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Social Skills, Schizoaffective Disorder, and Accepting My Needs
“Please.” I twist the word in my mind, stretching it, arcing it, and wringing out every drop of meaning. I never thought I would be learning social skills at 31. I turn “please” and the other words in that sentence of my coworker’s email over and over in my head, playing them in different tones of voice, picturing what it might look like in person. Would her face look like it does when I know she’s happy? And what if I can’t decide what feeling I think is behind it? I can’t always peer inside your mind the way other people can. Though not due to lack of empathy, identifying…
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Social Anxiety – An Open Letter
Dear friend, You are not alone in your social anxiety. I see your struggle behind that smile that fools so many. I see how badly you wish it would stop. Maybe you wonder what’s wrong with you – things that are easy for others might feel panic inducing to you. Social anxiety comes in countless sizes, shapes, and colors, but whatever version resides in your chest, I see you, I feel for you, and I am right there with you. As a child, I was painfully shy. Chances are, if I didn’t know you, I wouldn’t talk to you. Tears would crowd my eyes as I stood in a room…
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Irrational and Unreasonable – Why You Don’t Have To Understand My Anxiety
My fate is resting in my hands. If I make the wrong choice, my entire life could fall apart. My nerves chatter with anxiety and it wraps itself around my throat. I can’t make this decision. It’s too important and I’m sure I’ll make the wrong choice. So I turn to my boyfriend and ask the question – “Which of these shirts should I wear today?” It sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it? It is. It’s irrational. It’s unreasonable. And I am fully aware of that. Logically, I know that the world will not explode if I wear the wrong shirt. Is there even a right or wrong shirt for a Saturday…
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When my PTSD is Triggered
Trigger Warning: Mention of self harm, suicidal thoughts, and rape A little over a week ago, I found out that the person at the source of my trauma, my ex-boyfriend, now lives in my apartment building. I’d imagined countless ways we might come face to face, but this was a nightmare I never even considered. Here’s what post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is like for me. What does my PTSD look like? It looks like me, smiling at people as I walk down the hall. Meanwhile, panic has me by the throat every time I walk into an area where I might run into him. It’s me answering the phone at…