If my family is to be believed, I basically came out of the womb with a nervous disposition, which means I basically spent the next 30 years of my life tormented by feelings of agitation, isolation, and trepidation.
I never quite fit in, which I know, is the sob story dejour, but it is my story nonetheless. I couldn’t trust anyone who wanted to be my friend. Not because I felt myself unworthy, although, let’s face it, I probably did, but because I believed anyone being nice to me was only waiting for the opportune time to humiliate me in front of the entire class. I learned this seemingly irrational fear mostly because, well, this happened. Often.
Most days, I came home in tears. My parents would say the other kids were jealous of me because I was smart and smart girls aren’t appreciated until they’re adults. I hated this answer. If they were right, I wanted no part of being smart. What was the point if being smart meant being bullied? It’s hard to say if the nervous behavior amplified the teasing or if the teasing amplified the nervous behavior but it seemed one did not exist without the other.
This lead to more nervous behavior which lead to me believing there must be something wrong with me. I must be crazy.
It took 30 years to learn I’m not crazy. Not quite. Thirty years, one baby, and one couple’s counseling session, to finally meet a therapist who could give a name to what had plagued me from childhood, “anxiety”.
With that short story long, I bring you the world through my quirky, anxiety-colored eyes. Adorkable jokes and all.