I remember the first time I heard the phrase ‘social anxiety disorder.’ I was twenty-one years old, and I was watching television with my family on Christmas Eve. We were at my father’s parents’ house, and we were all watching A Christmas Story (or something like that), because otherwise we would have had to talk to each other. I was (like everyone else, I assumed) running out the clock, patiently waiting for someone else to announce that they needed to leave, so that I could quickly announce that, well, I, too, should probably get going. My grandma was drinking her usual; Sprite ‘with a little vodka’ in it that actually contained so much vodka, and so little Sprite, that you could never seem to locate a single bubble in her glass. She occasionally announced that she had no idea what was going on in the movie. My grandpa was laughing whenever he saw my dad laugh, to make it seem like he was following the action on the television. My dad was laughing extra loud to make sure my grandpa could notice it. My mom was making disgusted faces every time my dad did or said anything. My brother was on the phone with one of his friends. We all ignored my grandma when she exclaimed, again, that she had no idea what the hell was going on. 

As I was wondering if I could just go ahead and be the first to announce I was leaving, a black and white animated commercial appeared on the television. It was really simple, just a little oblong blob with a dot for eye, a line for an eyebrow and a downturned line indicating distress for a mouth. The narrative voice-over began, softly inquiring if you ever had the feeling of being uncomfortable. Well, yeah, of course. 

Like you’re afraid of being criticized? 

Um, yeah, kind of. I began to pay attention.

Like everyone is judging you?

Yes. All the time. I was starting to become uncomfortable.

The little animated blob was trying to enter a party, but he was unable to. He stood in the doorway, watching all the other, happy blobs having a good time. He contorted and became red with shame.

You’re always embarrassed, but you’re not sure why.

At this point, I was trying my best not to betray how interested I was in what this guy was saying.

You always stay back, away from the group. You worry that you’re the only one who has these feelings.

I realized that he was talking about me. At the bottom of the screen were the words Symptoms interfere with regular life. The thought flashed through my mind that this was a joke, that somehow this commercial was produced and someone paid for it to air on cable television just to fuck with me and humiliate me, to make me think there wasn’t anything wrong with me, because that would be funny. The narrator said that I might not be alone, that I might be one of millions of Americans who suffered from social anxiety disorder. I was simultaneously elated and mortified. 

It’s possible to overcome this anxiety.

I doubted that, but I was still very interested in the concept. Social anxiety disorder. This was a real thing that someone decided it was worthwhile to name, a diagnosis. Even if it was just pharmaceutical companies who invented a condition to sell drugs, that was still good. They recognized that there are enough people with this anxiety to bother exploiting them. To bother exploiting us.  At the bottom of the screen, new words appeared:

Social Anxiety Disorder is a serious medical condition. 

They capitalized it—a proper title. 

As the narrator did all the disclaimer stuff, the sad little blob’s redness faded, and his mouth line gradually curved in the opposite direction. He joined the other blobs and began having fun. I wanted to burst out of my seat and rush to campus, to a computer lab to do some research, but I stayed as still as I was able to. I was positive that everyone else (including my oblivious grandpa, drunk grandma, and disinterested brother) was noticing the commercial, and that they were making the same connection that I was, that they also knew that it was talking about me. I was sure that they could see how the commercial was making me feel. I knew that they knew it was talking about me, so I couldn’t react. I had to just act like I was as bored and detached as I had been all night. I took off my glasses and pretended to inspect them, scratching at some non-existent speck that wouldn’t come off the lenses. I knew they knew, so I had to do my best to make sure that they didn’t know that I knew that they knew, or even that there was anything to know. I needed them to know that I didn’t care, because I don’t know who that guy in the commercial was talking about, but it wasn’t me.