The Impoliteness of Knowing

Let me paint a picture. You’re in a room full of people you don’t know, you came with a friend or a boyfriend/girlfriend and these are their people. They welcome you, they smile and say, “grab a drink,” and they’re totally polite and sincere. The night gets ahead of itself and then your friend or your significant other gets lost in the midst of their people and you’re left alone to fend for yourself. Fend. I know what a strange word to use in this “picture,” as if I am talking about being lost in a jungle, hearing the approaching panther, crunching sticks beneath its paws and softly growling a song of attack, and you are there alone having to fend for yourself. But I don’t know, maybe that is what it feels like for some people. Some people like me. Me, who can sense the approaching encounters. Who can feel the eyes of the people on me, like stage lights, burning into me, turning my cheeks red, making me dizzy, lightheaded, faint. And then they approach and ask you to talk.

“What do you do...like for a living?” “What do you do?” Is the first question out of their mouths. Their eyes a little red from the liquor revealing its effect, but still full of honest curiousty. I know they mean well. I know they are not panthers ready to pounce and devour me flesh to bone. I know this. But knowing is irrelevant in this scenario. Because they are asking me this question, without knowing how much I hate it. They are asking me this question not knowing or even remembering my name. As genuine as they are, they are asking me this question so that they can judge me, it doesn’t have to be in a negative way. Just judging me based on my profession (or should I say job). That is okay. I get that. You hear what I do for a living and you can get a sense of this stranger. I get that.

I still hate it though. I am not a talker. Not to people I don’t know. And I do know that by telling them what I “do” for a living, they will still not get a sense of who I am. And they will judge me and try to connect with me based on how I make money, yet that’s not who I am. But what else do you talk to adults about in a room? You can’t walk up to a grown up and be like “So like...what’s your favorite colour?” A) Because this is not a Will Ferrell movie and B) Because it would be hella weird. So, I get it. ‘What do you do?’ Is a simple polite question to ask an adult you want to engage with. But what I ‘do’, to get by in this impossibly withering world, does not reflect who I am. And I find myself feeling guilty, having to explain myself... ‘this is what I do BUT this is what I want to do, this is my passion.’ And then it gets real personal, and I am digging deeper than I feel comfortable doing to someone I just met, to someone who just asked a simple question. A simple question that brings out my insecurities.

All this to point out that I am riddled with anxiety, social anxiety being a connection to my general constant anxiousness. I hate small talk. I hate meeting people. I hate being left to talk to strangers. Because of this, all of this. I can’t stop overthinking, what are they thinking? Those prying eyes, painted smiles, pointed at me. What are they thinking? How do I not make a fool of myself? How do I answer this question without sounding insecure, without sounding unaccomplished, with a sense of confidence, how do I get them to get a sense of who I am based on what I do, without hesitantly explaining why, how, when and where I want to be? Because like, it’s none of their business. Suddenly I feel attacked, I feel like a criminal on the stand, as lawyers prod me with questions; why, who, what, where, when, how? And witness after witness points at me, giving their take on me, on the world, and on their position in my undoing.

You see?! I am riddled with anxiety. And for that reason, I hate meeting new people. I hate going to a place where I know one person, one bead on the bracelet I am connected to, all the other beads connected to each other. And I am one bead, that is singled out. I want to become the wall. I want to find a bathroom and hide. I want to shake everyone’s hand, and ask them simple questions, I want to laugh and leave with new friends, I want to stop thinking and I want to just be me. But sometimes, most times, all the times, I just can’t.

I don’t ask people what they do, I have never asked someone that at a party or gathering of some sort. I just answer the question and smile and burn up and slide deep into myself, waiting for the next simple question. What is your background? Who did you come with? What school did you go to? Why are you so quiet? ‘I am just shy’, I say, because you can’t exactly tell them you have anxiety (even with the “changing” times), without them looking at you differently (whether it’s with sympathy or concern or disapproval), instantly the dynamic changes and they have judged you. Being “shy” is cute, being a person with “anxiety” is awkward, confusing, strange, and sometimes even political. “Yeah...mental health...we don’t take it seriously enough in society...it’s such an important issue,” an opening for me to talk openly about my anxiety while experiencing my anxiety. I get it. They just want to connect, to get to a place where you two can both find common ground and talk genuinely about something, anything. I get it. I just can’t get with it. And it sucks, more for me than for anyone else.

I just don’t want the attention, I do whatever I can to stay hidden, to not bring the stage lights on me. If we’re seated and eating, I will eat what is around me, never reaching over anyone to grab food, never asking someone to pass me the “mashed potatoes,” because than I come into being. I just want to sit there mute and silently chew my food. If we’re standing around chatting, walking around chatting, I sink into the couch, camouflage into the wall, pull out my phone and pretend to be super invested or interested in something on the screen. I don’t look engaging or welcoming, I know, but then I remain hidden. Waiting, for my one bead to come find me and force me to connect with the others. ‘Stay with me,’ I say. And they try but they don’t want to be a baby sitter. And then people are at me again, 'what do you do?'

The impoliteness of knowing.

you won’t know me from what I do, you just make me feel uncomfortable, you will just judge me and make me judge myself, so like...leave me alone. Thoughts controlled by anxiety.

That’s not fair, I came, I am here, and I must engage. So, I try, barely, hardly, but I do try. I do.

But I have always been this way, a young girl who was labelled as just quiet and shy, not knowing at all what was really going on. That knowledge did not come to me until I was older, until I was educated and then everything made sense. Oh, that was why I was always so terrified to travel alone, Oh, that it is why I checked to make sure the stove was off 20 times before going to bed, Oh, that is why I was scared to date boys or actually let boys get close to me, Oh, that is why on those very rare visits to my dad’s house I never spoke or got up to go to the kitchen when I was so hungry and just waited for them to offer, Oh, that is why my dads side of the family thought I was weird because I wasn’t loud like the rest of them, Oh, that is why I was bullied by my entire class from grade 6-8, never standing up for myself, instead skipping school until my mother dragged me to the principles office so he could made sure I went to class everyday, Oh, that is why I just took the constant name calling, assumptions and verbal abuse from the students and never spoke up, I was too quiet, too anxious, too scared, Oh, that is why it followed me to high school, the bullying, and did not leave me until I graduated. OH! Anxiety!

And then a weight was lifted because I finally understood! And for awhile it was controllable and hidden but as I am getting older it has gotten stronger. The pressure of the world, the pressure to BE this and to BE that, the pressure to have it all figured out, the pressure to be thin, the pressure to be established, the pressure to be remain ‘normal’ even though the entire world is revealing how broken and flawed and unfair it is. The pressure to have it all figured out, the pressure to be friendly and happy and grateful when everything is going wrong. The pressure to keep it all under wraps as to not be labelled, as to not be considered delicate or weak. All the pressure’s that unravel in me in the form and material and matter of anxiety.

Do you feel uncomfortable reading this? Reading something personal? Do you feel like you shouldn’t keep reading…?

…The impoliteness of knowing.

All this from one simple polite question. What do you do? Through my stream of consciousness, do you get a sense of how my thoughts circulate? Run-on, from one simple polite question? And I can’t simply turn it off, so I smile and nod and answer robotically, waiting till the night is over, the last goodbye is said, and I am back in the comfort of the bead I am connected to.