Mingling as a sociophobe

On Friday night I attended my daughter’s high school formal. I had been feeling restless and distracted in the days leading up to it. But once there I discovered that these feelings were experienced by others and that they were completely normal. I also realised that my nervousness wasn’t simply due to my usual social anxiety. My fragile emotional state was also the result of processing feelings of letting go. My baby girl was reaching a major milestone. Things were (are) changing. She is almost eighteen. My baby is navigating her way through a transition, preparing to leave her school days behind and enter the world of adulthood and independence. Meanwhile, I am navigating my way through a very reflective period. I am confronted with the sadness that accompanies loss and endings. We are both standing on the threshold of new beginnings and the uncertainty that surrounds that. Our lives are changing. And adapting to change is something I have always found a challenge.

In the hours leading up to the evening’s event, I was becoming increasingly adjitated. Tilly picked up on this. ‘You’re in a weird mood’, she said as we left the shopping center armed with some last minute essentials — eyelashes and nail polish. She was right. I was in a weird mood. It happens when my anxiety is on the way up. My mind was preoccupied with intrusive thoughts. The inevitable awkwardness I would experience in the company of the other parents with whom I had never really become acquainted. I pictured myself trapped there, overwhelmed with anxiety at being in a situation I didn’t know how to conduct myself in. It was one of those situations. I had to attend. I had no choice. I mean, I wanted to attend, for Tilly’s sake, just not as myself, how I know I am. It is times like this that I fear, not so much my own discomfort, but my children observing how inept I am at this stuff. I imagined Tilly glancing over at me, feeling sad because I was on my own, avoiding chit chat. The last thing I wanted to do was make her feel sad on her special night. ‘I will just have to try my best’, I told myself, determined to at least try and be normal for a few hours.

I expressed to Tilly my anxiety as we rummaged through my jewellery box that afternoon. ‘Would you mind if I left early?’ I asked her. The look on her face made me immediately want to take it back. I felt guilty. It was her night and I couldn’t believe I had even suggested such a thing. Still, by this point I was becoming a little terrified. ‘Well, it’s the only formula I’ll have’, she said. ‘Yes, I know. Of course’, I said. ‘I just feel a bit anxious’. She understood. She gets it. ‘Yeah, but Ruth will be there’, she said, offering some reassurance and acknowledging that I don’t really talk to other parents. ‘Yeah’, I said, feigning confidence. ‘I’ll be fine.’

Ruth is Tilly’s step mum and the mother of Tilly’s little sister and since she split with Tilly’s dad a couple of years ago, we have maintained contact. Primarily because we have daughters who are siblings. I am relatively okay talking to Ruth. It was a comfort that she would be there but I was also aware that I would be spending a good portion of the evening alone. I knew I would likely have a few encounters with other parents in which I would have to adopt the ‘normal persona’. I felt exhausted just thinking about it. Acting normal (when you’re not), is draining. It is utterly energy depleting. The constant smiling makes your face ache. Trying to listen well and be attentive when your mind is filled with the chaos of your own thoughts is nearly impossible. Identifying the right moment to interject verbally and contribute to dialogue (when you do manage to clarify in your own mind what you could contribute) requires great diligence. Given all of this, I am not surprised that typically, I tend to opt out of social situations, avoid them altogether. The degree of effort involved generally detracts from any potential, perceived enjoyment.

I prepared for the evening in a conflicted state. As I put my earrings on, did my hair, make up and nails. There was no excitement, anticipation. It was a chore. And feeling this way only made me feel worse. ‘Why can’t I just be happy, for Tilly’, I wondered, disappointed in myself. ‘Why can’t I just get excited about this. I bet the other parents are’.

In auto pilot mode, I drove up the windy road and arrived at the venue — a beautiful spot. A local winery close to home that had generously donated a space for the students to hold their function. I was early. I entered the spacious room to find a couple of teachers and two other parents that looked entirely unfamiliar to me. The students were gathered in a separate area meanwhile, hiding away until all the parents had arrived so they could make their grand entrance. The room looked amazing. The students had decorated it themselves, the day before. They had all contributed to the floral arrangements with an assortment of flowers supplied from their own gardens. There were tea light candles set in little pots of sand on the polished timber tables, colourful printed fabric sails draped stylishly from the ceiling and fairy lights strung around the place. There was also a lovely indoor fish pond that spanned the length of one wall. It was like an age-appropriate fairy land. There was a designated dance floor space and a selection of finger food atop a large table at the rear.

As I placed my contribution of little cherry tarts down on the table, I was suddenly overcome with emotion. I was touched by how much loving effort had gone into this evening. There is something about formal events, especially where my children are involved, that always knocks me for a six. It was suddenly real. My baby is no longer a baby. She is growing up. This is the end of her coming of age book. I was sad. I was sad because it got me thinking about the past, about all those times over the years I had not been there. The basketball games I had missed, the times I wasn’t there as a mother generally, emotionally and physically. Had I done enough? Had there been enough positives to balance out the negatives? I wasn’t sure. I’m still not sure.

Alex, one of the teachers, offered the few parents that were there a drink at the bar. Nonalcoholic of course. It was a distraction I guessed. I had ginger beer with ice and a wedge of lime and tried to be in the moment. I tried to focus on the sweetness of the drink, the feel of the cold ice in my mouth, the clinking sound of the ice in my plastic cup. I needed to snap out of this melancholy state. This wasn’t the time for it.

More parents arrived and I said hello to the ones I was semi familiar with. Then sat down at a table, bracing myself for whatever was to come. Ruth turned up and joined me and we chatted a bit about the girls. I told her I was feeling a bit emotional. Her expression surprised me. Clearly, she understood. ‘Yeah, of course’, she said. I had assumed my unease was mainly due to my social anxiety, as it usually is. But saying, ‘I’m emotional’ out loud clarified for me that there was more to it. It made me realize that in fact it was also that this was indeed a big thing and I was bound to feel a bit off kilter. I was restless, I suspect, not only because I had failed to identify what was contributing to my anxiety, but because I don’t know how to deal with these emotions. I felt a little better having shared that with Ruth. Despite not being aware of it myself, it had just kind of come out of my mouth. From that point on I said it to other parents as a kind of opening line when I sensed I was being invited to converse. ‘It’s a bit emotional isn’t it’, I said countless times that evening to different parents. And I was comforted to find that they all knew exactly what I meant. I think I came close to experiencing what people refer to as ‘a connection’ with others through this.

The room filled with parents and the time arrived for the students to be introduced into the room. Despite having had a preview of Tilly’s gown, I was overcome with emotion once again when she entered the room with her friend Emma on her arm as her date. She looked stunning in her crimson red satin dress, with her long dark hair in soft curls and topped with the sparkly headband we had discovered at the shopping center the day before. I was a proud parent. Not because of how she looked, but what an amazing human being she is in so very many ways. I joined the other parents with their chorus of ‘oohs and ahhhhs’ We all took photos of our glamorous babies before approaching them for hugs and congratulations.

The music started and I settled back at my table with my second drink. This time a soda and grapefruit juice, with the remaining wedge of lime still in the cup. The loud music was, as always, somewhat of a blessing. It is difficult to chat to people when there is surrounding noise of a certain volume. I chatted to a few of the parents intermittently, including Tilly’s dad and his new partner, as I watched Tilly mingling and dancing with her peers.It was heartwarming to see her socializing with such apparent ease and confidence, so unlike her mother. I thought about Tilly as a pre schooler, dancing around the room in much the same way she was doing tonight. In some ways she hadn’t changed. Never shy, always the performer. I felt blessed in that moment. ‘I must have done something right’, I thought quietly to myself.

As the evening drew to a close, a couple of parents were clearly eager to dance but seemed unsure of the etiquette. Then, as the parents around me went for it, I followed. I have always felt more comfortable dancing (doing almost anything) than having to engage in conversation with someone. My anxiety took a back seat as I danced there, along with everyone else. I sang along, like everyone else to ABBA’s Waterloo and caught Tilly’s eye. Her expression conveyed a hint of momentary embarrassment but I could tell that really, she was happy. She was enjoying the evening. And I realised that in spite of myself I was too.