As with my previous post, where I elaborated on my mental health according to each decade, here, I will go over how my social anxiety disorder came to be.
It began in college when I sought my Bachelor’s degree, which included numerous presentations, speech coursework, and one Acting class. I don’t remember why I chose that elective instead of the other options. In acting, I liked the preparatory exercises each day, and the journaling to the instructor assignments, but the acting itself was a genuine hardship. King Lear and Steel Magnolias scenes were my midterm and final. Oh my god, it’s difficult to even recollect.
With King Lear, I had an angst-ridden, class-skipping cohort which left me in the lurch during on-stage practice sessions where the instructor filled in for him. However, I don’t know if that perfunctory student was worse than an acting major with a precisionist pace that led to palpable Steel Magnolia scene rehearsals. I spent moments in the restroom beforehand, popping Xanax to allow me the assertiveness to complement her rigorous retention of detail, dramatic capability, and goal.
Speech class was about as negative an experience as Acting class turned out to be. I received A’s in both, but it didn’t come without permanent damage to my psyche. During my first three minute speech on day one of that class, others comforted me out by the college commons cafe during break and telling me that “it will get better and easier,” which never happened. Apparently, I shook so much that my fellow students thought I’d faint. The spontaneous speech, and subsequent interview from my peers, found me racing home to bed to quell my nerves, almost bringing about a psychotic break, and I’m not using hyperbole. My final was a tribute to my (foster) dad that raised me, maintained the lengthy ten-minute minimum delivery, and hit all the requisite buttons. But again, not without damage to my mental health.
After those courses, I withdrew from groups, except for the Center for Spirituality and Healing classes, where I gave many performances, but only because after getting to know the other classmates did I realize they had experiences or issues in their lives that were only slightly below mine. Those classes taught me that everybody has anxiety, everybody has regrets, and that everybody has negative memories that carry within themselves.
But outside of those courses, I shielded myself from the world, choosing instead of at the front of the class, in the back, which allowed for a smooth departure. In between classes, I’d sit in the commons at Moos Tower, where I’d nurse a vanilla cooler for hours by myself in the corner. Classmates would wave, but I’d pretend I didn’t see them and instead hide my nose in a book.
Then with work, I became an independent contractor, thereby allowing others to do the hands-on tasks which demanded social interaction. Those around me learned of my behavior and assisted me in the sense that they made excuses for my absence or lack of participation even better than I could’ve come up with each time. I learned to better hide my anxiety from their input. Most of them didn’t know then or don’t even remember now the extent of my mental illness, only sufficing to describe me as quirky. Whatever the cause or reasoning, I’ve found that it isn’t for the best and need to continuously challenge my obstacles and limits.
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