Sometimes, when I am in public and or around people, I lose my mind. There's too much going on, too many different faces flashing by, too many thoughts and motives clashing. My heart starts racing and then... it happens.
Suddenly, I feel myself start to change.
I am no longer M. a (hopefully) normal-looking girl, minding her own business. No, I am overcome by the spirit of the one and only, Mr. Collins. My choices are no longer my own, but Lady Catherine De Bourgh's. And suddenly, horribly, it becomes my sole purpose to please the vanities of others and ramble about complete and utter nonsense. Allow me to illustrate.
Everything I do, I have to do at lightning speed.
Which, of course, leads to clumsiness. Bumping into things, dropping precious items, flying backward off of carriages. I no longer have a center of balance. Which is a peculiar feeling because I am not naturally clumsy.
*slams on gas in car at red light*
I try WAY too hard to please others.
If you can believe that one of these is worse than the rest, this is just the WORST. I don't know why, but I, like, need the people around me to approve of me when I get socially anxious. You want my left arm? Here, have my right one too! I swear, I would even lean forward for them to slap me in the face if they asked. When really, I couldn't care less if they approve of me, because I do and that's what matters.
*pretends to care about people's problems so they'll like me*
Jokes fly straight over my head and off a cliff.
It's like people are speaking a different language when they try to crack a joke around me. It's especially hard if it's about me. I hear, "Ajdkf iwoeuw fejow HAHAHAHA". So I just nod and smile, having no CLUE what they said. Super awkward. Would not recommend it.
*attempts to calculate the meaning of laughter*
And lastly, if there is a second, and I mean a second of silence, you can bet your personal copy of Fordyce's sermons, I'll start rambling about nonsense.
It could be the shelves in a closet, or the weather, or the fact that shoelaces always seem to come untied at the worst moments. The longer a person makes eye contact with me, the more pointless my words become. I just start spewing any observation that comes to mind. If, at this point, you could say I even have a mind. Honestly, it makes me seem like an idiot, which, I am proud to say, I am not.
*yes, the, uhmm, the ceiling is very good at providing shade*
It is a hard life when social anxiety forces you to adopt the morbid personality of a sweaty, middle-aged, mediocre clergyman with a thing for closets and rich old ladies. But, in the end, I suppose it could be worse. After all, Mr. Collins is one who is blessed by Lady Catherine De Bourgh's patronage and condescension. And that has to count for something, doesn't it?
M.
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