submerged in silence.
Navigating the depths of social anxiety
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I feel like I’m drowning in every room I enter
like I’m thrashing to stay afloat in a crowded pool
to stay present in a conversation
while sinking under the weight of someone’s perception.
I suffocate on what ifs,
on perceived failed first impressions even with the best of intentions,
my life guarded as if an opinion will hold me under.
I choke on small talk,
my arms outstretched begging for someone to pull me out of my stutter,
to teach me how to wade in my speech until it flows smoothly.
I crave the shallow end,
spending my time collecting remnants of my self-esteem in the sand.
I long to dive,
as a woman of depth entertaining more than surface-level conversations,
but my comfort loves the shore,
and it can feel so lonely when everyone else knows how to swim.
I want to be fully submerged in words,
plunging into the intricacies of thought and expression,
but what do you do
when your confidence comes in waves?
I can’t remember the first instance of social anxiety in my life. It seems as though it has always existed, lingering in crowded rooms and creeping into conversations with family, friends, and potential connections. I’ve always been the quiet girl in the classroom who knew the answer yet didn’t raise her hand; the observant girl who watched everyone engage with one another yet when it was her turn to speak, she had nothing to say.
My social anxiety chooses the worst situations to rear its ugly head. When I started my first official position after graduating college, the struggle to enter the building in the mornings was debilitating. Silence greeted my supervisor when she asked me questions about what we should do in certain areas, and I felt small when my coworker had answers to questions that I felt I should’ve already knew. My only reprieve involved retreating into a bathroom stall to practice my deep breathing technique.
Now my social anxiety tends to be the most active in creative spaces where I desire to make the most impact. I attend monthly open mics and slam competitions chock-full of talent. While I love surrounding myself with creative individuals, my social anxiety keeps me blocked from meaningful conversations and making connections with artists that I truly admire. They muse about their writing styles, and even ask questions about how their performance could be improved. I sit in the corner, desperately wanting to ask someone how I could improve. I’m too scared for their words to scar, for their true opinion to be that my writing is no good.
I’m tired of losing myself in inner monologues that other people probably don’t read on my face. It’s an incredibly lonely feeling to think that everyone sees your vulnerable spaces, when really, they’re busy seeing their own. A large portion of my anxiety is failing the persona I seemingly choose to uphold: a girl unafraid of the world, someone more than alright being alone, someone who deals well with rejection. Under that persona is a girl hyperventilating in casual settings, unwilling to embrace the areas of her personality and presence that people might love the most about her. Sure, I’m not for everyone, but nobody is made for everyone.
At a recent slam, I encountered a poet that I saw last year at an event near my city. At the time, he had an amazing poem that juxtaposed his poetic name with his first name. He switched between both characters throughout the poem, one with a weak disposition and the other with an eery, egoistical tone. It was impressive, so much so that I remember specific lines a year later (it’s actually a difficult feat to make your audience remember your poem unless it’s profound). He named the poem Split, reminiscent of the 2016 thriller.
This poet dominated this poetry slam even a year later, and I was determined to tell him that I witnessed his Split poem. With shaky confidence, I approached this poet and said, “I loved your poem.” He instantly smiled and thanked me. Before he could walk away, I threw my words together quickly to say, “I saw you about a year ago and I heard Split and thought it was amazing.”
His eyes widened. “You were there?!” I smiled as if I was accepted into this secret club of individuals that had seen this remarkable poem come to fruition. We talked about that night a year ago, and my thoughts raced contemplating the right things to say. Fortunately, our conversation ended with us following each other on Instagram.
My creativity often places me in spaces to be challenged and uncomfortably make myself known. If I don’t advocate for my art, who will? If I’m not the greatest supporter and promoter of my work, who else will find value? In creative spaces, collaboration with other individuals is the greatest asset. I desire to soak in their wisdom and celebrate their successes, to develop together as artists.
When social anxiety appears, I make an active choice to speak anyway. Some days, I am successful in this choice. Other days, I retreat, but I choose to try again. I’m learning each day to expose myself to new creators and silence the voices that encourage a highlight reel of every interaction just to critique my approach. In the end, I am valuable. In the end, I choose how opinions (imaginary and/or real) affect my presence in the world. In the end, I know my voice is a necessity.
What does Laraya like this week?
What I’m reading: I’ve started Training School for Negro Girls by Camille Acker courtesy of my public library (I’m a HUGE supporter of libraries for readers AND creators). This is a book of short stories, which I’ll review later on. In the meantime, can we get a round of applause for the cover 👏🏽
Have a wonderful week 😌 In case you missed it, take a look at my three most recent posts:
