Eighth Grade
or post-pandemic social anxiety
Up until Memorial Day weekend, I hadn’t drank in seventy-six days. Two-and-half months of sobriety may not sound terribly impressive, but I think context is important. I live in NYC, which, especially for those in their 20s, more or less champions substance abuse as the ideal pastime. A year of quarantine didn’t curb my bad habits as much as it presumably should have, and my partner and I indulged in generous pours of wine throughout the week, often for no reason at all, really. I liked to think that alcohol helped me cope with the pervading sense of dread, much like the hours of content I mindlessly watched to no end. But that line of thinking seemed to be laying grounds for something more sinister, so when I found myself hurling my insides one morning after one spectacularly uneventful night of drinking, I opted to take a break.
The first month went by smoothly. My schedule was, like much of last year, empty, and I found it relatively painless to abstain from the buzz. Binging Mr. Robot without a glass in hand wasn’t too difficult. Plus, beginning in April, there was the allure of a post-vaccination world in the city to keep my resolve from crumbling. Each passing day marked a gradual return to normalcy, as did that apparent summer air, and my spirits were buzzing all on their own. Towards the end of May, I was comfortable enough to release myself back out into the wild to mingle with strangers once again, sober and all.
I knew at the very first outing that this life of sobriety would need to come to an end. A year of avoiding social interactions had not been so kind to my already meager social skills, but not only did I choose to dive headfirst into these stilted conversations at a rooftop party, I was actively forgoing the very remedy to my woes. I couldn’t even bother speaking to a stranger; seeing the lower half of their face gave me enough whiplash for one day. With my closest friends, a few of whom I had not seen in quite some time, the best I could come up with was, “How’s quarantine been?” How had quarantine been? So barren was my cache of stories and topics to discuss that my default was asking them to recount their trauma. Rightfully, their responses were something analogous to an uninspired shrug, as was mine when asked the same, at least on the surface, while beneath the platitudes roiled blank memories of sleepless nights inside my four walls. After another back and forth about what we’ve been watching (Mr. Robot), the conversation petered out. And so it went with friend #1, friend #2, friend #3, and so forth until the discomfort of my social impotence became too deafening for me to enjoy their company any further. I think I lasted an hour before I snuck out without saying much of a goodbye.
There’s this scene in the film Eighth Grade that precisely captures the anxiety of stepping into a party, alone:
Yes, pre-teens are terrifying as is, and this party looks chaotic in all sense of the word (or, as described in Bo Burnham’s script for the film, “a hormonal frenzy. A grape soda bacchanalia.”). But beyond just pity for Kayla (the main character) or even some masochistic sense of nostalgia for my middle school days, this scene triggers in me an instinctual uneasiness. The panic attack in the bathroom, the fear in her eyes watching her peers from inside — I’m well acquainted with the feeling. I’d imagine it’s the same for anyone else who’s been overcome with nerves at a social function, those who cling to the walls, the quiet observers. As harmless as it sounds to the extroverts among us, there’s nothing more rattling to me than the few seconds after stepping into a room full of strangers, a little voice working under my skin, depositing doubt into my expression, my gait, my speech. General wisdom seems to dictate that there will be a day during my adulthood when I’d be magically granted the self-confidence to quell these jitters, like opening a door locked in some deep chamber of my psyche. I’m 28, and still waiting.
Even Burnham, who used to perform stand-ups, a profession that’s entirely predicated on being in the spotlight, had to step away because of stage fright:
He says he’d ask himself, “Do I want to do that again? Do I want to be in a position where I want to do that again?” I’ve wondered the same after particularly bad bouts of anxiety, wandering around my block, bearing the weight of a lifetime’s worth of strained interactions. Admittedly, there’s less at stake than getting heckled by a drunk crowd like for Burnham, but the sentiment is mutual. Quarantine, as awful as it was, occasionally had its practical benefits: I didn’t need an excuse to be on my own. No doubt it was lonely, and I was fortunate enough to have a partner throughout it to keep the bad thoughts at bay. But being alone from a literal, physical separation seems like a much more defensible kind of loneliness than feeling out of place in a crowded room. Social anxiety can be the most intimate of feelings, when you’re coerced by your own mind to shrink and look inward and gaze at yourself with those around you. For me and Kayla, it seems this fear is rooted in an inescapable dissonance between the two selves of our identities, the “real” Me and the Me that others see and believe. Who’s to say those impressions of me are false? And even if I myself believe them to be false, how could I convince anyone of the contrary? Life can be tiring being our own worst critics.
I wonder how it is for the rest in the tribe of introverts. After spending more than a year to question and forget and even rebuild whatever we think is genuine about ourselves, I can only imagine these thoughts have exacerbated during reentry. Perhaps, we’re all a bit anxious to step out in front of the audience again. Trial and error are much needed, as is patience. If all else, at least there’s comfort in knowing I’m not alone in wading through this clumsy grace period.
Though I must admit, humans are quicker to remember then I give credit. Over Memorial Day weekend, at a small gathering with friends, I had a beer. I felt a bit fragile thinking I was resorting to drinking to ease the tender disquiet brewing in me, even amongst friends. But I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed this ceremony, the very act of holding a cold bottle around a table, of swapping stories and the casual quips amongst friends and acquaintances, even if to just listen. And with each sip, I was reminded of the optimist in me, the kinder half of my anxiety, the one who looks forward to the crowd and the people, because people truly are exciting. Stories and narratives are ruled by those who seize the occasion to meet new faces, shake hands, to joke and be merry in company of another. It’s summer again in the city, and I’m reminded of this brilliant bit of dialogue from Fleabag:
There’s nothing more exciting than a room full of people.
Get me a drink first, then I’d be inclined to agree.