My family always thinks that my anxiety, my social disorder which I have been officially diagnosed with for years, is just something I’ll grow out of, a phase I’m going through because I’m stubborn. They think if me shove me outside of my comfort zone enough times, it will somehow miraculously expand.
They don’t know how it feels to panic when you’re calling someone on the phone and have trouble breathing because you’re terrified of not knowing what to say, to go out of your way to avoid talking to people because, again, you’re terrified of not knowing what to say and offending people and you suck at conversation.
You know what, though, me? Your version of a conversation 99% of the time with people you don’t know is a smile, nod, and occasional awkward laugh as you try to figure out the best way to get out of this conversation. And that’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with sucking at small talk, you’re still horribly outspoken with people you’re comfortable around and had no problem defending your autistic brother when some stupid kid made fun of him, and that’s what matters, or at least that’s what should matter. Society shouldn’t force you to make friendly conversation about the weather or sports or life with people you really don’t care about when you’d much rather think about the meaning of life and your existential crisis. And you’re not broken, or weird, or stupid, or some sort of weirdo for this, despite what those kids in elementary school said. It’s just the way you are. And that’s fine.
Rambles and Reflections 