We’re told to “find our passion” to “meet our tribe.” They say if you do what you love, socializing gets easier, even for someone like me, crippled by extreme social anxiety, avoiding almost any situation that involves talking.
So I tried it. Apart from true crime and animals, the only other thing I’m interested in is the supernatural, thanks to a couple of ghostly experiences I’ve had in the past. I convinced myself a ghost hunt group might work. A table sliding across the floor? Perfect. Running footsteps? OMFG. We could all just point and scream. No difficult, boring chit chat necessary.
The first hurdle was a pub meet up which someone suggested. Twenty people, drinks in hand chatting away, while I snuck outside every half hour for cigarettes I didn’t even want. I was meant to be the organiser – the friendly, socially capable welcoming one. What they got was an initial beaming smile followed by stuttering sentences, poorly timed and too loud laughter, plus a disappearing act an hour before the night ended.
I got home shattered and feeling low, but I clung to hope: the hunts themselves would be better. We would bond through shouts and screams as doors slammed shut.
Our first ghost hunt was a disaster. I wanted to suggest an experiment with the Ouija board (please don’t judge me) but couldn’t summon the courage. So I just smiled like a simpleton and followed along knowing that they had already clocked my awkwardness. It must be confusing for people. First they get ten seconds of a confident woman, then a stiff, frozen robot buffering mid sentence.
I braved an overnight at a haunted castle with the group. Planning it was my happy place; actually going out, my nightmare. I forced myself, hoping spooky things would happen so I could react naturally. Nothing did. So we had to… talk.
I also spent the whole night with my cardigan on inside out until someone told me at around three in the morning. Not only do I have extreme social anxiety, I can’t even get dressed properly.
Another time, around ten of us sat at someone’s house with the Ouija board. I picked up the cat and dropped her. She wasn’t hurt, but everyone laughed. I didn’t know how to respond because I’m in my head wondering how I should react and by the time I’ve thought of something suitable, the moment has passed.
Should I laugh or apologise? If I laughed, how loud? Should I match their laughter or do a softer apologetic chuckle? Should I laugh and apologise at the same time? How do I stand? Do I go after the cat? How about if I laugh and say “Oops, butter fingers!” Will that sound rehearsed and stiff?
But, thinking about it now, I’m wondering which response would be the true me. If I didn’t have this awful and extreme social anxiety – off the cuff and talking like a normal person I would have liked to have said, “Oh nooo. Did that look funny? I’m sorry” and I would have laughed slightly myself (but it wasn’t that funny to me so I wouldn’t have howled with laughter) and asked if the cat was ok.
I’m just not sure. And that’s the problem isn’t it! Some of us just don’t know who we are.
Ghost hunts, like any activity, still require basic social interaction and when you have no idea what your true personality is, it’s exhausting. After the third hunt, I quietly left, blocked everyone, and vanished.
Official advice for extreme social anxiety is useless for people like me. “Do what you love.” “Meet your tribe.” “Try CBT” (which also has its limitations with some professionals saying it’s built on shaky foundations). It doesn’t work for some of us. I’ve read the reports. I’ve lived it. The truth is uglier: some of us don’t get better.
Some of us fail at this over and over. But you have to try, if only to know for sure, because some people do get better and that person might be you.
So, another “find my tribe” attempt ended in a haunting no one asked for. A story people tell with a chuckle: remember that weird organiser who vanished? Very stiff, painfully awkward. A true jump scare. *laughter*.
I am sure lots of them were very pleasant people and it’s not their fault that I can’t fit in anywhere, but honestly, solitude is underrated. No small talk, no awkward introductions, no fake laughter. Just me at home, cup of coffee in hand, cats on my lap. Bliss.