Anxiety Made Me Rude

It's easy to judge people's behaviour when you can't see what is going on the inside. I would have never admitted to my anxiety when I was young and I think most of the time I hid it well, sadly, often with over-confidence and arrogance. Now that I am older, I see how much I could have repaired if I had the tools and the ability to be vulnerable and admit when I was wrong.

The Debs.

Those of you reading who are Irish, will know that attending your debutante ball, or Debs, as it is widely known, is a rite of passage in Ireland. For many it is the official end to your second level schooling and a way to celebrate your freedom. For others it is a source of fear and dread, taking you out of your comfort zone and emphasising how socially inept you really are. I, unfortunately, fell into the latter camp when it was time for me to attend my debs back in the 1990s.

At 17, I was not cool. I didn't have a boyfriend yet, I wasn't allowed out socially to bars and although I had male friends I had no skills in figuring out who was a good match for me. This meant that finding someone to take to my debs posed a problem. My mother convinced me that I should choose someone who would look good in photographs which unfortunately, in my case, meant sacrificing a night of fun with someone whose company I enjoyed.

I didn't feel the safety net of being with someone who could make me feel less nervous and as it was my habit back then of hiding my anxiety, I doubt anyone knew how out of my depth I felt.

They only like you because you are useful.

It was tradition that everyone who was part of the year group would be invited to the debs, including those who had left school early. There were a few who had decided to come and word had got around, to me at least, that at least one past fellow student would be there. When I think back to that night there is so little I remember, a sure sign of my anxiety. I have no idea what the bus journey was like to the hotel. Or what the hotel was like or the function room we were in. I can vaguely remember eating a meal at a large round table. This one fact has remained because someone was sent to my table to ask what the jam on the table was, because they figured I would know. I happily explained it was cranberry sauce and meant to go with the turkey we were served.

I don't remember dancing or who I spoke to. I know my date spent the night at the bar and with his own friends, who happened to be there. I can piece some things together when I look at the photos from the night but everything else is blank. The irony is I can't even blame that on a good night, as I didn't drink so, inebriation was not my excuse. I have one clear memory which I know was embedded into my brain by my feelings of shame and guilt and compounded by an event a few years later that made it all the more worse.

One of the students who had left school early used to sit behind me in some of my classes. She always seemed so much more mature than me and me, being me, convinced myself, as I often did, that to her I was a non-entity and quite likely that she was nice to me, not because I was likeable but because I was useful. I never judged anyone for seeing me this way. In fact, it made me feel safe in a way that as long as I could be useful, and know things, people would keep me around. It is now, years later, that I understand this as an avoidant attachment response to the fear of rejection.

I have never wanted to hurt anyone but now that I am older I know my fear of looking bad made me do and say things that I was unable to repair.

At some point I went to the toilet. This was a safety strategy of mine, when things got too much. Useful, but not so helpful when years later a specialist tells you that has messed up the detrusor muscle in your bladder. Nonetheless, it was helpful then for hiding moments when I felt overwhelmed, upset or out of my depth. One such trip to ladies brought me into contact with my former classmate. She bellowed my name, showing clear signs of being happy to see me. Not something I was expecting. In my anxiety I smiled and called her the wrong name. I had only been told one former student would be there and being caught off guard, terrified and overwhelmed it was the first thing that came to my lips. I watched as her face fell. I froze. I couldn't admit my mistake. Admitting mistakes was not something that came easily to me back then. Growing up in a home where shame and disgust were modes of discipline, mistakes were never admitted to, but instead, were always defended. I scurried out of the bathroom as fast as I could, and made a concerted effort to avoid her the rest of the night.

I know why I forgot most of the rest of the night. It was spent spinning the memory of my mistake over and over in my mind desperately hoping that some solution, or defence, would come to mind and I could be exonerated for my mistake. I was convinced she would see me as rude, careless, thoughtless, and cold. I was ashamed that I had thought I was nothing in her eyes and that I would be the last person she would remember. I was embarrassed that I had been wrong and confused as to why she was happy to see me. Perhaps it was absence that had made the heart grow fonder.

If I had known then what I know now, I would have found her and said sorry. I would have admitted my anxiety and fear and explained that it was not her that was forgotten but me that was lost. Sadly, this is not something teenagers get to do. That level of maturity is rarely met with the same in return and more likely met with dismissal and cruelty, especially from teenage girls.

Years passed and guilt became shame.

It is funny how some things stay with you and to this day I wish I had done things differently. I understand and have forgiven my mistake but I am sad that I wasn't able to make amends. This is all the more difficult because that girl died a few years later from cancer and our paths had not crossed in the interim. It is something that social media consoles me with, that despite its intrusions, it has created ways to find people that didn't exist back then. For many years afterwards this memory would pop into my mind and fill me with shame. What must she have thought? Was she very hurt? Did I make her feel insignificant? Shame is not something to be grateful for but in the moments when I ask myself what its purpose is. I think of this. The shame I once felt for this mistake became resolve to overcome my discomfort and anxiety and to push myself to say the things I would have tried to avoid or escape from before.

I no longer feel shame for who I am, as I once did. Now, when I feel the more normal emotion of guilt, I use it as an opportunity to repair. I think about what my future self would want from me, and I know she would not want to carry a regret because of the things I didn't say.

When you trust yourself your anxiety goes away.

One of my biggest lessons over the past 30 years has been that my anxiety was driven by my own self-perception. I convinced myself that I wasn't wanted, that I was second best, and that once I was no longer useful I would be discarded. This story shaped my interactions. It forced me to choose friendships and relationships that would prove to me that I was correct. It made me afraid to be my true self for fear that others would say it wasn't good enough.

I am happy to say now that I see my own value. I know why people like me, and more importantly I know how to be vulnerable enough to be myself. When I started to be myself, I knew that if people liked me, at least they were liking the real me and not the one I pretended to be all those years ago. Showing up authentically means you're never afraid to fail. It means admitting your mistakes and most importantly, it allows you to repair those moments where you got it wrong.

Don't get me wrong, there are still moments where I feel out of my depth but instead of pretending that I am in control, I allow myself the grace to admit that I am not. I know I can handle the tough stuff now and I know when I mess up I am not afraid to say sorry. I may not have been able to do that all those years ago, but I will be forever grateful for the lesson that moment brought. Thank you Martina, wherever you are.

Thanks for reading. I hope our paths cross again in future.

Love,

Elfreda