My mouth is parched. It feels as if all the liquid in my body has traveled to my underarms and back in the form of perspiration. My face feels hotter than any sun even though I’ve been in an air-conditioned room all day. My anxiety goes through the roof at the mere idea of having to call the pizza guy and make conversation. They call it being “socially awkward.” At a young age, it’s called “shy,” and it’s considered cute, but nobody lets on to the fact that people skills are crucial for adulthood. When I was a kid, I would hide behind my mom when she waited in the checkout line so I wouldn’t have to face the burly cashier. In gym class, I always sat on the bench so no one would count on me to make the winning shot. Sitting on Santa’s lap at the mall was supposed to be exciting, but my parents would have to bribe me to get that perfect snapshot. I never wanted to make friends in middle school because I had a gut-wrenching fear of not being able to sustain a conversation, even though I was the kind of student who read novels when everyone else was stuck on picture books.
Since birth, my parents instilled in me that spontaneity is bad because routines are the key to success. This made me exceptionally organized and played a big part in my academic success, which I truly appreciate. However, this mentality also conjured a lock on my mouth that stopped me from communicating effectively. I crave socialization, and my heart hurts a little more every time a conversation doesn’t go smoothly or I’m labeled “socially awkward.” It’s important for people to understand that this isn’t something I or anyone else does by choice.
My social anxiety goes back as far as I can remember. I have a million different thoughts and concepts swimming through my mind, looking for an exit, only to find that it’s blocked by the fear of being rejected. My friends and family tell me I’m a bad storyteller. They say I tell long, drawn-out stories that go nowhere. I don’t do this on purpose, but accidentally, in hopes someone will understand my thought process but no one ever seems to get it. My anxiety emerges more with people I don’t know, rather than those I see every day.
My immediate family rarely visits my dad’s side of the family. We see them on Christmas Eve and the Fourth of July, but that’s it. This never bothered me much because they aren’t the most pleasant people. They’re the kind of family that has more dogs than kids, and more cigarette cartons than dogs. When I was in the third grade, we missed Christmas Eve for some reason, so there was more emphasis on our upcoming barbecue. When the Fourth came around, I was anxious about talking to them, so I brought my favorite Harry Potter book. This gave me comfort, an escape route, of sorts.
“Hey, Al! How’s school going?” my uncle asked.
“Good,” I said as I avoided eye contact and ran my gaze through the maze of words on my lap. To this day, my dad’s side of the family doesn’t contact me because my lack of conversation as a kid seemed rude and snobby. In reality, I just didn’t know how to socialize. Of course I knew how my schooling was going! I could have said I was bubbling with excitement because I was one of the only third graders who had mastered cursive, or how I spent an eternity on my latest art project, but it was worth it because it was on display now. I just didn’t know how to phrase it, and even worse, I was terrified of getting a follow-up question I might not know how to answer. I was scared of coming off too modest, or even worse, too self-centered. This fears latched onto me like a lock, shutting me off from the world of verbal communication.
I went to elementary school with twin boys who lived a street away. Alex and Evan and I were inseparable. One of the many things they taught me was how to skate aggressively. They were absorbed with skating and would have all of their birthday parties at a skate park. The people they invited were typically boys who they would play post-apocalyptic video games with. I fit in fine, practicing for hours and hours to be a better skater.
Seventh grade was a switch in universes; enter the girlfriends. When the guest list for these parties changed, I was ecstatic to find out there would be other girls, imagining a Joan Jett girl-power theme. I was in for a shock when the girls refused to skate because it wasn’t “cool.” I really wanted to go out there, but I was so worried these girls wouldn’t accept me. I wanted to hang out with Alex and Evan and try to grind a rail (a move I had religiously practiced all month), but I didn’t. I sat with the girls and laughed at jokes that weren’t funny.
In high school, I started taking college classes – sociology and medical terminology at the local campus. Of course I was seething with nerves, but I was also incredibly excited. Sociology was my first class. Professor Intimidating handed out the syllabus. As I flipped through it, I saw “group presentation” in big, bold letters that hopped off the page and dissolved in my stomach. Our first assignment was a 40-minute group presentation. I spent three weeks slaving over my portion of the PowerPoint, until I was content with the amount of credible articles and videos I had  found and thought my professor would be pleased. I spent hours the night before making flashcards for everyone in my group and practicing what I would say and how.
The class began with our presentation. My section of the PowerPoint was last, so I had to stand in front of the class for twenty minutes while the rest of my group presented. Gravity was pressing down on my extremities with more force than normal. My heart was beating so fast I felt like I was choking. I tried to laugh it off, but it only made me more noticeable. My breathless chuckles came out like gong beats, sporadic and deep. I knew what I was supposed to say but the words were molasses, sounding like slurred word vomit when they finally came out. I was still standing but felt worse when it was over.
Two months ago I started working at a movie theatre. I didn’t get the job for the money, but rather because I wanted to improve my socialization skills. Working in customer service is a wonderful thing. I love helping people and making their experience more pleasurable, even when they’re determined to be miserable.
One Thursday night, our theatre was having a special showing of a B-list science-fiction movie. The lines were incredibly long at the concession stand, but I plowed through the customers efficiently. As I was helping the last two, I heard someone talking on a cell phone. He was wearing a red dress shirt with a tie and a black hat displaying “Equinox.” His teeth could have been in a Colgate commercial. He looked like the kind of boy who preferred sunflowers over roses, and pretzels over chips. As he stepped up to the counter, I simply smiled because I didn’t want to interrupt. He rested his phone on the counter, mid-conversation.
“Do you come here often?” he smirked. It registered in my head as flirtatious, but the lock stopped me from giving a witty comeback. My mind floated in a million directions and I suddenly wished I had a Harry Potter book in my hands. My hands grew sweaty as a flush invaded my face. This is the point where most people see me as socially awkward and speed the conversation along.
“What can I get for ya?” I used my generic, concession stand voice, lacking any better comeback.
“Just that beautiful smile of yours,” he replied kindly. I wanted to tell him he had a nice smile and how much I appreciated his efforts to keep chivalry alive. I wanted to tell him his positive energy was contagious, no matter how much I was kicking myself for not being able to speak. I wanted to tell him how much better my night became when he displayed enthusiasm for fruit punch, but it seemed as if the lock was heavier than ever. He stayed for ten minutes, prying at it, as if he knew there was more to me. I felt as if the conversation was garbled and choppy, biting the inside of my lip after every sentence, hoping it would release something interesting or witty.
That conversation made me realize how important it is for me to bust this lock open. Since then, I’ve forced
myself to try more social opportunities, ranging from something as
simple as spending the night at a friend’s house to going ice skating in downtown Detroit. The more I do, the less stress I have about something as small as a phone conversation. My mission is simple: I need to pick this lock. I had been waiting for it to rust off, but now I realize I have to put some work in. Communication is a skill, and skills don’t come naturally for everyone, but they can be learned.