Someone’s at the door: A social phobic’s nightmare.
Many thousands of years ago my forefather, Hank, built a small house in one day with his bare hands using sticks, twine and mud. It was back breaking but satisfying work that left him fatigued and in need of a lengthy doze.
He fell asleep in his new house with tired bones, bloody knuckles, and a satisfied heart.
An hour later, Ned, who lived nearby approached the new structure, leaned close and whispered “Hank, what are you doing in there?”
Hank startled, but remained still to perhaps convince Ted he was talking to an empty hut.
“I know you’re in there. I need help moving a boulder up a hill. It’s too large for one man.”
Hank gritted his teeth, made two tight fists and punched and cursed invisible creatures before him.
I’ll tell you where you can put that boulder.
His recuperation would have to wait. Hank opened his door with a forced smile. As Ted talked about his boulder problem, Hank imagined a future where his descendants will have grand houses with thick, soundproof, unshakeable walls and uninterrupted peace and quiet.
Hank was thinking about me here in 2016. Sadly, it hasn’t turned out as well as he had hoped. Sure, compared to Hank’s hut, my house is much larger, stronger and contains multiple rooms that are far from the front entrance, but I cannot escape other human beings signalling from outside that they need to communicate something to me face to face.
In 1817 Scotsman William Murdoch installed a doorbell in his house in England. Mr. Murdoch was clearly not thinking about me or the concept of social anxiety disorder and I can’t travel back in time to punch him in his smug “I invented the doorbell!” face.
My house has a doorbell that in decibels is akin to a jack hammer. The sound, no matter where I am located in the house, sends my system into a state of frenzied consternation. My heart stops and then makes up for the lapse it by thumping thrice as fast. My feet leave the floor. Yes, I startle right out of my moccasins.
When a person pushes that button — oh so conveniently placed near my front door — they are in effect saying:
Hey you in there! No matter what you are doing, I want you to make your way to the entrance, open the door, and listen to what I have to say.
From inside, after my elfin heart attack I’m thinking something like:
Oh my god who’s here? What do they want? Did I buy something? Why can’t they ever just leave the package? What if it’s an injured war veteran selling crappy kitchen gadgets? Or the British Red Cross wanting money? Damn you stranger!
It’s not much better when I’m expecting someone. I am an anxious ball of energy, peeking from multiple corners and cracks, startling at slamming car door. I am the guy who opens the door right as you’re reaching for the button or have your fist raised preparing to hit my door with your knuckles. I will startle you before you can startle me. I am ready for you!
Then on top of all that anticipatory nervousness, I need some time to get used to you being in my house.
An emotionally well-adjusted person might view all this as a wonderful opportunity to chat and connect with another human being.
Oh, awesome! Someone’s here!
I don’t understand you, but I envy you.
But let’s get real, I am an introverted social phobic guy and this is the age of Amazon. It’s probably a guy dressed in a lame uniform holding a cardboard box — yesterday it was a 14 kg bag of dog food — who rarely utters more than five words.
“Cheers, mate, have a good one!”
With the door open wide enough to bring in whatever he’s holding, I have one easy word to say — thanks — before I retreat into my fortress of solitude.
