The Accidentally Genius Way I Overcame My Social Anxiety

It sounded fun a week ago.

“Dress: Festive!”

In the RSVP comment box, I wrote, “I’m excited to see your home!” I meant that.

But now, on the morning of the holiday bash, I‘m nauseated, foggy-headed, grumpy, fatigued, restless.

Groaning in nonspecific agony, I slouch toward the kitchen. I leave my coffee black and hope to absorb the caffeine before I throw up.

This happens. While I slept, my brain presumably briefed my body on what I had planned for the evening, and they didn’t like it. This corporeal distress is how my brain dissuades itself from attending a fast-approaching social event.

When I began treating my social anxiety with substances, both prescribed and illicit, parties meant thrilling anticipation. Who might I meet? What sort of drugs might they have? And to what adventures might it all lead?

But my behavior under the influence grew increasingly erratic, and social gatherings more precarious.

For a time, I wasn't invited to anything.

Photo: Alexander Dummer/Pexels

RELATED: 7 Things People Don't Realize You Do Because You Have Social Anxiety

Social anxiety affects loads of people.

A good portion of Americans (nineteen percent, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America in September 2023) have some form of anxiety disorder.

Research says COVID-related isolation led to increased anxiety nationwide.

I was a mess before, throughout, and after the pandemic. Now I'm three years sober and an emotional work-in-progress.

I’ve minimized my use of potentially habit-forming anti-anxiety medications, but I utilize cognitive-behavioral therapeutic tools, including exposure, to address my fear of social gatherings.

In this phase of my life, I liken party attendance to a hormesis exercise. Hormetic stress is the good sort that, when applied in manageable increments, over time, can increase strength and tolerance to discomfort; it’s like gradually adding minutes to your run or pounds to your barbell.

I no longer accept that nervous wreck is just the way I am.

It is how I am, now, newly removed from years of substance abuse and denial of proper mental health care.

But in time, I aim to be a person who thrives at social functions, commands a room with her grace and confidence, and doesn’t barf beforehand.

I envision my future self as a strong, stylish, charismatic, mature woman who both absorbs and radiates goodwill and positive vibes.

But getting anywhere close to that ideal will require dedicated training.

When preparing for a marathon, my practice sessions might be dreadful, excruciating, informative, exciting, encouraging, or demoralizing. One workout might reveal weaknesses, bolster my confidence, or leave me injured and in need of a few day's rest. Each involves a level of risk and potential.

So, yes, social gatherings for me are like running drills. I can see how admitting that might reveal how unfun I am at parties these days.

But this is how we change.

The host of tonight’s soiree is an emergency room physician and black belt who teaches my karate class and is a bona fide badass. I’d like to be her friend.

As I sip my bitter, lukewarm java, my mind runs amok.

I’ll buy some flowers at the farmers market downstairs, and bring a bouquet to the party; those snapdragons, zinnias, and marigolds emit such a soothing aroma. I’ll jog after work, shower, scrub, slather on lotion, apply makeup, and blow out my hair.

I’ll wear that new-ish dress. Or, no. Maybe the vegan leather pants with a silk top. I’m sure I’ll look fine, good even. In my mirror, anyway. In the proper light.

But someone will take pictures. Ugh. But photos prove I attended the event. Maybe they’ll get me at a good angle, from a great distance, or under a very bright lamp. I can hope.

A few weeks ago, I made the terrible mistake of looking at event photos while said gathering was still underway. I was startled. Is Christopher Walken here? I wondered before realizing it was me.

And there it is, my coffee coming back up.

​RELATED: The Extremely Strange Way I Finally Overcame Severe Social Anxiety

Throughout the day, I play little mind tricks on myself to ensure I will push through my discomfort.

For accountability's sake, I tell a friend I’m going to the party.

“Who’s party?” Asks my running buddy Paul, incredulous. “You don’t know her,” I say. “She’s from karate.”

When I joined a local marathon training group years ago, I had a habit of arriving on time but sitting in my car until the large group of 26.2 hopefuls left the lot. Then I would hop out and sprint to catch up. Once we were all settled into pace, I had no trouble chatting nonstop.

One day I fell in with Paul, a reliably 3:15 marathoner, who called me out.

“You just can’t stand to socialize, huh?” We’ve been friends ever since.

I promise myself that I don’t have to linger long at the holiday bash. I can even leave right away if I feel sick, as long as I do the things — buy the flowers, dress, and groom, drive to the location, and show up. If I succeed, I bribe myself, I can sleep in tomorrow, buy new shoes, and eat some cake.

I pep-talk myself. Or, more accurately, I read things that inspire confidence and self-respect. For quick reference, I keep some quotes handy, such as this one from author John Irving:

“If you don’t feel you are possibly on the edge of humiliating yourself, of losing control of the whole thing, then what you’re doing probably isn’t very vital.”

And from Joan Didion:

“Self-respect is a discipline, a habit of mind that can never be faked but can be developed, trained, coaxed forth.”

“However long we postpone it,” the essayist added, “we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.”

My nervousness can cause me to talk too much or too loudly or to say something I shouldn’t say, so I make a brief list of generic small-talk questions for those I meet.

“How long have you known the hosts?”

“What are you watching, reading, or listening to these days?”

“How will you spend the holidays?”

“Travel plans in 2024?”

Preparations moderately ease my stress.

However, tonight I will accidentally discover a brilliant, effective way to smash my insecurities and become the life of the party: The secret, I’ll find, is to immediately do something wildly embarrassing.

Just get it out of the way.

Photo: Anastasia Shuraeva/Pexels

​RELATED: What Social Anxiety Feels Like — How To Live (And Deal) With Social Phobia

At eight o’clock, I plug the address into Google Maps.

They dwell in Dallas’ affluent White Rock Lake area in a mansion decked out for the holidays.

When I turn onto their street, I see the place immediately, a sprawling Tudor with twinkling lights framing a dozen windows. Through one, I watch guests milling around, smiling, laughing, plucking champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres from serving trays. Sweat accumulates at my hairline despite the crisp December climate.

Breathe.

I park my Subaru on the street behind an Audi R8, whose beauty distracts me, and walk the long driveway. Before I can ring the doorbell, a cheerful red-faced man opens up and bellows, “Merry Christmas!”

He squeezes my shoulders, takes the flowers, and inhales them. “Bellissima!!”

He hurries off, the botanical aroma in his wake. I follow the sounds and smells, music and chatter, nutmeg and cinnamon, from the other direction. Scanning the crowd, I don’t see the host or any other familiar faces, so I wander over to a bar where a young mixologist prepares for me a non-potent potable with ginger ale and a splash of bitters.

Mocktail in hand, I turn and face a well-dressed older couple just as they lift their glasses and simultaneously say, “Cheers!”

“Cheers back!”

After brief introductions, they ask, “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

“I don’t,” I say, “but I live not too far in Oak Cliff, a great neighborhood, been there a few years now, but I love this area, the lake …” I’m beginning to ramble. My turn to ask a question.

“How long have you known Teresa?”

They exchange bemused glances. “Teresa?”

“Homeowner,” I clarify with a sweeping gesture. “Party host …”

The man says, “We’ve known Mel and Marcia since we moved to the area four years ago.”

“Mel? But Teresa … Banks …” I begin, and we all look equally, momentarily baffled.

I think it dawns on the wife and me at once as both of our mouths drop open, and we each inhale sharply.

Mine says, “This is not the Bankses ho …” But before the thought is verbalized, I know.

The woman bursts into laughter.

“The Bankses’ party is down the street,” she says, placing a motherly hand on my arm.

High-pitched, breathless, I yelp. “Oh no!”

Adrenaline floods my body. I set my drink on a passing tray, bid my amused companions farewell, and rush out the front door, back down the meandering driveway, laughing all the way.

“Ha. Ha. Ha!”

By the time I enter the actual home I was invited to, I am over the hump. I am giddy. Or hysterical. I feel good.

Teresa is here, taking my coat, telling me how glad she is that I made it.

Other familiar faces gather to greet me, and when I tell them what happened down the street, we all crack up. The tale of my wrong-party mishap provides a wealth of ice-breaking entertainment.

Home late, worn out, and satisfied, I sleep as peacefully as a high-strung sober party person possibly can.

On Saturday, Teresa Banks’ Instagram fills up with party pics. I dare look. There’s my face. It’s still weird to see lines and hollows in place of the smooth, youthful prettiness of parties past.

But my smile is real, reflecting authentic joy and freedom.

A million times more than conventional beauty or eternal youth, more than mansions or luxury vehicles, I want those things for the woman in the picture. She’s working hard for it. She’s earning it.

​RELATED: 8 Subtle Behavior Changes That Instantly Boost Your Social Self-Esteem

Christina Hughes Babb has been a journalist for 15 years and published thousands of articles in Dallas Advocate Magazines, Texas Monthly, Salon, Dallas Morning News, and more. Her essays have received national awards from the Society for Features Journalism and The Mayborn Literary Nonfiction Conference and can be found on Medium.