A Character in someone else's story

The warm glow of the crackling fire illuminates the joyful faces of those who gather around it. This college room may be small but is full of relationships. A young couple sit on the floor, holding each other close as they watch the flames dance on the hearth. Another girl laughs along with the group as she carefully suspends a marshmallow over the heat of the fire. A laptop emits a sweet melody that fills all with good spirit. As I stand in the corner watching the picturesque scene play out like a slice-of-life movie, for a moment everything seems perfect in the world.

A perfection that I can never be a part of.

I feel a tightness in my chest as I become aware of myself in this scene. My voice catches in my throat as I press against the fourth wall separating me from the connections that play out before me. The joyous faces around me grow less familiar as I grasp for something, anything that connects me to them; something to change my role from observer to an active player. It doesn’t have to be fiction to feel like a spectator of everyone else’s story.

I quietly slip away from the small crowd, mumbling a poor excuse about getting to bed early and hurry back to my own room, my heart racing as I close the door to the outside world behind me. My desolate room greets me, silent and lifeless as I stumble into my bed. Muffled voices from the corridors seep into the still loneliness as I think back to moments ago to the room full of light and warmth. Am I to live like this forever, to come back to a cold empty room every night, to constantly lack connection? Am I fated to be only an observer and never a leading role or even a supporting character?

Tears begin to swell as my thoughts of insecurity begin to cycle endlessly through my mind. They all hate me. They probably didn’t notice me leave, in fact they probably didn’t even notice I was there to begin with. Nothing I have to say is worth hearing and everyone is just better off without me.

This is why I don’t really have many friends. After all, how could I when I can barely look people in the eye without my heart racing out of control? Socialising has never been my strong point but ever increasingly has the wall between me and world become taller and stronger. Brick by brick my mind lays the foundation as my fears and insecurities become self-fulfilling prophesies of loneliness and fear. How is it that I can feel so conflicted about connecting with others; both craving it desperately and yet feel afraid at the thought of eyes with unknown thoughts looking my way at the same time?

A soft buzz from my phone interrupts my thoughts as I bury my head in my pillow. The comforting words of concern and compassion begin to steady my breathing and the cyclical thoughts of despair and anxiety slowly dissipate. I feel the cracks in the wall between me and the world widen and the voices of those who care about me murmur through the gaps.

Perhaps I do have a story to tell after all. Even if my voice reaches only a few people it doesn’t make it any less valid. My self-sabotaging thoughts may stay with me for the rest of my life as far as I know, and social anxiety may be a long-fought battle. But I don’t have to be controlled by them.