Why do they do this? What is the point of making us practice public speaking? I don't care where they're attending school. Half of them will blow their college years away. The other half will slowly fade into the American standard, the business world.
The hot yoga classes.
The stay at home moms who start to drink at 8 in the morning.
But that's okay. They have it under control. They'll eat more of these footballs than I ever will.
(These all tend out to be true.)
I have no intention of ever being a public speaker.
I feel my heart racing, and the blood rushing to my ears.
Is this going to stop?
I reach for my bag and grab the green bottle. The cap is distorted and the words are faded.
This.
This is my only friend.
This is my only relief.
I am so grateful that my gynecologist understands that a 17-year-old girl needs high levels of benzos.
Thank you for the addiction. One more demon to add to my cage.
They say the more the merrier. Is that true in this case?
I take out the little blue football and pop it under my tongue. I normally don't take them like this, but I don't have time to run to the bathroom.
My nerves start to get to me.
I am a picker.
I get nervous, and I pick. There are marks on my chest- reminders that these demons are real.
The demons start to be crushed.
The irony that these football-shaped pills are like playing football with my demons.
They tackle my problem. They crush. They score. They win. Sometimes.
One more student in front of me.
Why am I talking about going to Slippery Rock to cheer? That's not what I want.
What I want was to stay home and go to school.
However; my parents hid my acceptance letter. They act like they're paying for it. What a joke that is.
Off to another school, I go. I don't pursue my dreams. I don't chase after what I'm good at.
I settle. That's part of these demons. They don't let you conquer those aspirations you want.
The student is wrapping up their speech. Everyone is clapping.
Why? It was a speech.
The teacher calls my name. I look up from my desk. I realize I have been squeezing the sides since I sat down.
My knuckles hurt and they're white. My acrylic nails physically hurt.
I push myself away from the desk, and my heart wants to beat fast. My football is crushing the feeling.
Isn't it weird that you can still feel something without feeling it?
I rise up slowly. My ripped jeans, UGGs, grey Abercrombie shirt. Now soaked.
The curls I put in my hair have fallen from sweating.
It looks like I just rode the hotmess express.
I look like I have my shit together. The reality, my shit is scattered.
I force myself to walk to the podium. Official, aren't we?
I feel my eyes start to swell with tears. My eyes are literal glass.
I keep counting, I keep grounding. I keep trying to go.
34 eyes are on me. 17 sets of eyes. 17 people waiting for me to open my mouth.
To tell my dreams and aspirations. My goals, my life plan.
I don't know my life plan. I'm 17 years old my self.
I start to open my mouth. A weird noise comes out. It's not words but a sound. A grunt.
I feel the football still crushing the demons. It's coming in waves.
The tears drop from my eyes. I look at my teacher with pleading eyes to not make me do this.
I have had this conversation a thousand times.
I finally have a little relief. I start to talk. Those 17 sets of eyes are intimidating.
I can't do it. I would rather take a bad grade than to have my heart explode on the spot.
This is what it's like to live with social anxiety, depression, bipolar. The list goes on. This is how it feels. The impending doom of what's to come. The people judging you, but you have the "I don't give a fuck" attitude. But you do give a fuck. A really big fuck.
Those demons own you. You can only play football for so long before you are tired and want to retire.
You're going to lose... eventually.
That's when you lose yourself. You are gone. You are a prisoner to yourself. Do you know how awful that is?
Your life is caged inside the skeleton body that is yours. You walk and talk to the people you love and trust. Other than that you are a caged animal. You are looking from the inside out.
Why can't you be normal? All you want is to be able to go out in public. Have a small talk conversation and not to worry about if they are judging your eyebrows, or your scars because you picked your self into oblivion.
Years of talk therapy.
Years of footballs.
Trips to a psych ward because you want to be normal.
Time lost with your kids. Missed first birthdays. Missed memories.
Years lost off your life.
You are strong.
You are strong.
You are strong.
You were given this demon because you are strong enough to fight it.
Those feelings can be pushed. The demon can be caged.
You will hear it rattling from time to time. Know that you have the key.
Social anxiety is a bitch, but you are a bigger one.
Stay clazzy,
Shell <3
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