Personal Narrative: Social Anxiety Disorder

An aggressive dog doesn’t bite; a scared one does. That fact didn’t compute for my father when I lashed out at him. Nor did it compute when he retaliated with force. Force in the form of a fist. A fist to my upper thigh. Three times. With no restraint. I, a frightened and anxious child, was not in control of myself and meant no harm. He, a grown man, should have been able to exhibit some self-restraint.
I was a ten year old sitting alone on my bed in an all-encompassing darkness. My cheeks were tear stained from another scolding. He walked through my door, stood over me, and unloaded on me once again. “Look at me!” he spit as I focused on anything but the hatred that was so clear in his face. His classic line, “I’m so disappointed in you,” …show more content…
As a result, I was diagnosed last year with severe Social Anxiety Disorder. My reluctance and apprehension in regards to social interaction during my childhood, as well as intense psychological damage, led to a social phobia. The constant scrutiny I received in my youth over weight, grades, and various other attributes translated into a debilitating mental illness that dropped my self-confidence and stunted my ability socialize. A mild feeling of dread accompanied everyday. In addition, the disorder caused frequent anxiety attacks whenever stress built up, which was frequently given the …show more content…
My parents lost all of the trust I placed in them and I lost my sense of security. I began tensing up whenever a member of my family was in the vicinity as well. Anytime my father raised a hand near me, I flinched away or took a defensive position. The exceptionally high standards placed upon me by my parents and their borderline physical and psychological abuse resulted in a broken relationship. Consequently, I decided that their opinions no longer mattered. The standard I was held to rarely reflected what I was capable of, so I disregarded them and set my own. Everything I did became something done for me. I also developed a rebellious streak. That streak presented itself in a love of tattoos, religious and political views that differ from the beliefs held by my parents, and plans to get as far away from Stoughton as possible and never look back.
My childhood was not a particularly happy one, but I did learn some valuable lessons from it. The most important of which is to never live your life for anyone but yourself. Had I continued to try to please my parents growing up, I wouldn’t have been half as happy or successful as I became. The bruise on my thigh faded, but the lessons I learned from it