Social Anxiety

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“Trust me, I won’t act weird in the party today. I won’t smile too much. Trust me, I will speak when…”

 

Well, I am memorising the instruction manual I had written in the morning with a title, ‘Do’s and Don’ts for a social gathering’. Just two more steps, and I will be stepping in an event for which people spend hours to look good to please the people who may never see their face again.

 

One. Two. BOOM! I’m finally inside the party hall.

 

There are millions of cars racing inside this hall, which my friends can’t see. Every car is colliding with another couple of cars, and before they hit me, I think I should close my eyes.

 

Breathe in, Breathe out. Ah, so everything is clear now. I should go and sit next to my friends.

 

“Hi,” I say hesitantly as I smile. My lips right now are like those little kids riding a bicycle; start off with enthusiasm but instead of going ahead, retrace the path towards the initial point when they see a threat.

 

My confidence completely shatters as I gaze at people. For I see, that they’re not made up of skin and bones, but on the upper part of their body is a scary feature too, which we, mortals, call eyes.

 

The feeling of being constantly stared at is eating me up.

 

Am I looking good? Is my dress fine? I hope I’m not smiling too much. Am I?

 

For how long will I keep acting like I’m trying to keep my hair back on its place, when it hasn’t been displaced? “Oh, stop it Annie. Stop playing with your hair,” I say to myself and rub my right forefinger on the knuckles of my left hand.

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Are they still looking at me? Umm, I should keep myself busy with this glass brimming with coke.

 

*BURRRPPP*

 

Darn. Did anyone hear? Are people still staring at me? Did they notice?

 

Social anxiety is just like my geography professor. I never want to stay with any one of them, but both forcefully make me sit in their classes.
Well, I should stop talking to myself and join the group now.

 

I am trying. Trust me, I am just impregnating my lips with the words I want to speak. I think I can.

 

I am just waiting for them to create a corridor where my words can crawl without getting hurt.

 

“Ha-ha! I had a great time with you all. I think it’s too late now. We will continue this discussion the next time we meet,” one of my friends gets up and says.

 

All I wanted was a corridor, and they dug a grave for my words.

 

I smile as I say goodbye and repeat, “Trust me, I won’t act weird in the next party. I won’t smile too much. Trust me, I will speak when…”

 


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