I don’t have social anxiety disorder. I know this, because I looked it up.
I looked it up, because there are nights where the laying-in-bed-torturing-myself-about-the-interactions-of-the-day is almost enough to make me shop for a cabin on a mountain somewhere, and only about half the deterrent to fleeing all social interactions permanently is I-would-miss-my-friends-and-family. The other half is self-awareness that other than emotionally, I am not even remotely equipped to live alone to that degree. (What are the chances of finding a grocery store that would deliver to my cabin-in-the-woods? Do you suppose there’s good high-speed internet access on far-flung mountaintops?)
In any case, having looked it up, I now know… well, less than a thimble-full about the topic. But apparently social anxiety disorder involves being so anxious and stressed out by the prospect (read as: before-the-fact) of social situations that one is rendered incapable (or all but incapable) of engaging in them.
(In response to that, I find myself thinking about that person I know who is sometimes frustratingly incapable of engaging in what seem like basic and essential social tasks, and am suddenly recognizing that some amount of the snarky and self-defeating commentary she engages in when it’s even suggested is actually debilitating fear finding its way out. Praise God, there’s help for this now! Oh wait. Just wait. How could we get her to interact with a doctor? Things that made you go Hmmm.)
Since (so far) my own social anxiety is of the dissect-the-situation-after-the-fact variety, it’s not considered social anxiety disorder.
I’m as capable of being a total jerk as anyone else and I’m truly gifted at social awkwardness, but most of the time the only person likely to be really bothered by whatever I did-or-didn’t say is me. And I am bothered, a lot, as I hash and rehash it.
Which means, essentially, that what I have is a self-absorption disorder.
As far as I know, they don’t medicate for that.