Most individuals breeze through daily tasks, like visiting the post office, returning ill-fitting clothes, or ordering takeout without a second thought. Yet, for me, these mundane activities require an immense amount of effort. Just the idea of tackling any of these tasks sends me spiraling into a panic, and I have to muster a considerable amount of courage before I can even contemplate them. As a result, I have a pile of unworn clothes in my closet, a saved pizza order on the Domino’s website, and I only send packages that fit in my home mailbox (apologies for the lackluster gifts, everyone). Recently, a group of friends and I decided to share a book; after finishing it, I found myself awake at 2 a.m., consumed with dread over the prospect of mailing it.
I realize how absurd this sounds. I can’t pinpoint the source of my fears—perhaps it’s judgment? My rational mind tries to reassure me: “This isn’t a big deal.” Yet, that voice quickly gets drowned out by an overwhelming sense of anxiety that causes my heart to race and my breath to catch. This is social anxiety, a heavy burden I’ve carried since it first emerged during my senior year of high school—unseen, yet suffocating.
I struggle to comprehend it, and so do most people around me, which is why only a few know of my battle. Over the years, I’ve developed coping strategies, such as pretending that the unworn clothes are simply waiting to be returned due to forgetfulness. To an outsider, I seem like a functioning, even outgoing person. In certain environments, I can appear perfectly at ease; I’ve even been a group fitness instructor for nearly six years, where my students know me as lively and enthusiastic.
However, on my worst days, when motivation seems to evaporate through an invisible leak, even a trip to the mailbox feels monumental—not to mention interacting with anyone outside my immediate family. There are days when an unexpected knock at the door sends me scrambling behind the couch, heart racing as if I’m fleeing from a predator rather than just a salesperson.
When I regain my sense of logic, I berate myself: Why are you so irrational? Why can’t you be like everyone else? What’s wrong with you? Would I speak to anyone else this way? Absolutely not. I don’t view others’ struggles with the same harshness as my own. I recognize anxiety as a mental illness and feel empathy for those who suffer—except when it comes to myself. When it’s someone else, it’s an issue beyond their control; when it’s me, it’s a flaw, a reminder that I’m not good enough. This distorted self-view created by anxiety prevents me from seeing my challenges objectively.
I cope—reasonably well, I suppose. I must, given my responsibilities: family, household, and multiple jobs. I know isolating myself doesn’t help, so on my toughest days, I pull myself up by my bootstraps, moving through life as normally as I can, one step at a time, even if I feel like I’m trudging through quicksand.
I once found the courage to visit a therapist, but I couldn’t return because I felt uncomfortable when she didn’t make eye contact, fearing she thought I was strange.
Welcome to my reality. Imagine how different things might be if I could experience life like everyone else.
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Summary
Anxiety can manifest in daily tasks, turning simple actions into overwhelming challenges. While it may seem irrational to outsiders, the internal struggle can feel paralyzing. Recognizing the difference between self-judgment and compassion for others’ experiences is essential in navigating this mental health battle. Through coping mechanisms and support, it’s possible to manage anxiety while fulfilling personal responsibilities.