Victories in Disguise

Part 4: January 17, 2015 [2:05 PM]

Nothing significant happened.


What I mean is that none of the terrible things my mind envisioned actually occurred.  I wasn’t late.  I didn’t trip or accidentally break some priceless family heirloom.  No one was unintentionally insulted.  This was not some elaborate ruse to embarrass me.  These people were not monsters.  How could they be?  They work at a non-profit.


Now, obviously, I knew going in everything would be okay.  I always know everything is going to be okay.  Otherwise, I’d never do anything.  That still doesn’t stop the butterflies.  I apologize if this point seems repetitive, but I feel like it’s one of the major things people without anxieties continually misunderstand about people with anxiety.


Knowing and feeling are two different things.  They operate independently and, quite often in my case, in conflict with each other.  I’ll go into more detail later but I recall I left the last entry with a cliffhanger.


We now resume the program already in progress.


Just inside the door, I was greeted warmly by the project curator, Mary Ruth.  It was within her home we all were gathered for the event.  She was a gregarious woman in a lime green dress she knit herself.  I introduced myself and she immediately recalled the piece I submitted, if not the title, which is impressive considering there were 24 in all, not counting the ones that weren’t selected.  She then told me I was one of the earliest submissions and was so excited after reading it that she had to share it with the other staffers around the office. 


Whether this is true or she was just trying to make me feel welcome, I can’t be sure.  I’ve never been good at accepting compliments.  There’s often a lurking, unfounded suspicion I’m being told a lie or they’re attempting to manipulate me for some ghastly purpose.  I’ve also learned, more recently than I’m comfortable admitting, that I’m just as terrible at giving them.  I’m always worried they’ll be misconstrued or given greater weight than intended, leading to other social problems down the road. 


I know.  It’s ridiculous.  Just add it to the long list of other kinks in my being I’m working to iron out.  So, to start, I apologize if I’ve never complimented you.


You’re a beautiful person.  I like your shirt.


With my first introduction successfully completed, I was given full run of the common areas.  I concealed a sigh as she moved on toward the dining room to check on her team at the snack table.  Now, don’t take my relief as a criticism of her character.  As I said, she was quite friendly and I respect her dedication to this project.  It’s a noble venture.


However, because I prefer to warm up to new social situations slowly, highly sociable and generally outgoing people are often the most off-putting to me.  In their exuberance, they barrel through my comfort zone before I have a chance to properly prepare my interactions.  My brain, upon encountering their enthusiasm, shifts quickly into defensive mode. 


It’s sort of like the flight or fight response except, where most people get an adrenaline rush from a near miss from a speeding car or a bear drops by for breakfast, I’m trying to flee someone saying hello or offering a bear hug of a less violent variety.  I become too busy mapping escape routes to fully focus on the conversation.  As such, I often feel like I rarely make a good first impression and seem uninterested in the people around me.  I swear this is not the case.


You humans are fascinating.


Just beyond the entrance hall was a large family room with wood flooring and not a single rug.  Most of the furniture had been removed to favor a collection of folding chairs clustered in several small circles.  Some of the others in attendance were already conversing in groups of three or four.  I kept a wary distance for the time being.  There was a pink sofa lounge near the windows on the opposite side of the room that looked comfortable, but it was already occupied.  A projector and laptop were set up on a cart near the vacant fireplace facing a blank wall to my left.  I gave another gentle sigh. 


It wasn’t here.


I returned to the foyer and found my way to the other side of the apartment.  The dining room was there.  A long dinner table organized with cookies and savory snacks dominated the center of the room.  It wasn’t a large space by any means, but it still rivaled my entire apartment in area.


Five hundred fifty square feet, people.  I’m living the American dream.


Past that was a rather impressive kitchen.  Beverage options lined the counters.  One of Mary Ruth’s interns was there.  She smiled as she greeted me and ran down the list of drink choices.  I didn’t catch them all in her haste, but didn’t have the courage to ask her to repeat herself.  So, I selected a bottle of water, the simplest and nearest item on the counter, and thanked her before I turned to make my way back the way I had come.


It wasn’t here either.


I felt a flutter in my chest at the realization I was going to have to ask someone where I could find the bathroom.  Now, I wasn’t nauseated nor did I need to use the facilities in particular.  Restrooms are sanctuaries, you see.  They’re tiny, closed off spaces into which I can retreat alone without suspicion if the crowd becomes too much for me to handle.  Inside, the clatter of conversation is muted to a dull rumble under the flow of the faucet.  I can breathe for a minute or two and gather my energy to face all the people again.  With all that I was expecting to experience that day, I knew I would need the refuge.


I worked up the nerve to ask someone.  They, not realizing the immense effort it took me to ask that simple question, casually pointed to the end of a short hall just next to the family room.  I hadn’t noticed it on my first tour of the home.  Externally, I calmly thanked them.  Internally, I was awash with relief. 


I had my Fortress of Solitude. 


I stepped inside, closed the door, and faced myself in the mirror.  Off came my glasses.  I took a slow, deep breath and reminded myself that I could do this.


Up, up, and away.