That Dude
After a few weeks in a complete brain fog and hibernation, the day finally came for me to crawl out of my cave and *gasp* see other people. It was a dear friend’s birthday and damn it, I was going to show up.
As my lovely therapist pointed out, social anxiety isn’t just being shy in a crowd. It’s the overwhelming feeling that everyone else’s enjoyment is contingent on your own behavior — which, when articulated this way, makes these feelings seem utterly ridiculous. But man, did that resonate. I always joke that I have to be on “boyoyong mode” (roughly translated to “clown mode” for my therapist’s sake) whenever I’m out. She said finding roles in these situations help ease our anxiety because it gives us a sense of control; certain “guidelines” on how to behave. So if I’m not the boyoyong, I become the host. Though in my defense, I was officially appointed to be one on several occasions. But yes, I suppose it’s only awkward when no one asked me noh…It would sound counterintuitive but I suppose I’ve assumed these roles not to draw attention to myself (NO REALLY) but to actually deflect. Moreso in my recent sobriety, it was more convenient to avoid any questions about it. If all they see is the dancing monkey, then no one would bother to sit me down and ask me how I’m doing. “How are you?” — the dreaded question that makes me immediately book an Uber in my head. No need to go into details about how I’ve been depressed about being jobless; eating 3 ice cream cones in one sitting and watching the entire MCU franchise for the third time. This year. And it’s only March.
So all these years, I felt like I CRACKED THE CODE. I HAD CHEATED THE SYSTEM. My default strategy was to weasel (weasel: another role I suppose?) my way out of real talk and actual human connection. But this battle plan did have a downside. My reserves would be completely depleted. After a day of clowning around, I would find myself in bed recovering and completely repulsed by the sight of any human being. Even scrolling through social media would make me go, AH PEOPLE! *throws phone* I SUPPOSE while this has been an “effective” strategy, it definitely hasn’t been sustainable.
“You feel the need to be a 10. But staying at a 5 or 6 is STILL OKAY.” A huge gasp swelled in my brain the moment my therapist said this. I had been so accustomed to swinging from 1 to 10, IT’S LIKE I FORGOT THERE ARE ACTUALLY OTHER NUMBERS ON THE SCALE. So there it was, my mantra for the weekend: STAY AT A 5. YOU WILL NOT DIE STAYING AT A 5.
Left her office feeling pumped up and ready. Then Saturday comes, I get up early to work out and prepare myself for a day of socializing. Yes, there’s an actually pre-show routine. IT WAS JUST A FUCKING PICNIC OKAY. Suddenly, the hormones start creeping back in and my bed calls for me like she needs her Mommy. Or was I the baby? This metaphor sucks. Anyway, I wake up from my nap and realize I was late!!! There goes the adrenaline. I rush to get ready, getting all sweaty and frantic from the anxiety. I finally get to the park and as I climb up that hill, I psyche myself up: “5. 5. You’ll be okay at a 5.” And instead of my usual dramatic entrance, I settled for a normal-sized wave and a normal-volume “I’m sorry I’m late!” versus the PUTANG INA SORRY ANG KALAT KO spiel with matching jumping jack arms. I fucking made it. *cue: IT’S THE CLIIIIIMB*
Everything was going great. I squeezed myself in between friends I felt most comfortable with. Brought out my alcohol-free beers and allowed myself to relax. I was enjoying the gorgeous view, the laughs I felt like I haven’t had in so long, and felt no pressure to overcompensate.
Then enter frame: huge white dude who spoke only in all caps. Yes, That Dude.
WHAT’S YOUR NAME?
“Chelo…hi.”
WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING DRINKING? THOSE THINGS ARE FUCKING RIDICULOUS.
“Um, okay bye” — I literally said that and turned away.
Surprisingly, That Dude picked up on my discomfort and with all his emotional intelligence, decided he would make up for it by prying further. BUT YEAH MAN BEEN WANTING TO TRY THIS. CAN I HAVE SOME?
“Uh no…” as I moved the can away from this WILD ANIMAL.
Then after he kept demanding to try it, I yelled back, “Not from my can!!”
WHAT? I DON’T HAVE COVID!!!!
My spirit was slowly leaving my body.
Thankfully someone civilized just swooped in and handed him a cup. And as his allegedly “covid-free” mouth sipped on my precious drink, he goes on. SO WHY’D YOU QUIT? DO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM?
At this point, I already looked up at the heavens and thought, dear lord just take me now. After a deep breath, I repeated my mantra. This man was clearly at a 10. And from what I could see (and smell), I had no desire to match this energy. Another trick I learned from a book is to “play the movie until the end.” If I decided to engage, the climax of this movie would be me “schooling” him in a dance battle or slapping him with my “sick verses” like Rabbit. The crowd goes wild. But playing it to the very end, I didn’t see myself crip walking off into the sunset; I could see myself hiding under the covers the next day and cringing at everything I said. So, REWIND TO PRESENT. No sassy retorts or crowd-pleasing mic-drop moment. I literally just replied to his question. “Yeah it was just a decision I made.”
I disengaged. I turned my attention elsewhere. Sought comfort in chatting with friends who eventually eased my spirit back into my body. We left to have korean bbq, ate ice cream, and walked home. That Dude did not get the best of me. I did not spend the rest of the evening all wound up but felt a sense of pride in the fact that I held it together.
I know this story could’ve ended more dramatically. No doubt, some of you may have been disappointed. But that’s okay. My life won’t always be as colorful or entertaining to most people. Staying at a “5” doesn’t exactly make great stories but the ones I tell myself have happier endings. And that’s. fucking. okay.
