At two in the morning, I stare at the cold phone screen, at a blank input box. The cursor blinks, as if urging me on. I type a line, then delete it; type and delete, delete and type. My mind endlessly rehearses the conversation's trajectory, anticipating the other person's expression, mood, attitude—even their coldness, their disdain. In the end, I send a sticker, pretending to be at ease, pretending nothing is happening.This has become my fixed routine, my standard procedure. The words I really want to say are encrypted, locked away in my heart. It's not that I lack opinions, or views, or even emotions. It's just that they get intercepted at the exit, as if there's an invisible censorship mechanism that makes the decision for me before I even press "send."What I fear is being "left on read," but the deeper fear is not being understood. They feel like a silent trial. My phone buzzes, and I grab it; when it doesn't, I check it repeatedly, refreshing the page to make sure I haven't missed anything. When a message I sent goes unanswered, when a post I made goes unviewed, my mind automatically slides toward the worst interpretation: Did I say something wrong? Was my tone off? Was I too negative? Am I—disliked again?Logically, I know these fears lack real basis; emotionally, I can't settle down. Social anxiety is like a constant background process, occupying my internal space, draining me. Every interaction is magnified, dissected, replayed. It's as if we're all taking an invisible exam, where any small misstep means losing points and spiraling downward.We crave connection so much. We crave understanding, a response, confirmation that we "exist." So we take the initiative to open a chat window, only to hesitate and deliberate before hitting send. We fear awkward silences, awkward conversations, not knowing what to say. It's as if there's an invisible "firewall" between everyone—a firewall with strict rules: don't be too enthusiastic, or you'll seem desperate; don't be too cold, or you'll seem rude; don't be too real, but don't be too perfunctory either.I don't know. I feel terrible. I don't know when I became this way, and it hurts that I can't let my thoughts out. I used to speak directly, my emotions open. Now I'm used to constantly rehearsing and grading everything in my head first. It's as if only after a thorough risk assessment is something deemed worthy of release. But the more I calculate, the more warmth I lose. Perhaps those unpolished, clumsy moments are what real connection is made of.Social anxiety is never the most intense feeling; it's more like a persistent low-grade fever. It doesn't break you, but it exhausts you. We constantly check, in the flood of information, whether we've been seen, yet we're terrified of truly being seen. We want to get close, then take a step back; we want to express ourselves, then silence ourselves.Maybe one early morning, when I'm again deleting and rewriting in that input box, I can allow myself to send an imperfect message, allow the other person not to reply right away. Allow silence to exist. Allow no one to see. We may not be able to tear down that "firewall" all at once, but at least we can open a small window in it.Even if it's just to let in a breath of air.
Social Anxiety
At two in the morning, I stare at the cold phone screen, at a blank input box. The cursor blinks, as if urging me on. I type a line, then delete it; type and delete, delete and type. My mind endlessly rehearses the conversation's trajectory, anticipating the other person's expression, mood, attitude—even their coldness, their disdain. In the end, I send a sticker, pretending to be at ease, pretending nothing is happening.
This has become my fixed routine, my standard procedure. The words I really want to say are encrypted, locked away in my heart. It's not that I lack opinions, or views, or even emotions. It's just that they get intercepted at the exit, as if there's an invisible censorship mechanism that makes the decision for me before I even press "send."
What I fear is being "left on read," but the deeper fear is not being understood. They feel like a silent trial. My phone buzzes, and I grab it; when it doesn't, I check it repeatedly, refreshing the page to make sure I haven't missed anything. When a message I sent goes unanswered, when a post I made goes unviewed, my mind automatically slides toward the worst interpretation: Did I say something wrong? Was my tone off? Was I too negative? Am I—disliked again?
Logically, I know these fears lack real basis; emotionally, I can't settle down. Social anxiety is like a constant background process, occupying my internal space, draining me. Every interaction is magnified, dissected, replayed. It's as if we're all taking an invisible exam, where any small misstep means losing points and spiraling downward.
We crave connection so much. We crave understanding, a response, confirmation that we "exist." So we take the initiative to open a chat window, only to hesitate and deliberate before hitting send. We fear awkward silences, awkward conversations, not knowing what to say. It's as if there's an invisible "firewall" between everyone—a firewall with strict rules: don't be too enthusiastic, or you'll seem desperate; don't be too cold, or you'll seem rude; don't be too real, but don't be too perfunctory either.
I don't know. I feel terrible. I don't know when I became this way, and it hurts that I can't let my thoughts out. I used to speak directly, my emotions open. Now I'm used to constantly rehearsing and grading everything in my head first. It's as if only after a thorough risk assessment is something deemed worthy of release. But the more I calculate, the more warmth I lose. Perhaps those unpolished, clumsy moments are what real connection is made of.
Social anxiety is never the most intense feeling; it's more like a persistent low-grade fever. It doesn't break you, but it exhausts you. We constantly check, in the flood of information, whether we've been seen, yet we're terrified of truly being seen. We want to get close, then take a step back; we want to express ourselves, then silence ourselves.
Maybe one early morning, when I'm again deleting and rewriting in that input box, I can allow myself to send an imperfect message, allow the other person not to reply right away. Allow silence to exist. Allow no one to see. We may not be able to tear down that "firewall" all at once, but at least we can open a small window in it.
Even if it's just to let in a breath of air.