I am, by most accounts, a functioning adult. So naturally, you would think I could walk into a room full of people I don’t know and remain a person.
Incorrect.
Put me somewhere I don’t know anyone and my brain immediately starts buffering.
Someone asks me a completely normal question. “So, what do you like to do?”
Oh. Good question.
What DO I like to do? Do I have hobbies? Who am I?
Also a good question.
looks at husband for guidance
Because God help that man. Apparently when he married me, he unknowingly accepted several additional positions: husband, Transportation Manager, and, when unfamiliar humans are present, Emotional Support Human.
Thankfully, he knows the look. My face says, “I have temporarily lost access to every piece of information I have ever known about myself. Please take this one.”
And he does. Because apparently he can walk into a room full of strangers and just… continue being the same person he was before we walked in.
Social anxiety also means basic things everyone else seems to do on autopilot suddenly require my full concentration. Like shaking someone’s hand.
Normal people presumably just… shake the hand. Meanwhile, every single one of my brain cells has been reassigned to Handshake Operations.
Okay. RIGHT HAND. Extend. How hard are we squeezing? Too hard? Too soft?
Eye contact.
Shit. We also have to do eye contact.
Smile. Am I smiling weird? What is my other arm doing?
By the time it’s over, I have successfully completed one of the most basic human interactions in existence and retained absolutely none of the information the other person gave me.
“Nice to meet you!”
You too, Person Whose Name I Will Never Know.
Meanwhile, my Emotional Support Human is standing next to me somehow shaking hands, making eye contact, speaking AND retaining information at the same time.
Show-off.
And can we talk about eye contact? Because apparently it’s important. Fine.
But HOW MUCH?
How long am I supposed to look directly into another human being’s eyeballs before we’ve crossed over from “engaged in conversation” to “why is this woman staring at me?”
Three seconds? Five? Okay, I’m looking. Still looking. This feels like a lot of looking.
Look away.
NO. Not that fast. Now I look suspicious.
Look back. Was that too soon? Am I staring? Am I supposed to look at one eye or both eyes?
Wait. Have I been blinking?
I have now devoted so much mental energy to the correct amount of eye contact that I have not heard a single word this person has said.
They finish talking and I nod. “Absolutely.”
Absolutely what?
Couldn’t tell you. I was busy manually blinking.
And you’d think maybe I could at least handle the easy stuff.
No.
Someone can ask me how I am. That’s it. “How are you?” A question I have been asked approximately nine million times. There are plenty of acceptable answers. Good. Fine. Great. Doing okay.
My brain has options.
And yet, somewhere between hearing the question and opening my mouth, every single one disappears.
“Happy Birthday.”
Happy Birthday.
Nobody is having a birthday. This person asked about my general wellbeing.
I wasn’t thinking about birthdays. My brain just reached into the giant bucket of Things Humans Say to Each Other and apparently went, “Yep. This one.”
So now I’ve created new material.
Because the interaction might be over for them. It is absolutely not over for me.
My brain keeps records. Extensive ones.
I can be lying in bed, completely comfortable, halfway to sleep. Nothing is wrong.
And then:
Hey. Remember 2008?
Excuse me?
Remember that thing you said?
No. Actually, I was hoping to sleep.
Perfect. Let’s review it.
And suddenly I’m wide awake at 3 a.m. performing a full forensic reconstruction of something mildly embarrassing I said eighteen years ago to someone who probably doesn’t even remember it.
Meanwhile, I’m lying in the dark thinking:
Why did I SAY that?
There is apparently no statute of limitations on embarrassment.
And logically, I KNOW nobody cared. That’s almost the most irritating part.
My husband can tell me nobody cared. The person involved could show up at my house with a notarized statement saying, “I have absolutely no recollection of this interaction. Please go to sleep.”
And my brain would still be like:
Okay. But what if they’re lying?
Because as funny as some of this is, constantly being this aware of yourself is exhausting.
I’m not just having a conversation. I’m having a conversation while simultaneously watching myself have the conversation.
Did I talk too much? Not enough? Was that rude? Why did I say that? Do I look weird right now? What are my arms doing again?
Sometimes I’m so busy trying to make sure I’m being a normal person correctly that I’m barely present for the conversation I’m trying so hard not to mess up.
And the stupid part is, I know nobody else is paying nearly as much attention to me as my anxiety has apparently decided they are. Nobody else is going home and conducting a detailed review of everything I said.
Knowing that should help.
It does not.
I’d love to tell you that realizing how ridiculous all of this is means I’ve stopped doing it.
I have not.
At some point, my brain will inevitably decide we need to review something I said six hours ago, and I’ll probably look at my husband.
Thankfully, my Emotional Support Human understands his duties.
“Do you think I was weird?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
…
“But what about when I said that one thing?”
God help that man.
Somehow, I’m Responsible 