I still don’t remember the exact moment I first learned I had social anxiety disorder. With dermatillomania, it’s easier for me to call back to the day I learned about it because I self-diagnosed. This informal process was an exciting moment of self-discovery contrasting the formal and definitive process I assumed diagnosis would be; that is until I realized years into therapy I had been formally diagnosed as well. I question if my initial discomfort with the label of having a “mental illness” is why I can’t pinpoint the moment I knew. I also have flirted with the idea that my past therapists intentionally de-emphasized labelling me to allow for self-definition and a focus on my treatment. Gradually coming to terms with and embracing my diagnosis has led to breakthroughs in my life, a deepened understanding of myself and of others through our shared experiences.
When I first started therapy, I wasn’t looking to be diagnosed, I purely needed someone to talk to. I was out of my depth when it came to navigating college as a freshman. My home life was turned upside down by my parent’s separation. A couple months into that fall semester, I was failing calculus and chemistry which was a far cry from the straight A’s I earned with ease in high school. And most of all I was finding it increasingly difficult to connect with my peers despite my constant efforts. My early college days mainly consisted of spending weekends in my dorm room or the library struggling with chemistry alone and practically living at the gym when I had downtime, chasing the dopamine a mile run provided me, that was absent in all other areas of my life. I eventually met my tribe that would become lifelong at the tail end of my freshman spring semester; it only took me 9 months! The process of getting to this much better place in my college career was largely due to my therapist that year and the cognitive behavioral therapy that would follow that fated meeting.
Undoubtedly therapy was exactly what I needed to turn my life around at that point and my experience at my campus’s counseling center is why I swear by it to this day. I couldn’t turn to my divided, preoccupied family and my high school friends were off creating their own memories as freshman at schools hundreds of miles away. I felt this mounting pressure to be self-reliant and I felt going to therapy to sort out my issues was doing just that. Upon my introduction into therapy, I was blessed with a phenomenal therapist that helped me transform my freshman year. At the end of almost every semester that would follow I kept getting asked and encouraged to return. At one point I was going to therapy twice a week and while I knew there was a reason for the counseling centers insistence upon my return, I never really chalked it up to my diagnosis alone.
As I neared the final month of my senior year at Binghamton, I sat in my last therapy session as my counselor read through the clinical notes taken on me throughout the years like a grocery list, as was protocol. The very first thing she pointed out was my diagnosis. Then she walked me through the process of finding a therapist outside of Binghamton university’s counseling center which I wouldn’t follow through with until years later. For whatever reason the words “you have been formally diagnosed with social anxiety disorder” kept echoing in my mind as she explained the difference between in and out of network clinicians. This couldn’t have been the first time I heard this; it was an unspoken truth. So many sessions over my four years were dedicated to cognitive behavioral therapy aimed at correcting my socially anxious habits. But there was something about hearing those words stated so plainly to me on that final day, that has remained with me presently. At some level I felt assured and justified in my experience and struggles. Yet to this day I sometimes find myself feeling confined to or conversely detached from this categorization.
As I reflect upon those first four years of therapy, I realize somewhere along the way, sessions became so much more than hours of crying over the loneliness that defined those first few months of classes or lamenting over my life before social anxiety took hold. Rather it became a place where I found the courage to tackle my fears and insecurities. It was in those four walls every week where I began to define myself beyond this condition. I went from being a shy and anxious kid with little self-belief beyond my academic capacity, to still being reserved yet more self-assured in my capabilities. Even now I still have my moments of doubt where I question the severity and/or reality of this diagnosis. I’ve done things I once could’ve only dreamed of as a kid, from commanding NYC public school classrooms of 6th and 8th grade students to walking NYFW runways. I question where my social anxiety comes to play in all of this. Is my diagnosis valid if I constantly defy the expectations and limits it places upon people like me?
I stepped out of college with a level of confidence that rivaled the self-assured naïveté of my youth, pre-social anxiety. Little did I realize that this confidence developed over time as I slowly adjusted to my surroundings and came to terms with the things I couldn’t control. This confidence could be tested and normally was as soon as I got too comfortable. Not long after graduation I was reminded of how social anxiety could complicate and worsen transitional periods of my life. With starting a new job, came social anxiety once again rearing its head. But it was a familial revelation that made me realize that this diagnosis wasn’t something I needed to run from.
When I learned my mother had been previously diagnosed with social anxiety disorder, on Christmas Day of 2019 I was dumbfounded. I still can’t put into words what that revelation did for me. I won’t get into the details of this private conversation but the shock, relief, and sadness I felt for me and her in that moment was indescribable. A part of me also felt robbed of the relief I believe knowing this sooner would’ve provided my younger self. Concurrently, I felt regret over not seeing the signs of this condition we share in her and for the lack of grace and understanding I had for my mother up until that point.
Often, I wonder what life would’ve been like growing up if my family members actively held space for conversation about anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideation all of which have deep roots in my family tree. I wonder if an open dialogue within my family would’ve prompted them to notice the signs of social anxiety I was displaying as a preteen and if they would’ve done anything about it. Would I have been more confident, more self-assured, would the journey to this point have been any easier? I ruminate over this a lot and can’t help to feel a bit of loss for all of us.
I know ultimately my loved ones struggling with mental health issues probably felt just as alone, helpless and betrayed by their own psyche as I did. The “hush hush” nature of the conversations we did manage to have in our family around mental illness only could reap feelings of individual embarrassment and shame. My mother’s side comes from the Deep South, hailing from Autaugaville, Alabama, during a time for us that was infinitely more difficult. With my experiences being so far removed from the reality of sharecropping that defined my grandparents’ upbringings and the pressure my mom felt to provide better circumstances for her children, I often foolish bringing my lesser struggles to their doorsteps. But now with what I understand about myself, our history and my growing understanding of mental health and diagnosis, I feel a sense of duty, obligation, and promise to my family and families with similar stories.
While I tussled with the idea of my diagnosis in the past, I’ve come to grasp that diagnosing is an act of identification not definition. No one is defined by a mental disorder; it cannot encompass the fullness of anyone’s humanity. Possessing the knowledge and understanding about my social anxiety is a huge part of why I’ve been able to test and challenge its limitations. Considering how me and my mother are completely different, from our personalities to our lived experiences and aspirations, yet share this diagnosis is tangible proof that no one individual with the same diagnosis is the same. Diagnosis is a tool to be used to inform the practice of learning and bettering yourself. I’m no longer running from these labels, rather I am embracing the truth of my diagnoses as I seek deeper understanding of myself and those around me.