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I always believed I was introverted growing up. Usually a step too slow to beat out the extroverts, often instead watching expressions.

Social situations were exhausting, but for some reason, I’d never shy away. I could be loud in small intimate groups but put me in a larger group, even great friends, and my brain would fry with too much stimulation.

I didn’t understand myself. I had such an urge to speak, to surround myself with others. But it was a constant fight. Everyone thought I was social, Type B, chill. I’d smile and nod like I was listening, mostly because I was exhausted, had ADD, and often wasn’t paying attention enough to quickly participate. I’d let people talk, get the gist, ask questions.

I learned to take the pressure off myself by asking questions. If you’re barely holding on to the conversation that’s occurring, but need to participate, ask a question. If you’ve completely spaced out, ask a tangential question. I’d watch faces light up at the experience of having someone listen, or pretend to listen. The power of the question.

A good way to engage a room is by asking questions. It felt like a power to learn to find an interesting question that would get a room going. A quiet person can ask a well-timed question here and there and hold court. Need to get through to someone in an argument, or control the flow of an argument? Use the Socratic method.

It might sound sneaky but it wasn’t anything planned. I just needed to be heard, and things sprouted naturally. Want to get the group to have some fun and cause some trouble? Whisper an idea in the ear of the most extroverted and watch.

I spent my life fighting social anxiety. It was a blanket. And not the breathing into a bag type of anxiety (although I had to do that once in my early 30s), but the constant unrelenting tension type, only dispersed by basketball, video games, alcohol, weed, and the quiet of 1am. Those were the only times I felt free growing up, before finding photography, art, and writing.

My art back then was basketball, five days a week, skipping school all day, teachers knowing to search for me outside if I didn’t show up. The immediacy of the physical stress caused the mental anxiety to disappear. Problems melted away as long as I was there. Reprieve in concrete.

Navigating a world of large Black men as a short white guy, scrapping to gain respect, to be noticed. I learned to be aggressive and assertive; to play loud without being loud. It was the only place where I truly felt like myself. I just couldn’t do that in the real world, yet.

Bumping, pushing, knocking the air out of the guy who wants to take the head off the white guy. Staying calm. Fist bumps and smiles of respect; eventually becoming a regular and no longer having to earn respect each time.

In one way, I felt so much in common with the types of people who were attracted to the court, on a mentality and survival level, but on the other hand, I came from such a different background (a world I didn’t quite connect with, to say the least).

But I usually had the newer sneakers. I had that advantage. Tread is important playing outside on the often dusty courts as a short white guy. 

I could feel teammates and opponents around me, their presence behind me, where they were about to move, just like I would feel the physical presence of others in social groups, causing my anxiety to spike. It was all related.

When I found photography, it had the same effect as ball. The walking and active looking almost comes close; an introverted way to interact with surroundings and society at large. Event jobs allow you to be in the middle, learning to navigate a room in a quiet but assertive way. Or in using questions to light up your subjects.

In retrospect, I got into photography and writing because it was a way to speak, a way that couldn’t be cut off by the extroverts (although along came social media and video).

I eventually learned to push through the social anxiety, to speak louder, be quicker, pay attention more. There was a fire that kept me pushing, dealing with this issue. Friends now look surprised when I mention the significance of my anxiety.

Then a few years ago, during the height of the pandemic with a young kid, general anxiety caused my psychiatrist to recommend Lexapro. 15mg and only a hellish first two weeks later, and it got that anxiety down to manageable levels. But it was the social anxiety that melted away entirely; a wonder drug. It was like breaking off a suit of armor and stretching after a long battle. Maybe this is also a reason my writing is improving.

All along, I was extroverted, even Type A, beaten down and enclosed by this social anxiety and the performative structure of society, work, and school. The reason why I was emotionally exhausted all the time was because I was constantly fighting the tides. It was taxing.

My first instinct is to speak now. It’s so strange being in a group of people and no longer giving a fuck, saying what you feel, remembering to slow down and not speak over others like they once did to you. There has been a calibration involved; it was certainly a shock to the system. But the power of the question still hasn’t left. There is still nothing like exciting a room with a well-timed question.

In my youth, I often photographed the look of anxiety in others. I don’t do that as much now, not because I’m not trying, but I don’t notice it as well. It’s still out there, but my mind feels free to focus on other things. I have dealt with this one, for the time being.

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