social anxiety - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
My brain isn't as brave as I want it to be, for in this room there so many others and there's this little voice saying I'm not good enough to be here. I wonder if they can see the real me, the child who wants to be with those who love me the way family do, to be in a crowd of friends rather than in a crowd. Perhaps we're all the same, just some of us show it a bit more. My mother says it's just social anxiety, but there are days it feels like a pain I can't conquer. I don't want to go back tomorrow, because there's no chance of change, no hope of catching a smile from some other soul who feels the same way I do.
When anxiety and fear grab me by the tongue and dry my mouth, I don't panic anymore. I've been there before, I know the feeling, and knowing it makes it less scary - I am all the stronger for my battle scars. So instead of letting it take me down, I tell myself everything will be alright. I remind myself that I am a good person, I do good things, I have a heart full of love and there is world is full of good people out there. Fear can only hold me back, stop me from reaching my dreams. I can't say it never comes again, but each victory gets a little easier.
The janitor was quite the most spindly person I had ever seen. It was like his bones had grown faster than his flesh could keep up. It's common in teens of course, but from his rapidly receding hair line I'd put him somewhere around forty. His speech was always pressured and flighty, scattering from one topic to another with only the loosest of connections. He often paused to laugh at something that wasn't really funny, then stopped himself short, bobbing his head down, eyes moving quickly from one side of the corridor to the other. Then he would smile swiftly in a way that was sadder than tears, before edging backwards a few paces and turning like a man a decade or more older. The kids called him "Loopy Leon" and scattered garbage when they heard him coming, talking as if his "conversation" was two way.
Cindy was different. She walked with downcast eyes and her thick bangs almost reached her nose. Her uniform was a size too big, sleeves flopping over her hands and skirt falling a too low on her hips. She had spent the morning rehearsing scenarios she knew would never happen, but regardless of the futility she did it from waking up until class bell. Then she sat trying to control her breathing and prevent her face from turning beet red; but the breaths came quicker and her cheeks warmed regardless. She knew that if Clara piped up today she'd cry again, then her face would be puffy as well as scorched. The teacher called her name, she looked up. From the stares about her she assumed it wasn't the first time. He was holding out a book for her. The pounding in her chest accelerated, she had to walk in front of everyone. They would all see her stupid clunking gait, about as graceful as a short-legged chicken. She stood and almost tripped over her own chair, letting out an involuntary moan.
A friend of mine commented the other day "I don't get how someone can be 'not a people person'." Brought forth by the fatigue of running; the statement was simple and formed a quick realization. It was always known, of course, but never acknowledged: many multitudes would be considered a people person. Unfettered by strangers, content with crowds. It's easy to see oneself in the world, comforting. But these others can be shields, plows to be driven through the snow; clearing a safe path to walk.