Victories in Disguise

Part 13: November 15, 2016

I have been actively dealing with my social anxieties for half my life.  There have been high points when I feel like I've been cured.  These moments always precede a trough of depression that returns my knees promptly to the ground.  Even then, I've learned to pick myself up again, no matter the weight.  I've learned to mask the tumultuous flurry of butterflies taking roost at the back of my throat.  I've learned to smile when I mostly feel like crying.


This constant seeking of balance has driven my actions since I set out into the world as an adult.  Through trial and error, I've found my equilibrium.  My writing helps me sort my jumbled thoughts in to clear straight lines of black and white.  I surround myself with people of all walks of life who, like me, struggle to fit into society in one way or another.  We support each other and, in doing so, learn to carry ourselves a little higher.


We've become a community.


I've lamented in previous installments of this journaling series and other writings that it's difficult to describe social anxiety to people who don't experience it on a daily basis.  The notion of having panic attacks for no obvious reason is alien to most people.  My attempts to craft the perfect analogy have so far been in vain.  I've often longed for a way to feel like everyone else.


The day after Election Day, I woke up burdened by despair.  I'd barely slept.  Nightmares kept what sleep I did get from being restful.  Despite my exhaustion, my heart raced--my breath sharp.  This wasn't simply another anxiety attack.  I was angry.  Half my country had done something heinous in electing this man and, in doing so, proved my anxieties right.


The smiles are a lie to mask the hate.


But, I did what I always did when my heart hangs heavy:  I focused on self care.  I got up.  I took a deep breath to calm the flutter.  Music played while I dressed for work.  Facebook was intensely avoided.  I pressed on through the grief.


Only, now, I no longer had the luxury of bearing my anxieties alone.


I first noticed it at work.  No one looked at each other for the first two hours of my shift.  They barely spoke and, when they did, it was in short, quiet bursts.  Then, the silence resumed.  Everyone was awkward, as if they were suddenly and acutely aware of their proximity to each other.  Strict distance was maintained.


By the end of the day, my nerves calmed.  I processed much of the anxiety down to an unyielding, yet fairly manageable dread that would later be compacted into an easy-to-carry numbness.  For these rare circumstances, my anxieties actually give me an advantage.  Since I have so much experience maintaining them on a daily basis, I am always anticipating an attack.  When something truly traumatic occurs, I often work through it fairly efficiently.


My friends and those around me aren't so blessed.  While I dwell at the doorstep of acceptance, many of them are locked steadfast in denial and anger (for completely justified reasons).  It is persistent and it is recurring without any sign of relief in the foreseeable future.


Almost everyone I meet is in the midst of their first social anxiety attack.  Everyone.  People are talking about it everywhere--how it recedes and swells like a crashing tide, an insatiable worry gnawing at their gut.  They pull on the oars but the boat only spins.


One of my friends told me she now feels obligated to share the solemn looks of the people around her on the train to work.  No one told her to do this.  She doesn't want them to think she's happy about what's happened.  She's genuinely concerned about their negative judgment of her, however unfounded it may be.  She added that she's worried when she sees someone who doesn't appear all that upset.  She's scared they may have voted for him.  She's worried they wanted this to happen.


Maybe the smiles are a lie.


A week after the election, my writing group went to a bar, as we often do, when our meeting ended.  We'd been there maybe an hour or so when a woman approached us.  She apologized timidly and asked if she could join us.  Her voice cracked a little as she explained that she lived alone and wanted someone to help get her mind off all the turmoil that erupted in the week since the nation turned red.


Almost in unison, we offered her a seat.  She was quiet at first, new among strangers, but soon joined the conversation.  I could feel the relief in her voice as fully as if I were the one speaking.  Her fear, sadness, and stress had been building to rupture and we were letting her vent.  She spoke as if she hadn't been around anyone who felt they way she did in a very long time.  I could tell she was restraining tears.


She's not the first person I've heard express this feeling they can't quite grasp or shake.  That nest of monarchs is migrating en masse.  Things are different now.  People see each other differently.  There's a wall that wasn't there before.  They try to articulate it, but they can't.  They don't need to.  I've stared into their eyes through the mirror countless times before.


Every day since last Tuesday, I've had a knot in the center of my chest the size of a grapefruit that is pulled tighter with every encounter.  My throat feels clenched, as if I'm on the verge of tears.  There is a visible tremble in my hands that I can't seem to calm.  My usual distractions aren't working to maintain the balance.  I've controlled my anxiety, but this time it's not alone.  There's something writhing in the pit of my stomach that refuses to be quelled and it's only growing larger.


I'm angry.  I'm livid that my friends have to know what this feels like--that everyone is facing this new social anxiety, that we've allowed this to happen.  Being just another anxious person amid a sea of anxious people is not a state in which I ever expected to find myself.  I'm doing what I can to comfort them, to help guide them through their first storm.  But, it doesn't look like relief is coming anytime soon.  This new world is testing the limits of my patience and my temper in ways they've never experienced.


Deep down, I know.


This time, the anxiety has merit.  This time, it isn't my mind playing tricks on me.  This time, I'm not alone.  This time, I no longer have the privilege of using my anxieties as an excuse for inaction.


What am I going to do?  I have no idea yet.  But I'm a writer, so I'm starting there for now.


For those of you struggling with social anxiety for the first time, please keep the following in mind as you find your equilibrium again:

1. You are not alone.


2. Take a beat.  Think.  It's easy to slip into panic when your mind is racing.  Fear will often distort your perceptions.  Learn to take this into account and you'll see more clearly.  There are always solutions.  If you're in a situation where your anxieties flare, it's okay to step away and take a quiet moment to regain focus.


3. Remember to breathe.  Slowly.  Deeply.  Concentrate on your pulse.  If you can control that, you can reign in even the most          severe of panic attacks.  You are mighty.


4. Keep breathing.  As long as you're breathing, there is hope.


5. Talk.  Write.  Sing.  Draw.  Dance.  It doesn't matter.  Find your outlet and let it out.  Holding it in will only make it worse.  You never know who you'll inspire to do the same.  Art begets art.


6. Smile.  The world is gloomy and scary right now, but even thunderstorms have their highlights.  Don't let the anxiety push you down the road to fear.  Beyond that is only anger, hate, and suffering.  Take the time to appreciate the beautiful moments--and Yoda references--when they come and hold onto them.  Never let them go.


7. Do good.  Share.  Volunteer.  Listen.  It doesn't matter.  It's hard to feel anxious when you're busy helping someone.  Even the smallest of kindnesses could mean the world to someone who's lost in the haze of their own swarm of butterflies.  Be compassionate.  Build a world where this anxiety isn't necessary.


8. It's okay to seek and accept help.  You are not a burden.  You are not weak.  We are in this together.  Helping someone help you is like completing two steps in one.  Bonus points.


9. You are not alone.

Welcome to the Discomfort Zone.  Let's get to work.