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Anxiety, Fear, Vulnerability: A Letter to Whom It May Concern

From Yours Truly

By synovelle w.Published 5 years ago 11 min read
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This is for whoever has happened upon my path and spoken with me, made eye-contact with me, been friendly with me, and so forth. If you’re willing, I would like to say a few things.

Still here? Thanks. I appreciate it.

You see, I have some difficult with communication. Verbal, mostly, but generally all forms of socializing are a bit... iffy, I guess?

There is not a physical ailment here. There is not a learning problem here. I’m not diagnosed with something that prevents my physical body from properly speaking—it isn’t anything of that nature. It’s both more simple and more complex than what I’ve described.

I will describe some situations I have been in that you may have encountered with me before, so you can better visualize what I mean. It goes like this:

It was English class, junior year. Textbooks adorn each desk in the room, we were reading a summary about the author who penned the next story in our syllabus. Our teacher took a glance around the room. A pointed finger. Me. She pointed at me and called me to her podium. It was a normal habit for any teacher to call upon a student to come present a topic, read a passage. So normal. Happened every year of our school life. Common.

What you didn’t see was the vibrating fear that stirred into a terrorized earthquake inside my chest. My hands in the pockets of my navy skirt that I clenched into hard fists to stop the shaking. A cold sweat that broke out, dripping along my undershirt that luckily prevented my polo from showing my skin’s current temperament. I was dizzy. I felt like I wasn’t in my body, yet I could swear that my feet were heavier than our bags filled with binders and books.

Podium. Textbook. Who was the author? Author, author, Edgar. Edgar Poe. Edgar Allen Poe, sorry. A glance to our teacher, she beckons for me to read. The page. She opened the page already. My hands don’t have to leave my pockets. Good. Read. Okay. Yeah. Edgar Allen Poe was born into a family of—stop. She stopped me. She’s criticizing me—wait, no. She isn’t. She’s talking to me. About me? To the class. No, she’s just talking. About reading. My reading. Now she’s talking to me. What? I was wrong, I wasn’t supposed to read. Read. I need to read. Quickly. Summarize the passage, don’t read word for word. Yes. I can do that. Edgar Allen Poe was born— stop. I was just doing what she said. I want to fall over. Just let me read. Please. Miss- Doctor, I mean Doctor, she hates when we call her Miss. I’m sorry. Poe was born in... his parents... married... illness... Edgar penned... died... I looked up when I was done. Good. I get to sit down. I messed up everything. Could they even hear me? They’ll laugh later. She’ll probably fail me just for being embarrassing. I want to go home. I want my mom and my dogs. Let me leave. Bell needs to ring. Please. Sweat. Shaking.

But nobody saw this. I confided in you after class. You simply laughed and expressed your relief that you weren’t called on because you think you would’ve messed up. You thought it silly that our teacher didn’t just let me read it like it was.

Yeah. Silly. I laugh with you because it’s over, because you’re laughing and I want you to think I’m okay, because if I’m not okay you’ll ask questions and I don’t like questions. I just like listening to others talk. So I laugh. I’m comfortable.

Some days or weeks or months later, I’m not sure which, in the same English class we are reading a novel. It’s Hamlet. I’ve always wanted to read Hamlet, because I have heard the comparison between it and The Lion King—I just absolutely love Disney, you’ll have to forgive me.

But I can never truly enjoy reading in this class because our teacher always makes us read out-loud. And there’s awkward scenes in the books we read. There’s swearing. Hamlet has moments where characters sing.

I know a loophole this time. She will make us choose who reads next. People choose their friends to pick on them, but their friends don’t mind because it’s a joke to them. It’d be nice if I could find it that simple, and laugh too.

You? You know me, you won’t pick me. I confided in you during lunch. I asked nicely for you not to pick me.

“Of course I’m going to pick you!”

Wait, what? But... but you know I don’t like it.

I try to tell you why I really, really, reallyreallyreally cannot be picked. Please. Do not pick me. Oh my god you’re laughing at me. It isn’t funny. It’s not that I just don’t want to do it, I really cannot fathom reading out-loud. They’re going to stare at me and the teacher is going to criticize me if I don’t do it right please I’m begging you we are almost in the classroom please please pleaseplease-

I conjure up the word: anxiety. I have anxiety. You’re my friend. You’ll understand.

“I have anxiety too!” Oh, thank god, you’ll get it. You’ll see why I’m scared and why I always look like I’m going to cry when I get called on in class. You’re going to understand everything, and I’ll be able to confide in you further in the future and-

“But if I have to read, you have to read. I’m just going to pick you.”

No.

No.

You just said you have anxiety. I told you. I actually admitted it and I’m embarrassed and you just laughed in my face again and now we’re in the classroom and you’re going to make me do what I just asked you not to do why can’t you just understand-

Deep breath. Breathe. Just... just breathe.

I had a hard time talking to you after that. We still were friends, I guess. We still had two classes together, we would see each other in between, you’d text me and I’d respond. I mentioned my anxiety a few more times and you simply repeated what you said before.

“I have anxiety too!”

I believe you. I would never not believe you. But, friend, we aren’t the same. You don’t share my fear, and you aren’t sensitive to my pain like I am to yours. Because of that, I couldn’t really be comfortable with you. You’d still laugh at me when I said I was scared and wanted to skip English if I didn’t fear getting in trouble. You laughed when I pleaded for you not to make me read or present if you had to choose, and you still did it despite that.

I even called you out on it. I don’t do that. Confrontation is awful and I abhor it—but I did it because I couldn’t contain my feelings anymore. You laughed when I admitted my anxiety. You laughed when I admitted my sexuality. You laughed when I admitted anything personal and it embarrassed me. I was supposed to trust you.

You didn’t realize how you made me feel. I understood that, and I wasn’t ever angry with you. You seemed to get what I was talking about and you tried to help me understand your point of view. Trust me, I got it, and I was so glad we had talked about it.

It’s just too bad I seemed to be the only one who took it to heart.

It was at a food service establishment. Many different times. Drive-through, sandwich shop, fancy diner. Different years.

You serve the food. You bring it to my table. You prepare it behind the window while I’m supposed to tell you what to put in the sandwich.

Except, I don’t tell you. I tell my mom and she repeats it back to you, most of the time.

You ask me what I want, make eye-contact, and I try to tell you but it’s a bit loud in the building. Air conditioner, other people, the hum of the cooling units under the food. You can’t hear me so I repeat myself. I’m still too quiet and I start getting paranoid that I’ll end up shouting and annoying everyone.

So, I just say it to my mom and she tells you. My mom understands.

You still make eye-contact and ask me directly each time, and now you have to put my food in an oven or heater or something. While you do so, you ask my mom what she wants. She walks off to the side to get her food prepared.

Suddenly, there’s a new person asking me what I want. I turn to tell my mom but she’s busy. I glance at you, and you tell me that your fellow employee here is going to finish my order while you help my mom with her’s.

Oh. Right. Of course.

Lettuce. Lettuce. Lettuce! Okay, you got that. Too indecisive... uh... do I want onions? Oh, you heard that. Onions. I’ll have onions. On-ions. Wait, no, that’s— too late. You put olives instead of onions. I’m not going to correct you. I couldn’t do that without getting afraid you’ll be angry. Olives are okay. What? Oh, next thing, right. Mustard... tomatoes... toma—tomatoes! Yes. Black pepper... no, no I said black pepper— whatever, I like green peppers at least, although I don’t think they go well with the cheese... I’ll ask for black pepper again. Yes. Yes. No. Thank you. That’s all. That’s— yes.

My food is still good. Luckily I’ve never been picky with what I eat, and I’m typically hungry and accept food any chance I get.

You probably think I’m just quiet and shy, or maybe I’m sick and my voice isn’t well- maybe English isn’t my first language.

Well, you’re probably not thinking twice of my actions because you talk to people everyday. Unfortunately, I assume everyone who sees me is thinking something about me and it scares me. Makes me paranoid. You don’t know that, of course. It isn’t your problem to know.

I’m not going to tell every waiter and chef that I’ve been diagnosed with social anxiety and a paranoia disorder, that I’m obsessive compulsive and attention deficit, and that’s why I need my mom to help me order or I’ll never get the food on my own. That’s just silly.

Now. It’s now. I’m writing this, in bed, reflecting over all the times that these types of situations have happened. You’re the reader. Maybe this reminds you of yourself, and you’ve experienced this before. Perhaps you’re the targeted audience, and you remember seeing a customer ordering food with panic in her eyes, or your friend begging you not to make her read in class. You’re a teacher who has the student who clams up and stutters when she has to present.

Maybe you’re the parent whose child has to take three different prescriptions just to be able to answer a phone call.

I’m her. I’m him. I’m them. I’m the person who just wants you to understand.

I’m not shy—I love making friends and helping others, but I still avoid human contact as often as possible.

I’m not quiet—I’m actually very talkative and can go on for hours about topics if I’m passionate, but I still don’t express my interests.

I’m not stupid—I purposely read articles and essays extensively, but I still choke when I’m asked something out of the ordinary.

I’m not crazy—I am a bit silly. I also just enjoy life and want to be happy, but I end up acting strangely when I realize I’m bringing attention onto myself.

I’m not making excuses—I’m truly feeling sick due to my nerves have caused my stomach to tighten and induce nausea, but all I say is that I’ve caught a bug, like always, because you might not understand otherwise.

But, I’ll never blame you for not understanding. I’ll never blame you if you get frustrated with me and my constant flakiness, my strange temper, my blatant avoidance. I’ll never be angry with you, even if I seem like it. I promise, my anger is only directed towards myself for being so wish-washy with my emotions.

That’s all. I just wanted to share this with you. If you’ve stayed this long, I’m grateful. I’m not good with words, my mom can tell you that easily. But writing is the easiest way I can express myself.

So, thank you.

Sincerely,

someone who isn’t just shy, quiet, but is very vulnerable and anxious.

anxiety
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About the Creator

synovelle w.

20

Alabama

Writer, Artist

Ready to Rumble

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