The Strife and Soul of the Party

I love learning a new word or phrase, particularly if it captures something elusive. My recent acquisition is “interpersonal sensitivity”, and it’s a beauty. I think it sounds rather noble in an appealingly pretentious way!

While we’re all aware of others’ emotions and behaviours, some of us feel them intensely.

With empathetic and secure role models in an open environment, a sensitive child can form a nuanced ability to understand and conduct relationships.

If that child is burdened by trauma or negative bias, that innate disposition may promote a heightened perception of his or her personal flaws.

Because my formative experiences were complex, my own interpersonal sensitivity has always been a mixed bag. I’m acutely conscious of others’ feelings, and good at being supportive, but at emotional cost to me. Meanwhile, outside of my immediate family, I’m never quite sure where I fit in or even if I do. Things become ambiguous.

Predictably then, being in large groups of people is a strain for an abundantly sensitive person like me. The intensity of that dynamic has always proved alluring, yet troublesome.

~~~~~~~~~~

Earlier this year, I organised my father’s 80th birthday meal at a local restaurant, meeting twenty-odd family members for the first time in years. We try to stay in touch, but gatherings like this are rare indeed: most attendees were meeting my school-age children for the very first time!

Significantly for me, this was also the first time I’d been in a group of people of any sort since early 2020. Aside from seeing my parents, brother, and some of my wife’s immediately family, I’d barely seen another soul. Thanks pandemic!

For two years, my life has centred on home-based childcare, with a fleeting escape for a walk here, and a coffee there, but meaningful physical contact with people I love has been out of the question.

Now that the day had arrived, I was looking forward to it immensely, but I was also filled with trepidation.

In considering this blog post, I recognised that there might be some value in breaking down what it’s like to struggle with this sensitivity, in a setting where it’s uniquely amplified.

To do my part in challenging some persistent taboos around mental health, I’m going to be very matter of fact; really candid about how I felt that afternoon. I make no apologies for doing so. After all, this battle isn’t just familiar to outliers like me; to a degree, it’s a silent burden to many.

In part, this post is inspired by a vivid memory I have of the actress Fay Ripley appearing on the British TV series “Room 101” years ago. She chose to consign “shy people” to the make-believe abyss, smugly asserting that there wasn’t any point in them, and that they just appeared rude. I’ll give her some (generous) leeway for trying to be funny in a pseudo-provocative way, but I remember feeling that her very public statements could do untold damage to people in real distress. It felt so needlessly spiteful and irresponsible. She’d never have had the gall to say it about any other minority groups if they deigned to irritate her but “shy people”, a reductive term at best, were an easy target.

The fact she felt so at ease doing so, however, reveals an endemic compassion issue.

I get it: few people really relish talking at length about their work, their holidays or their plans for the weekend. If they see somebody struggling to reciprocate, they may feel a pang of resentment and irritation at them not playing their part.

However, isn’t it dismaying that we live in a world where somebody crippled by fear can’t be guaranteed of a fair appraisal? Particularly when it’s others being too wrapped up in their staunch deference to conventions which compromises it? (*hops off soapbox*)

My hunch is that there are many out there who stumble as I do, often feeling alone and isolated. You’re filled with frustration and shame at the thoughts rattling through your mind, and assume you’re the only one experiencing them. Tiny grains of doubt expand irrepressibly when we’re uncomfortable, the most benign encounters possessing the power to cast us adrift in an instant.

In my case, this discomfort rarely shows in overt physical symptoms. I don’t turn red, sweat, feel faint or shake. Instead, I simply cease to function as me, with racing, disparate thoughts vying to tie me up in knots.

If all I do is reassure you that you have a kindred spirit out there, I’ll be happy. If I help an eye-rolling sceptic to appreciate someone who wasn’t gifted standard-issue resilience to anxiety, I’ll be ecstatic.

In sensing someone’s discomfort, you’ve no obligation to help, but please regard and value their feelings as your own. You never know what bonds and relief those simple considerations might promote.

~~~~~~~~~~

Travelling to the restaurant

My shirt has a weird gingham collar detail that reminds me of a cheap tea towel. My shoes aren’t sitting right; laces string-thin and fraying. Not good. Reluctant hermits don’t tend to have a lot of fancy party clobber to choose from. “Try to ignore it. Don’t obsess.”

“What if people have really dressed up for this though? A bunch of smart professionals and ‘Coco’ the f**king clown waddling in his boat shoes. Marvellous.”

“Bloody hell I’m pasty and tired looking”

Arriving at the venue

My girls look beautiful. I’m full of pride and contentment at the job me and my wife are doing. I get a temporary boost in confidence.

Mum, Dad and brother arrive in good spirits. It’s comfortable, they’re happy. I feel a bit more upbeat. All I have to do is look relaxed, and my feelings may follow suit. “Breathe”.

Rest of the family arrive

Heart rate climbing precipitously. I start saying hello to people, but fear I’m doing it in a really clumsy way. My face can be.. idiosyncratically expressive.

“How many kisses do I give people, again?”

I’m terribly aware of the space I’m filling and my height. It feels like I’m inflicting myself on others… a Gulliver floundering in the land of Lilliput.

“Keep these pointless thoughts at bay; others will see it in your body language.”

My girls are a bit shy, but slowly warming up and I’m doing a good job of reassuring them. I think I look quite calm, but I feel drained. And hopelessly out of practice.

“Where do I look??” There’s a sea of people small-talking it up and I’m standing here in a complete daze. My head’s so unfocused, I’m melting and stuttering internally.

Incongruously, and unwelcomely, I’ve ‘Into the Unknown” from Frozen 2 looping in my head over and over. In crystal clarity. “Why???”

From experience, I know this could go on for some time. My mini musical meditation and a familiar ploy to defuse abject terror. “I mustn’t get lost in this for too long. Too distracting”.

My wife is so unbelievably good at looking confident. She judges social situations brilliantly. I’m in awe of her skill.

“I hope nobody wonders what she’s doing with me?

Ugh, bore OFF. Don’t start going down that predictable track. Don’t put yourself down. BREATHE.”

My brother looks a wee bit nervous, but he’s trained himself to be proficient enough at basic chatter. People seem happy to see him and, while eavesdropping, I hear others saying as much. I’m pleased. He’s had a tough lockdown.

I continue to introduce the kids and speak to a few people, but my f**king voice has disappeared! Partway through my fascinating, zeitgeist-capturing “isn’t Zoom a pain, I’d rather be in the room with someone instead” zinger, and I’m having to keep repeating things because my throat tension is chronic.

None of my immediate family can project well, but I currently sound like a strangulated Mr Bean caught mid-yawn. “Honk, honk, HONK”. Yuck.

Ever decreasing circles from here on in.

I know I’m meant to ask questions, and I had loads before we got here, but now? Total flatline. I’m sorely tempted to go full last resort: say something horrifically inappropriate and watch people scatter. I’ll keep that in my back pocket for another day.

“Think of something.. anything to say. Work, brain. Work!”

At the meal

Looking down the long table, I feel almost fit to burst with love for all the people present. Need a couple of tactical gulps as I’m opposite one of my girls and arbitrarily, weeping spontaneously at a birthday’s a bit of a no-no. This is so frustrating.

Bottom line: at home, I’m a demonstrative, huggy, kissy man. I talk a lot, I enjoy expressing my emotions and I love being with people. Regardless, my experiences have moulded me into a limited, grinning mannequin in public. Aunts I’ve known the whole of my life hesitate when greeting me, because they assume I’m uncomfortable with being embraced, and I play along. Misplaced empathy gone rogue. “HOW THE F**K DID I GET HERE?”

I’m more tactile than the rest of my family put together, but almost NOBODY knows it. Sensitivity and trauma are powerful indeed.

Have to get up to take one of my daughters to the toilet. The image of me of moving my chair, tripping myself up and collapsing in a heap is currently doing the rounds in my head. I relent, moving back at a snail’s pace, possibly drawing more attention to myself in the process.

Come back, take a seat and catch sight of myself in a mirror. Instant judgement: “WHAT an ugly c**t”. I just wish I had a different face... something I could display with pride; a normal one, with a proper jaw and everything. I’m back to being thirteen again.

The lady to my right is warm, kind and easy to talk to. And yet, I can’t think of one thing to say. Not a thing. Flash lobotomy. Extreme guilt and barely-contained shame saturate me as I sense my attempts to be mindful evaporate. My eyeballs feel like they’re retreating back into my skull, nestling away from the white heat of the moment. “Arrrrghhhh”.

To my left, my wife is getting on famously with my youngest cousin; we were virtually siblings growing up, we were so close. I smile at a bygone memory of the two of us babbling away on the school bus over thirty years ago.

She quietly offers to trade places with me to give me a chance to speak to her. I decline. And you know why? They’re having such a natural conversation, I envision my cousin’s face dropping as we swap. I just don’t want to deal with the potential disappointment or disengagement I might see, especially from someone who’s known me all my life. Now I just feel deflated.

My daughters are being cooed over and getting all the love they deserve. My wife and I are really good intuitive parents; a proper balanced pair. They lack no fundamentals, but have missed out on a lot during COVID, and I want their cups to overflow.

Photo time. I actually don’t mind being in pictures too much. Nevertheless, I silently rehearse my routine: sit up straight, smile without showing my upper teeth too much and focus. I’m very self-conscious of a crooked tooth I never fixed, and it impacts me stealthily. Might be a reason I don’t speak as much as I do at home, I wonder, penny dropping as the impromptu photo session ends.

With the dessert plates being cleared away, I know my Dad’s planning on making a short speech. I feel a familiar echo of fear.

The meal and the venue were ostensibly my idea, and although my wife shared the organisation with me and my mother paid for it, I was the one communicating with people and keeping track. As the event enters its final hour, I’m tensing for the possibility of others thanking my wife and leaving me out. It wouldn’t be the first time.

At our wedding, attendees praised her for some of the little touches which had actually been my ideas. “Trust you to come up with this” was a particular gush in our wedding book which stuck in my craw. Somehow, good ideas and thoughtful gestures can ONLY stem from the more socially confident, they couldn’t possibly come from someone a little quieter and more circumspect!

Dad’s speech is lovely, and my wife and I are both thanked for an enjoyable day. I’m pleased that I’ve been proven wrong. Never a bad thing.

Day draws to a close

Cousins, aunts and uncles start leaving. How do I say goodbye to people? My inclination is to give people a bear hug and tell them I love them effusively, but I can’t do that. I hang back, look inanely cheerful and hand over to the “experts”. “F**k, f**k, F**K I hate this. Who is this benefiting? Moron. You’re 41!!”

Now it’s just my immediate family remaining. The chattering internal voices begin to ebb. It went well for Dad. He’s delighted.

At the same time, I feel regret. I don’t know when I’ll see most of those people again, and I managed to not be myself. Despondency’s competing with relief.

On our journey back, my personality begins to course back through my veins. Talking naturally, telling silly jokes, uninhibited with zero effort. What a pity I still can’t just be me in groups and not feel so insignificant.

And the worst part? I’m too bloody sensible to have a blowout vice like binge-drinking or coke-snorting to look forward to when I get home! I guess I’m stuck with the slow, bumpy wind-down.

It’s over. Tomorrow’s a fresh start.

“I wonder what unedifying comments Fay would make about my overall performance today?”

~~~~~~~~~~

To end, a disclaimer. I’m fully aware that a lot of my self-talk bears little resemblance to reality, but I think it’s important I relay it faithfully anyway. After all, for a full four hours this was my reality. In all sincerity, my life is littered with missed opportunities because of the hold that untamed sensitivity has had over me.

Do I truly believe all those things about myself? No, I don’t. As I may’ve mentioned before, though I’ve reservations about the way I’ve turned out, I’ve a lot of time for my core humanity and disposition. Some of the harsh inner commentary is reflexive; years of a cavalier attitude to self-care have granted it free reign.

My emerging awareness of this pattern though does allow me to push it out into the open, starving it of its energy.

They’re just thoughts. Just words. Subconscious impulses which betray unresolved issues I’d do well to address, compassionately.

I know I need practice, I know I need to be less ashamed of my life story. It’s a work in progress, but I do have the ability to change things.

I am not my self talk.

I am not my habits.

I am sensitive and (learning to be) proud of it.

Here’s to Dad’s 90th. All things being equal, I’ll be in unstoppable form by then!