Back here after another couple of months, it looks like. It's interesting to me that this entry will unintentionally carry on from the last one. It seems like I am in a similar place, although it feels like I am in a better place.
Last Sunday, I had another agoraphobia episode at church; fortunately I hadn't been silly enough to have obligations that I signed up for, this time, so the idea that I could leave if I needed to gave me enough strength and feeling of safety to be able to stay--in the building to hear the message, at least, if not in the main sanctuary.
The main trigger was that a lovely and caring, but apparently extroverted, lady decided to sit in the seat right next to me (right up inside my personal space bubble, despite there being enough empty seats to "spread out") and started engaging me in conversation. She said she was concerned about me because she always sees me sitting here off to the side by myself, and she worried I wasn't making friends and connections in the church, and could she join me so she could get to know me better?
I agreed, naturally, because that's what reasonable people do, even though my mind processed her request as, "You always stay over here where it's safe; why don't you ever plunge into this tortured, chaotic, indecipherable mass of writhing bodies with us? Can I try to convince you how enjoyable and non-horrifying it is?" And I think that would have been okay, if quaintly misguided; but then a man I didn't recognize* sat down in my "blind spot" on the other side, and I started to feel the light-headedness coming on.
I'm thinking today about the original assumption that was made: That I must be somehow less happy, less connected, because I gravitate toward the edges, not toward the middle. I found it surprising, because I didn't feel unhappy; to me I was in the perfect spot--not at home being truly isolated, and not in the middle of everything being overwhelmed.
It makes me think of how I love where my (formerly 'our') home is; far enough out that it feels secluded, but close enough that within a half-hour I can be at Alderwood or Bellevue, or almost to Seattle, where there is more shopping and activities than anybody could possibly stand. I think it's perfect. When my mom visited me, though, she found it oppressively crowded and busy here. A friend from the city, on the other hand, might comment, "Wow, you really live out in the middle of nowhere, don't you?"
It makes me realize, my idea of "too much" is somebody else's idea of "not enough." And it doesn't mean either of us are wrong, it means we are different and beautifully unique.
Getting back to church, you know, I can see why someone, especially someone extroverted, would imagine that. It's true; even during the after-service "coffee communion," I tend to just find a seat away from the crowd, with lots of personal space around it. I'm happy to engage with people if they break away from the pack to come say 'hi' to me, and I'm also content to just sit and watch the crowd, taking in its energy as it flows this way and that, in and around and through itself like a grand subconscious dance, if no-one does. Either way, I'm happy there, in that perfect-for-me spot, connected enough, but not overwhelmed.
So, don't worry about me too much. I don't stay on the outskirts because I'm unhappy or grieving. I'm out here because it's right where I like to be. It always has been. You might think it wouldn't be enough for you. If so, we are beautifully different, and I won't mind if you join the dance. I might even go with you, every now and again, but only for a short time, because it's not where I belong. And if you ever need to rest, if only for a short time, by all means, feel free to come sit with me in safety, for a while.
*I almost wrote "scary-looking man", but realized that's pretty much implied by "man I don't recognize", so I doubt that objectively he was any more threatening than anyone else.
