I’ve always struggled with social anxiety. From the first job I had at a museum gift shop when I was a preteen, to my first foray into cubical corporate realness several years ago, few things in life were more anxiety-provoking than Sunday nights.
As is often true in the case of anxiety, the obsessive fretting was far worse than whatever event I was worried about. Monday morning came, I went to work, and I was usually fine. Of course, there were weeks when I was not; when every night felt like a Sunday night and my anxiety about getting up — about showing up — kept me awake all night. Staring at the clock for hours only increased the feeling. It was a vicious cycle: stay up all night worrying that my alarm won’t wake me up on time, alarm goes off on time — but I haven’t slept. Oops.
There was always the constant barrage of ringing phones, clacking keyboards and the office jungle, all of which made my stomach perpetually knot and my blood pressure skyrocket. It wasn’t a healthy environment to be in, but what choice did I have? “Isn’t this what it means to be gainfully employed, isn’t this adulthood?” I would say to myself as I hyperventilated in the bathroom for the second time in a single afternoon.