Anxiety + Social Situations = A Nervous Teen

I hate being the center of attention. I hate finding myself amid a sea of people. When necessity arises, I endeavor to veer away from the nausea-inducing, terror-striking, blinding spotlight which seems to follow me everywhere I go. And I mean E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E.

Because I'm often running away from attention, strangers strike up random conversations with me, which goes to show that, however much I hide, attention will always find me. These strangers blatantly disregard the music blaring from my iPod, and still blinded to the fact that I'm not in the mood to socialize, they infect me with good humors also. I don't mean to be rude, but random acts of socialization perforate, and infringe upon, the comfort bubble which surrounds me. I am ill at ease around strangers (people I am positively sure I will never again see in my life) and just about anyone whom I find threatening. Does that mean I'm scared of 98.99 percent of the world population? Probably.

On top of that, anxiety intensifies this fear of socialization tenfold. Put anxiety and horrible social skills side-by-side and you will have a very frightened child. I am indeed a very frightened child. Although social situations give me headaches, they're nothing compared to the early stages of anxiety. When I'm anxious, I tremble, struggle, perspire, and my heart beats quickly. Five years and about a million embarrassing situations later, my anxiety has exacerbated (if that's even possible). The symptoms seemed to have heaped one on top of another; and as if blushing and worry weren't torture enough, anxiety decided that speech was next. Social situations--which generally trigger feelings of anxiety--can send me into throes of stuttering. This is how it usually goes: I stutter, blush, embarrass myself, and replay in my head the events of the day. It's a lot worse than it sounds.

However, I'm not always a scaredy-cat. I am generally talkative and friendly around those with whom I can be myself. I must confess that they are few in number. I won't mention names, but they should know that they are the chosen ones. Very few people have managed to catch glimpses of my personality; and if you thought the Voynich manuscript is a pain to decode, I'm a hundred times more painful. I won't be decoded unless I want to be decoded. So it goes.

If there is something people shouldn't say to those who suffer from anxiety is that it's all in their head. I'm sure there wouldn't any psychologists were anxiety merely a figment of the imagination. Speaking of, I saw a therapist a few years ago. The experience was rather enjoyable--psychotherapy worked wonders for my mental health, and strangely, I found myself looking forward to the weekly sessions. Unfortunately, my therapist decided our time together was coming to an end--a psychiatrist, she said, might be more suitable. What's that even supposed to mean? That she was useless? I'll never find out.

So I'm back to square one. I haven't yet outgrown the ten-year-old child who cowers in terror at every little noise.

I should perhaps concentrate on the happy moments of my life and forget that I have anxiety. Easier said than done.