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Recently my boyfriend and I attended a party. We spent hours enjoying fun conversations and eating good food with people we don’t see very often and some we’ve never met before. 

Later that night or the next day, I don’t remember, we were laughing about jokes that were made at the party and sharing our thoughts about the attendees. 
Everyone there was so nice. 

One of the women in particular, we agreed, was very friendly. 
This was my first time meeting her and I thought she was very beautiful and kind. 
My boyfriend had met her briefly a couple of times before and apparently had a very different first impression.
In those short interactions, he explained, she had seemed very different than she did at the party — she seemed like she might be stuck up, or might even be a bitch. 

Really?! 

I would have never thought that, so I asked him to explain.
He described their brief interactions as very cold. She was very quiet and distant, hard to talk to. 
Which can easily be the assumption in brief interactions but I still felt judged. 
Because even though I knew he was just being open and honest about his observations and it had nothing to do with me, I still had a hard time not taking it personally. 

Quiet and Distant = Being a Bitch 

No, but it most definitely can seem that way. 
That is often how I am perceived when first meeting people. 
This party, for example. 
The night didn’t start with good food, fun conversation, and lots of laughter. 

Walking into a house I’ve never been in, with people that I have never met, with things like a TV on adding to the mix, is quite overwhelming for me. 
You see, every time I walk into a room, I immediately start assessing my surroundings. 
That’s whether I have walked into the room for the first time or if it’s the millionth time. The process only gets quicker. 
It is not consciously, of course. 

My subconscious kicks into overdrive. 
Scanning the room for any immediate threat.
Observing the layout and locating all entrances/exits.  
Counting the number of people I see vs the number of people I hear. 
Then comes the assessment of each person’s body language and, for lack of a better word, their vibe. 

Now this is typically the exact moment the host or server (depending on location) walks up wanting to make small talk and ask if I want something to drink. 
Water is my go-to answer, by the way, but sometimes I am so overwhelmed by my brain screaming, “How can you even fathom eating or drinking right now? We don’t know these people!”, that I barely am able get out a “No thanks, I’m okay” without bolting out of the room. 

Luckily, in this case, I just squeezed my boyfriend’s hand a little tighter and he put his arm around me. 
As he always does, without even realizing it, he helped me get a little grounded in the moment and reminded me that I was safe.
So I rested my head on his shoulder and smiled. 

Then the tricky part. Needing to position myself somewhere I can observe everything, with the least triggering factors as possible. This is so I can try to bring my fight, flight, or freeze response down to a minimum. 

Perfect —
The couch up against the wall. 
All three entrances/exits in plain view. 
The TV is across the room in front of me — people will not be glancing or staring in my direction to see it. 
So we sit. 

Hey, what do you know — there is actually someone at the party I know. 
I may be able to survive this party after all.
Might even have a good time. 
And we did.

And that’s the part people don’t see.
They don’t see the mental gymnastics that happened before I even say hello.
They don’t see me trying to convince my nervous system that this is a party with friendly people, not some random place with random people.
They don’t see me calculating where I should sit, how many people are in the room, where the exits are, or whether the noise level is going to send my brain into overdrive.

What they see is me sitting quietly on a couch.
Not talking much.
Not bouncing around introducing myself to anyone.
And that makes me seem stuck up.
Or worse — like a bitch.

And I get it, I really do.

If I met someone who barely spoke to me for the first hour, I might assume the same thing.
But I know that what looks like confidence from the outside is often anxiety on the inside.
What looks like distance is often self-preservation.
What looks like judgment is usually observation.
Because while everyone else is settled into the party, my nervous system is still trying to decide whether we’re safe enough to enjoy it.

The funny thing is, just like the woman from the party, if you give me enough time, you’ll usually discover I’m neither of those things.
I’m not sitting here thinking I’m better than anyone.
I’m sitting here trying to convince my brain that nobody is trying to kill me.

The frustrating part is that I know it doesn’t make sense.
I know most people aren’t dangerous.
I know this is a party, with friendly people.
Trauma doesn’t care what I know.
Trauma cares about what I survived.

Eventually, my wrecked nervous system begins to settle.
The noise becomes a little quieter.
The people become people instead of variables.
The exits stop mattering.
The conversations start flowing.

And somewhere along the way, the woman who looked cold becomes the woman laughing too loud at her own jokes.
The woman who seemed distant starts telling stories.
The woman who looked stuck up starts making friends.

Eventually, my friends tell me their first impression of me and it is always the same, just different variations.
You guessed it!

Man — she’s a bitch.

And every single time, I have to shake my head.
Because what they observed was not arrogance.
They were witnessing survival.

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— sorry NOT sorry —

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