바보: Running the risk of speaking Korean.

„Hello, my name is Paula and I’m Canadian,” even in Korean the words roll off my tongue as if I’d been practising for years. “Crap,” I whisper to myself, “I forgot the Polish part.” It’s not that I’m having an identity crisis – I’m just as Polish as I ever was – it’s that I’m having a crisis of nerves.

Even standing alone in my room I buckle under the weight of social anxiety. I’m looking at myself in the mirror but the only audience I have isn’t happy with my performance. Three days from now I will have to stand on stage and recite this speech in front of a hundred people but my reflection has found fault in everything, from the way I speak to the way I stand; perfect is as far away as my reflection, often in sight but impossible for me to touch.

Stage fright is nothing new, most people are familiar with the shaking hands, dry mouth, and butterflies that often accompany getting up on stage. It’s a rare few that are lucky enough to be unconcerned of what their audience thinks. Right now though my audience consists only of my reflection in the mirror, and apparently the person looking into it is afraid of who is looking back.

We are all usually our own worst critics, finding fault in things others will never see. Some of us though are more than critics; we’re villains that look for every opportunity to tear ourselves down.  It’s an unfortunate phenomenon whereby you might as well not try at all because you’ll never do anything right. And maybe my calling myself a villain is really just a reflection of that.

It’s not that I want to be mean to myself but what I see in the mirror represents to me a wider audience. What my reflection thinks is what the audience will think three days from now. I spoke too quickly, I spoke too slowly, I stuttered, I mumbled, I said something stupid. Why would they think that what I have to say is worth listening to? Why would they notice the good things if they’re peppered amongst the bad? Why do I think so poorly of my audience? It’s unfortunate that while attacking myself is ultimately about me, I simultaneously insult the very people I’m afraid of. My fear is a reflection both of what I think of myself, and what I think of my friends, coworkers, and colleagues.

For three months now I’ve been studying Korean at the Yonsei University Korean Language Institute (KLI). Not at all abnormally for me, I mostly don’t say much in class; I take notes and listen. We do have speaking practise though, an episode that daily fills me with fear. We all make mistakes, it’s part and parcel of learning a language. It’s a strange narcissism to believe that everyone will remember my mistakes and judge my intelligence for it, as if I do that to my classmates. I don’t. And they probably don’t to me.

Even more so, why would my teacher do that? Having been a language teacher myself I’ve had my fair share of kids say what would for a native speaker sound like ridiculous sentences. Not for a moment did I think badly of those kids, if anything I found the errors endearing. Having what has got to be one of the kindest and most invested teachers I’ve ever met, it’s unfair to her, more so than to me, that I’m scared of every interaction we have. Most of the time I have little trouble understanding what she’s saying but not being 100% certain my response is a look of misunderstanding and confusion. It’s easier not to answer than to risk being wrong.

Ironically though, remaining quiet is often more damaging to one’s reputation than the things one was too scared to say. Studies have shown that quiet people are routinely thought of as being less intelligent, contributing less, and having worse ideas than those who talk a lot. Often though, quiet people have rich inner lives and dialogues that they’re unable or too afraid to share. The way you might feel differently and unable to express yourself in a language you barely know, is how people with social anxiety might feel every day.

Stepping away from the mirror and out into the streets of Seoul my anxieties only multiply, here people could talk to me, bother me, see me. But crucially I can’t see myself. It is here that I no longer see a reflection in the mirror but a real live audience that is mostly unconcerned with my existence. I stand out as a foreigner but having been here long enough I don’t even notice. Too often I take it for granted but in having lived abroad and travelled alone I’ve accomplished things that some people without anxiety never will. It’s enough for that inner villain to soften her opinion for just a little while.

Unfortunately the harsh critiques will always come back. Practising my speech the person looking back at me will always think I’m stupid, and sadly, at least for now, I’ll go on believing it. With a mindset like this it’s not difficult to understand why the weight of anxiety is crushing to me. It’s difficult to stand up straight on my own. Thankfully, once in a while I meet great people who wish me luck, give me a hug and promise me ice cream, or simply keep being my friend no matter what stupid things I say. Communication is a risk; I don’t always like it but I run that risk every day.