On catastrophes and what feels like the end of the world
The room has been silent for approximately five seconds, but each of those seconds has felt like an hour. The facial expressions are unreadable and no one is saying a thing. My heart is pounding, my mind is racing, and tears begin to fall as I face the inevitable.
Oh god, I think. They’re dying. I’m dying. Someone’s dying. We’re all dying.
This is commonly referred to as “catastrophic thinking,” a well-researched psychological condition which involves, according to the dictionary, “ruminating on irrational worst-case outcomes.” I prefer, however, in my analyses of myself, to think of this as “apocalyptic thinking.”
“Catastrophe” just doesn’t encompass the scenarios I imagine. A mere disaster? Simple great and sudden damage or suffering? This doesn’t even scratch the surface of where my mind goes when confronted by silence. “Apocalypse,” on the other hand, really seems to get me. “The complete final destruction of the world as we know it” encompasses exactly what I anticipate when given the horrendous and horrifying task of trying to understand the intentions of another human being.
The combination of introversion and social anxiety has been, for me, an interesting one. As a child, I tried my hardest to “just be myself,” as every teacher and parent and marginally older person will tell you to do. “Myself” was a fairly precocious child who carried three books with her at all times, spent her recesses avoiding the outdoors, and was what most children refer to as a teacher’s pet.
This, it turns out, is not the recipe for childhood popularity. My classmates really didn’t like me. I couldn’t make them like me. I didn’t watch Sailor Moon or Pokemon; I watched 80s sitcoms. I didn’t read Junie B. Jones; I read Jane Austen. Because I had never considered gender norms, I wasn’t “traditionally pretty.” I didn’t wear the right clothes, my hair was too short, I had awkwardly shaped glasses, and I was the only kid with braces in the fourth grade. I spent my formative years isolated, quietly experiencing the effects of not fitting in. I closely and devotedly observed those who did fit the mould, hoping to fit in some day.
When I was finally able to switch school districts, I put my observations to good use. Instead of “just being myself,” which hadn’t been working out so well for me, I tried to be what worked for everyone else. I made small talk, even though I would rather read my book. I watched the right shows and I read the right books. I grew my hair out. I bought the right clothes. I learned that I could fake being “outgoing.” I found that self-deprecation was my personal key to making others laugh. I tried my hardest to be friends with everyone. I succeeded, for the most part.
I’ve carried this persona with me for nearly 10 years. While it has certainly made for easier social interactions, it’s been harder on me mentally and emotionally. It takes me years to break down the walls I’ve put up around myself. I’m not often comfortable enough to be my true self around others. It’s hard, but also somewhat interesting, to be someone completely different than who others believe you to be.
The biggest effect of all, however, has been the acquired art of apocalypse.
My experiences — and failures — with “just being myself” have conditioned me to assume the worst in the majority of my social interactions. I assume that, the minute I leave a room, everyone is talking about me behind my back. This is where the difference between catastrophe and apocalypse really starts to matter. A catastrophe, a handle-able disaster, would be that everyone does talk about me when I leave the room. But I assume the complete and utter destruction of the world around me. I assume that these people share their less than positive opinions with the rest of the world. I assume that there is a giant web of interconnected hatred for me that no one will mention to my face.
If someone I know is even a little bit upset, aloof, or anything but outwardly happy, I immediately assume that I have done something truly terrible, causing their less-than-ideal mood. Here, again, is where the catastrophe-apocalypse dichotomy comes into play. Thinking catastrophically would be to stop there, to assume that someone else’s problems must be my fault and to move on. The apocalypse of my mind, however, goes much further than this. Not only is this person’s mood my fault, but my crime against their person is irrevocable – our relationship unsalvageable.
Oh god, I think. They hate me. We’re not friends anymore. We’ll never be friends again.
This all seems ridiculous, I’m sure, to many people. This is probably a very good thing. To be honest, I hope that this seems ridiculous to everyone else in the world. I can’t imagine how nice it must be to hope that everyone else in the world is able to “just be themselves,” and I hope that no one else in the world knows what it’s like to assume the worst at every turn.
I, at one point, conditioned myself to believe that this apocalyptic cycle was okay, or perhaps even healthy. If I assumed the worst, it meant that I was prepared for the worst. If I assumed less than the worst, and then the worst happened, how would I ever be prepared to handle what was being thrown at me? If I assumed the worst, on the other hand, and less than the worst happened, I could be mildly (yet pleasantly) surprised.
But the art of apocalypse is far from healthy. I wouldn’t wish the art of apocalypse on my worst enemy — although it seems, in these long and cyclical apocalyptic spirals, I have become my own worst enemy.
I hope, as time moves on, that the art of apocalypse is completely erased, from my life and from everyone else’s. This particular art form, I think, is one that should be left behind in the far reaches of history, like hand-drawn calligraphy and that painting technique that tried desperately to combine oil with water. Some day, I’ll walk out of the room without worrying about whether or not those left in it are talking about me. Some day, I’ll be able to recognize a bad mood for what it is in its simplicity. Some day, I’ll be able to assume the best.
Some day, I won’t remember what it means to think apocalyptically; the art of apocalypse will be the tiniest footnote on a long and illustrious history of successfully “just being myself.”