Shy

Two small wooden typeface brooches I own

I've begun to make connections. Things that just felt part of my makeup, and my experience of existing in the world, are all linked to anxiety. I don't know how I'd never realised that before. Shyness has been a big one. There's a family story of me being a small blonde toddler sitting on the beach in summer, and when people approached to tell Mum how cute I was, I turned my face away and face-planted into the sand. Doing my best to hide from these strangers. It earned me the nickname 'ostrich'. I grew up thinking this was a cute story, which showed how shyness has always been part of me. But recently I've begun to wonder why I was so fearful. Was this another example of being anxious? And how did this start so young!?! 

I chatted to my psychologist about it. I started by saying that shyness and anxiety seem to go hand in hand in my life. That week I'd organised to go for a drink with a work friend. It's someone who I hired to be in my team but now they've gone onto a different role. She mentioned as I wasn't her boss now, she hoped we could be friends. In the lead up to drinks, I felt pangs of anxiety and I wasn't entirely sure why. Perhaps it was the thought of just being 'me' at the pub, rather than 'me hiding behind a work context'. We went for a drink, talked non-stop for three hours, laughing and crying and discussing big things in our lives. It was great, and we both said we should do it again soon.

I don't know why I get so nervous. New situations seemed to be a challenge still. I began linking feelings backwards through my life. I mentioned how writing this blog had become a space for me to have a voice. How it was particularly helpful during the messy breakup with my ex, when I felt I had to keep my head down, push through the awfulness and his anger. This blog was where I got to say my side of things, and process what was happening. I mentioned being anxious with my first boyfriend. I was a teenager, with braces, perm and bad clothes (it was the 80s) when we started going out. As I found my own style in my early 20s I was nervous that he'd try to humiliate me in front of other people. Ridicule me for being such a dag only a few years ago. We went further back.

Dad worked shift work so we had to be quiet. I realised that Dad would have yelled at us if we were noisy, and so Mum would have re-inforced the need to be quiet to avoid the rage. I grew up in an environment where making noise had consequences. No wonder I struggled to have a voice or be comfortable talking to people. I grew up, even into my early 30s feeling the pounding of my heartbeat in my constricting throat at the thought of speaking. I worked backwards until we reached the ostrich story. My psychologist asked how old I was. Maybe 2, I replied. Although I don't remember the event, we tried some EMDR around the idea of hiding from people, and turning to Mum. Where exactly did this fear stem from? I was asked to picture myself standing in front of my 2 year old self. What would I say to her? I felt awkward. Disconnected from the idea of me as the small baby in front of me. I didn't know what to say. I had no words or actions of comfort. The only thing that sprang to mind was 'it's not your fault'.

A photo of me and Mum at the beach.
Who I visualise when I think of the ostrich

When we discussed where I feel the anxiety in my body I held my hand to my chest. It's interesting, I said, as being asthmatic I know how important it is to not panic if I can't breath. That excellerated fear can exacerbate an asthma attack. If I swallow water the wrong way and choke, I know to keep calm and center myself, breath slowly through my nose and try to stiffle the urge to cough. I mentioned I was 18 months old when I was diagnosed with asthma. She asks what happened to lead to the diagnosis. I was struck by the fact I'd never asked. I had homework.

I rang Mum the folllowing week. I asked her how I was diagnosed with asthma. Was I sick or in hospital? Apparently I'd been ill and she was really concerned as I was struggling to breathe. Luckily the doctor made a house call, took one look at me and said 'it's asthma'. Mum said the doctor's tone made her feel like an idiot, like she should have known. But in the early 1970s it wasn't something she knew much about. I'd been told previously that I was too small for an inhaler, so had to take liquid ventolin, but this would make me shake. Mum also said off the cuff, that Dad was never really sympathetic. 'What does that mean' I asked calmly. 'I would be so worried about you being sick I would sleep on the floor next to your bed' Mum said. Dad would come down the corridor into the bedroom saying 'can't you keep that bloody kid quiet'. BOOM. There it was. 18 months old, being yelled at for making noise while being ill. I got off the phone and told Peter. I then went and sat on the bed, just digesting this information. Suddenly I remembered the words I'd said the week before. 'It's not your fault'. My chest hurt and I cried. Somehow I knew these were the right words.

I saw my psychologist again this week. She asked how I was doing, as it's been a few weeks between appointments. I had had lunch that day with another of my former recruits. Another young, smart woman now in a different team. She'd suggested the lunch catch up. I'd felt butterflies in my stomach walking to meet her. And again, another lovely conversation about life and work, with no awkward moments. I asked if it was ok to give her a hug as I was leaving. She said to keep in touch as we parted. I said how nice it was that these really great people want to hang out with me. And the pre-meet up anxiety felt smaller this time. 

I then mentioned my homework. I shared the story of my Dad yelling at me as a young ill infant. How did this make me feel she asked - angry, upset? 'Sad. It just makes me feel sad that that's the environment I grew up in, and how that's impacted so much of my life'. Again we did some EMDR around this. We worked on my feelings of worthlessness which still sits deep within me. She asked me to visualise being in my bedroom, with 18 month old me in front of me. 'Think about what you'd say to her. You don't have to say it out loud'. With my eyes closed, a wave of emotion surged and tears fell. I kept thinking those words on repeat 'it wasn't your fault'. I told her it would all be ok, and that she would find her voice. That she would be surrounded by truly lovely people who care about her.

Another photo I use to visualise 

And then I had a revelation. I'd always seen myself through the lens of the shy child. This is who I carried inside me at all times even as I grew older. It's who I always identify with. But in that moment, sat on a couch wiping tears from my face I flipped the view. I was in my 50s looking backwards. I'd grown into someone with opinions and a voice. Who has pushed herself, challenged herself to grow and gain confidence. Finding my people and to feel liked and loved. I could see the distance between who I am now to the small shy girl I was. That change in perspective floored me. 

This felt huge. I was set some homework of trying to member to take a moment and be mindful if anxiety spikes. To center myself and breathe. I also think I have to practice that change in perspective as it's going to take a lot to shift a lifetime of seeing myself in a particular way. But it's a start and the last few sessions have really felt monumental. I'd said to Peter this week that I feel quieter inside. Not calmer. Quieter was the closest word I could think of. The constant rumble and roar of anxiety felt absent. I now just felt spikes. The change has begun.

The person those chubby cheeks grew into