I stood in the entrance of the library, trembling. I tried to calm my nerves by reminding myself that I had rehearsed everything I was going to say a million times, that I had even recorded myself saying the apology, just to make sure it didn’t seem too unnatural. Do other people write out scripts for themselves, complete with gestures and appropriate expressions, before they have conversations? Probably not. Everyone else just magically learned how to respond and talk to one another, and somehow, I didn’t.
Take my siblings for example. I share a large percentage of my DNA with them, but while they navigate social situations with ease, I remain on the outskirts of any event or gathering, filled to the brim with social anxiety and embarrassment. Why are they able to effortlessly make conversation but I can’t even introduce myself without shaking? Why do they draw people in like magnets but I feel like running away whenever I see another human?
I can still remember, in 5th grade, when Becca, the popular, little-miss-perfect darling of the class, invited me to eat lunch at the ‘cool’ table. When she spoke to me, I froze. I was confused, because she had never bothered to talk to me before, I was petrified, because if I said the wrong thing, I knew I would be rejected, and I had no idea what to say or how to respond. I clearly chose the wrong answer by saying ‘no’, and from that point on Becca passionately, vindictively hated me. She and her posse began to bully me with insults and name-calling and eventually progressed to throwing trash and food at me every day, punching, kicking, and tripping me, tearing my clothes and books, and forcing me to humiliate myself in front of unsympathetic classmates. I hate even thinking about those two years of my life, because I have never felt so powerless or helpless as I did then. As a result of that living hell, I went through six months of unhelpful therapy, being constantly questioned and interrogated about how I was feeling, and deeply regretting that I had ever spoken up about what was happening. I developed intense social anxiety, drowned my emotions in books, and shut out my well-meaning parents and siblings. I had no friends, participated in no extracurricular activities, and generally avoided human interaction.
These were the reasons why I was terrified to talk to him, terrified to make myself vulnerable to rejection and hurt. These were the reasons why I stood rooted, unable to make myself walk over to the table where he sat. My mind began to replay yesterday’s events, reminding me what had brought me here, why I needed to apologize.
It had been just another long, draining day. I walked the hallways of Sequoia High School, staring at my feet. My shoulders were constantly jostled by people who obviously felt much more comfortable than I did, people who had a defined place, who belonged in this quasi-caste society the world likes to call the best four years of your life. Whatever. Maybe for everyone else it’s a magical experience full of great memories and lifelong friendships, but for me? A dreary, six-hour reminder of what an abnormality I am.
I sat in the back of the classroom, avoiding all eye contact and conversation. I have been, for as long as I can remember, a sponge, absorbing emotions and problems from those around me, not because anyone forced me to, or told me I had to feel like their issues were my own, or made me experience things the way I do, but just because I don’t know how to stop it. I can’t even figure out why I am so sensitive, and why no one else seems to be affected. My only solution is to try and shut everything out, to drown my emotions and numb them. In spite of these efforts at isolating myself, every single day, I come home utterly depleted and exhausted.
My teacher began to lecture on rational functions, but I couldn’t focus. The girl who normally sat across from me had been crying the day before, and now her empty seat flooded me with anxiety. My mind began picturing a million different scenarios that could have happened to her, each one worse than the last.
Math class ended, but I still sat staring at my desk in a daze, my stomach clenched with angst about my missing classmate. The other students and the teacher made their way out of the classroom, leaving me alone, my face scrunched into increasingly permanent worry lines. I slowly gathered enough momentum to stop glaring at the scratched tabletop and get out of my seat. As I stood, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I whipped around, terrified that I was about to be ridiculed or forced into some humiliation. But it was just the boy who sat directly behind me, and his expression didn’t hold any malice.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You seemed really worried, or stressed, or something during class.”
I stood there, mute, mouth gaping slightly, completely unable to make any kind of normal response. Why had he noticed me? Did he want something from me?
He seemed discouraged by my silence, as if I had rejected his question out of disinterest or unfriendliness. He rubbed his arm uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, I wasn’t trying to pry or anything—I was just…concerned, that’s all. Sorry to, um, bother you.”
With each word he spoke, he seemed to deflate more and more, until his expression grew almost depressed. Shouldering his backpack, he walked away, hands shoved deep inside his pockets.
I couldn’t make my mouth move, couldn’t make myself say anything, even though I wanted to so badly, wanted to more than anything. I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he didn’t do anything wrong, that I was the problem, that it was me and only me who had wrecked our interaction. I wanted to run after him and tell him it was very considerate to ask about how I was feeling, and that he was the first of my classmates to notice me at all in a positive way. My mind was completely overrun with competing emotions, but my body felt encased in lead, unable to penetrate the thick wall of anxiety.
Even as the boy opened the door and looked back at me, giving me one last chance to redeem the interaction, I still couldn’t make myself respond like a normal human. I was so utterly paralyzed by my own awkwardness, by my own fears of being thought a freak, that I couldn’t say anything. I strained against the cage of lead that held me, but I couldn’t escape. I was scared that if I actually explained or even attempted to explain why I had been upset, he would think I was some kind of a nutcase, some overly sensitive weirdo.
Just before he closed the door, I managed to force my throat into producing a cross between a squeak and a growl, but it was far too little, and far too late.
He didn’t hear me, just shut the classroom door with a gentle click.
As soon as he left, my body suddenly collapsed, and I found myself sitting on the floor underneath my desk, crying ugly, half-hysterical sobs that I couldn’t understand or control.
Why couldn’t I have just said something? Why was I completely incapable of making a normal reply to his question? He had taken a moment to reach out and connect with me, concerned about how I was feeling. In return, I had shut down completely, as if his sympathy was detestable to me. He probably thought I was insulted by his sympathy.
I had never felt like such an ungrateful, useless wretch in my entire life. But the worst part about it was that I knew that I would wake up at 3 a.m., remember that moment, and cringe, so mortified and ashamed that I would almost feel like I was in physical pain. And it wouldn’t just be that night, or the next night, or the one after that. It would keep going for years and years and years, joining the rotating cycle of intensely humiliating and awkward memories that my mind held onto in all their terror, including every single painful detail, as if a laser had etched them in sharp lines onto metal, clear and irreversible. 
Now, standing in the library doorway, I wondered how I could face him after what had happened. How could I explain why I acted the way I did? What if he rejected my apology completely then rejected me? What if he started yelling at me? What if he was really hurt, or angry, or…something? I shrank from any possibility of abrasive interaction, an instinct rooted in the past years of verbal abuse from Becca.
My thoughts followed the same trajectory for several minutes before I realized I needed to stop thinking this way. I couldn’t just continue imagining the worst possible ending of the conversation and use that to justify giving up. I’d done that my entire life, at every opportunity to connect or interact with someone, and it had only made me more afraid. Even if this went terribly, it couldn’t make me feel any worse about myself than I already did, right? Right?
I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. Maybe it will be fine, I comforted myself. Maybe you don’t need to worry, maybe you don’t need to picture the worst-case scenario.
I sighed. I am absolutely terrible at encouraging myself.
With that, I began to walk across the library to his table. Each step seemed harder than the last, and more than ever I wanted to quit and run as far away from him as possible. My brain went into overdrive, noticing each and every person in the library, categorizing the furniture by material, and recognizing the architectural motifs in the structure. Anything would suffice for me to distract myself from what I was trying to do. I went through my script in my head as I walked, but it began to sound more and more artificial. Great. Fantastic! Now I might even have to think of what I’m going to say on the spot. This is definitely not going to end well.
I have to do this, I reminded myself. I can’t keep on living my life paralyzed by fear, terrified of connection.
I reached his table. I waited for him to look up from his book, but he remained absorbed. He was reading A Tale of Two Cities, so complete immersion was understandable. I noted his sandy blonde hair and dusting of freckles, his pale skin and rounded shoulders. His face wasn’t unattractive, with balanced features and a patient expression.
Hesitantly, I tapped him on the shoulder, now completely certain that my overly-formulated script was not going to work. I would have to improvise. I felt like I was on the edge of a cliff with sharp rocks below, and I wanted to vomit. The nerves in my hands and feet were tingling, flooded with adrenaline.
He looked up, startled.
We stared at each other for a moment, both unsure of what to say. I could feel the tension between us thicken, and I suddenly had a sickening realization that this interaction was going to be just as embarrassing as yesterday, yet another painful memory to cringe at in the middle of the night.
No! I don’t want this to keep happening! I yelled internally. Can’t I do something? I felt my body being shut in by lead again, and I wanted to scream. I struggled, strained to move, but I was too weak. I felt anger and frustration building inside of me, the internal pressure skyrocketing. Why couldn’t I do anything? In one final, desperate effort, I pictured my raging emotions being formed into fists, rock hard and powerful. I pummeled my cage with every ounce of energy left, and I felt the leaden walls crack, then shatter, then collapse, leaving me suddenly able to breathe.
I opened my mouth to speak, and for the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid. I was hesitant and clumsy with my words, but I had faced the fears that used to paralyze me, and I had won. Perhaps I hadn’t won the war yet, but this battle was a victory, a beginning.
“Hi, I’m, um, Tori. And I, uh, I’m really sorry about how I acted yesterday.”