#socialanxiety

[dailylaughmania]

Pure Unfiltered Panic

Suddenly I’m questioning if I’ve ever even seen a driver's license in my life. Why am I sweating when I’m literally going the speed limit?

Reblog if you agree.

[artdesigne]

😅💔 Social anxiety level: impossible to flirt 💔😅

“I Can’t Flirt I’m Afraid of Women” 😂 Relatable awkward energy for introverts, shy guys, meme lovers, and anyone whose brain stops working around crushes.

Perfect for: 🤣 Meme humor fans 😬 Introverts & awkward people 💔 Funny relationship jokes 🎭 Sarcastic humor lovers 📱 Viral internet meme culture

Tag someone who would wear this 😂

[hlficlibrary]

Do you know any fics where one of them has social anxiety or is like really shy/introverted? Thankss

Hi, anon! You're very welcome! Here are some fics for you...

Warm Me Like Sunshine by rainbowslovehl

The pictures weren’t as surprising since Louis had seen him around with a giant camera hanging off his neck, and occasionally clicking passersby. What surprised him were the written parts, occasionally spread out between his photos. They ranged from random song lyrics, a few of which he recognised, mixed in with quotes, that he claimed he wrote himself. They were haikus or poems, mainly about love and longing for someone. And of course he wrote poetry, Louis shouldn’t be surprised. He did seem to be the type of person who are just perfect in every aspect.

Or alternatively, Louis accidentally discovers that Harry, the boy who he likes, has a tumblr account. He thinks it’s a chance to talk to him online without actually talking, getting to know him before they converse in real life. But things don’t go according to the plan when he finds that Harry is pining over someone who seems to be perfect. It gets worse when Harry starts talking to him in real life as well, since now he has to hide from him that his online friend (Tommo) is the same as his real life friend (Louis).

don't be afraid to love (and love again) by localopa / @voulezloux

All Louis’ life, he’s known he’s been different. There’s always been something at odds about how he felt.

As the eldest daughter of seven kids, he knew something was wrong with his body. Something was off, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it. His mum dressed him in dresses and tights, plaits in his hair as he wandered around with the local neighborhood boys. They called him a girl, called him she and Rosemary when his name is Louis. He had told the boys as such, but they would tell him Louis is a boy’s name, not a girl’s.

Louis is a boy. He knows he is.

or the one where louis is trans and afraid, harry is cis and brave, and being 100% yourself is easier said than done.

Been Here All Along by therogueskimo / @bravetemptation

Harry should have never agreed to be Otto the Orange.

At least he had the gorgeous ass of one 3rd string kicker to admire and keep him sane.

Harry Styles somehow gets roped into being the mascot for the Syracuse University football team, and it’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. That is, until his longtime crush Louis Tomlinson starts talking to him while he’s in costume.

How long can he keep his identity a secret?

[acutevisionin21]

My social battery: 🔋100%

Someone says:

"Let's all introduce ourselves."

My social battery: 0% immediately. 🕸️💀

[funnyfiasco]

When your social skills are still loading and you accidentally run into the human equivalent of a pop-up ad.

[viralvibesusa]

The Retail Faux Pas of the Century 💳🤦‍♂️

POV: You just had the most awkward interaction of your life at the checkout line and you're considering moving to a different state. ☁️🏹 There is a specific kind of internal screaming that happens when your brain short-circuits in public. 🛒💨

Imagine being at "Walfarts," just trying to buy your groceries, when the cashier says, "Strip down facing me." Before your brain can register that she’s talking about the magnetic strip on your credit card, you’ve already started the process. 🏃‍♂️💨 It’s giving "I need the earth to swallow me whole" meets "total social reset." 🛋️🕯️

We’ve all had those moments where we hear what we expect (or fear) rather than what was actually said. If you’ve ever wanted to evaporate on the spot after a public misunderstanding, this one is for you. 🥂 Swan dive into the awkwardness, because at least it makes for a top-tier story later. 🕯️🦢

retail therapy gone wrong | social anxiety struggles | the check-out glitch | main character embarrassment

✨ Reblog if you've ever had a "brain glitch" in public, and follow for your daily dose of relatable chaos and aesthetic humor. ✨

[adaml1986]

The High-Stakes Game of the “Middle Seat”: How I navigated my anxiety through the airport of worry

I am standing at Gate B12, clutching a boarding pass that feels more like a subpoena. 

I’ve survived sepsis, heart failure, and a fiancé who vanished like a ghost in the night, but none of those prepared me for the psychological warfare of Seat 14B.

For a normal person, 14B is just a seat between two other seats.

For me, 14B is a cruel joke designed by an architect who knows I have a small bladder.

I try to stay calm, but my face cannot hide my fear. I look like somebody who just found out their taxes were flagged for an audit — and the auditor was their mother-in-law!

My physical expressions are the least of my worries though as mind begins to self sabotage:

“Adam,” it whispers, “you have the bladder of a ninety year old man. You will annoy everybody around you by getting up. Your better off sleeping in the bathroom!”

I take a deep breath, but it gets stuck in my throat, likely blocked by my internal TSA for containing traces of panic.

My eyes are locked on everyone around me. They all sit calmly, fully prepared with their carry-on bags, ready for the flight.

Me? I’m carrying a backpack full of ten different medications, a portable charger I’ve checked six times to ensure I didn’t forget it, and enough ‘what-if’ scenarios to fill the airport.

Finally, I hear the boarding call over the speakers. I show them my pass and step onto the plane. The air is thick with the scent of jet fuel and collective human misery.

I side shuffle past everyone and arrive at Row-14. At this point, my heart is playing a drum solo that would make Ringo Starr jealous.

14A is already occupied by a boulder of a man, with shoulders that looked like football pads.

14C is a woman who has already deployed her knitting needles, effectively turning her tray table into a workstation.

I am the outcast, the middle-man.

“Excuse me,” I squeak, my voice hitting a frequency that only dogs can hear.

The man doesn’t move his legs; he just tilts them slightly, as if he’s granting me passage through a mountain pass.

I try to step around him, but my foot catches on his expensive leather shoe.

My brain screams: 

'YOU DID IT NOW! HE’S GOING TO THROW YOU OUT THE WINDOW!'

Luckily, I am still alive as he didn’t notice or didn’t care. I sit down, my limbs pinned to my sides like an anxiety-filled burrito.

I spend the first hour of the flight trying to not to breath — convinced that if I inhale too deeply, I will accidentally graze the shoulder of the knitter to my right or be pummeled by the man on my left.

The flight attendant tries to offer me a free drink, but I know this is just a trap to get me up and I wasn’t falling for it.

This is the ‘Adam Logic’ — the beautiful, broken geometry of a mind that treats a flight to Florida like a mission to Mars.

With limited options left, I try to distract myself by watching the inflight movie. Ironically, ‘A Room with a View’ is playing. 

I’d settle for a room with an armrest!

My mind feels equally as uncomfortable as my body–filled with questions that I already know the answers to:

'Did you zip your backpack? Did the medication bottle in the side pocket fall out? Is it rolling down the aisle toward the cockpit?'

I know I zipped it. I felt the teeth of the zipper click, but that wasn’t enough for my mind in this moment.

Suddenly, the plane hit some turbulence and my brain interprets this as a sign that my pills are now sitting at some kids feet in Row-22.

I reach down to check, but my tray table is locked, and my seatbelt feels like a python that has decided I’m its final meal.

The seat begins to feel like it’s on fire as my anxiety heats up. I start to sweat — the kind of cold, prickly sweat that usually precedes a medical ‘event’.

The knitter looks at me, holding her needles tightly.

Oh no, here it comes. I am about to become a human shish kebab. I prepare for her to call the flight attendant and report the man leaking in seat 14B.

“You okay, dear?” she asks.

She doesn’t sound annoyed. She sounds like a mother, concerned for her child.

“Just a little flight anxiety.” I say, hoping that would end the interrogation.

She smiles, and it’s a real one. Not the ‘customer service’ smile, but a genuine human connection.

“My husband is afraid of flying too.” she says. “He’s driving to Florida and I will meet him there.”

Suddenly, the spotlight turns off. The dragon in my head loses its fire and turns back into a lizard.

I realize that the boulder-man to my left isn’t fighting me for elbow room; he’s actually fast asleep and snoring like a chainsaw.

The knitter isn’t worried about her stitches either; she’s just happy to have a captive audience for a second.

We spend the next hour talking about her Florida vacation and how excited her grandkids are to go to Disneyland. I end up telling her the truth, and open up that I was afraid to disturb her needle work.

She laughs so hard she actually does drop a stitch, and believe it or not — she had the same fear.

In this moment, I realize that I’ve been treating the world like a game of hide and seek. Except my version is always hiding and rarely seeking.

But the world isn’t out to get me. It’s not filled with people looking to make my life difficult.

Honestly, it’s just a collection of people in their own middle seats, all of them a little uncomfortable and struggling to find their place in the world.

When the plane finally touches down, I stand up and realize my legs aren’t wet noodles anymore. I reach down to grab my carry-on bag from the floor, accidentally bumping the mountain man in the process.

I flinch, fearing my life is about to end, but not today. Instead I am met with a sleepy, “My bad, man, sorry.”

Not only did he not crush me into dust, but instead he apologized to me.

I walk off that plane with a smile, feeling lighter than when I came on.

As I grab my check-in bag from the carousel, my brain tries one last-ditch effort to ruin my day:

'Adam! You didn’t say goodbye to the knitter! She’s going to think you’re a typical middle-seat sociopath!'

I ignore it. She’s probably already in the parking lot, telling her husband about the vibrating man who was terrified of a knitting needle.

As I make my way out of the airport, I notice my reflection on exit door window. I look like I need some water and a nap, but I don’t see a man who just survived a mission to Mars.

The ‘Adam Logic’ has finally shifted. It turns out that when you’re pinned between a boulder and a needlepoint enthusiast, the only thing that actually catches fire is your ego.

My whole life, I’ve been bracing for impact on a flight that has never left the ground. Always protecting my armrests, when there is plenty of room for two. 

So here I am, in the blistering Florida heat, forty years old and still possessing the bladder of a toddler. 

However, I’m not an outcast anymore. I’m just a man in the world, finally brave enough to take up exactly as much space as I need.

So, if you ever find yourself in seat 14B, don’t hold your breath.

Look at the people around you and remember: we’re all just terrified passengers trying to weather the turbulence of the world.

Life is too short to play hide and seek with a world that’s already found you.

Take a deep breath, claim your armrest, and for heaven’s sake — use the bathroom before boarding!

Love always,

Adam

[tylerlolong]

If you understand the last panel, congratulations!