a social setting? If there are 10 people, I don’t know who will ask me the question I’m least prepared to answer. Will I be left jaw ajar? Do I have the words? Will I just break down in tears? How will I be embarrassed and shamed? Who will approach me? It only takes one person with a judging scowl and I’m toast. One to one I might be able to handle it, but the variables of a group are too big to counter. I realise much of this might be unrealistic and irrational to you, but this is my reality.

Please go easy on me. I don’t like the pressure you place on me to attend something I have no desire to attend—for all the above-mentioned reasons. How I pray that you might say, “Please stay home and look after yourself,” and “I just admire you for presenting in life so courageously,” and “Let me know if I can call by later to just be with you.”

I want to hear that I am of value to you for who I am, and that you do know I’m trying my best and that my best is good enough. I don’t want you to lie, not at all, but I think you’ll find it important to know how I think and how others feel on the day, too. I hope how others feel is important to you.

~

NOTE: I don’t have social anxiety, but many I do know do suffer it, and this letter is for them and anyone who must relate with one who suffers. Rather than place them under pressure to attend our events, we ought to simply tell them that there’s no pressure on them to attend, and back this up with a heart that views non-attendance or short attendance as nothing to be apologised for.

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash