social anxiety

This article first appeared on The Refresh and has been republished with permission. 

“Six slick slim sycamore saplings and five thrifty, fun, fifty-somethings. . .” I chant along with the rest of the group as I try to slow my breathing. We finish our warm-ups and line up behind the door. Somehow, I end up at the front of the line, place my shaky palm on the door knob, and prepare myself to open it and walk on stage.

As I look around my office, I know that one in ten of my colleagues have social anxiety. But I still feel like it’s my secret problem.

My reality has to include social anxiety, because I have had social anxiety for as long as I can remember. School programs, football stadiums, parades, large parties . . . hell, even small parties. I would rather not. To the point that I will simply not attend. Not because I can’t handle it; I can. I just don’t enjoy the crowds, and I don’t enjoy my reaction to the crowds. I get bitchy and impatient, mostly with myself, and I actually don’t like being bitchy and impatient.