When someone calls me antisocial, my whole body tenses and I want to throw up.

When I was in second grade I participated in my First Communion (Catholic). It was a Big Deal. Months of work, frilly white dress, veil, gloves, my own (new) rosary... I even got my picture professionally taken in the whole get up. It's an odd awkward photograph, my dark hair sharply contrasting with all that white material while I bowed my head in a semblance of humility. I believe I've made my point: This was a Big Deal.

First Communion was Big enough that I even got my own party. In my house, party translated into tons of people, ridiculous amounts of food, a beer keg, and a store bought cake. It was tradition. And expected.

But here's the thing. I don't like parties. I don't ever remember liking parties. It was too much. It was overwhelming. The only party I've ever been excited to plan was my wedding reception - and once I did all the obligatory reception things, I did what I wanted for the rest of the night. Which meant I hung out with the people I liked and listened to music I enjoyed. The rest of the invitees were on their own. So I enjoyed about half of my wedding reception. Which is a much higher percentage than most parties, so I count it as a win.

How I digress.

Back to the First Communion Big Deal. This is the first party I remember truly and deeply hating. I was too little to play with the big kids and too big for the little ones. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable around my drunk relatives (my parents didn't drink, and the difference was shocking to me, even then). There were more grown ups than kids. I was the star of the show so I was supposed to talk to everyone. And worst of all, after putting up with all that frilly white lace dress, gloves, tights, shoes, veil crap, I had to wear another dress for the party.

I hated dresses. I still do (mostly).

As the guests started to arrive my dread grew until it seemed completely unmanageable. I couldn't face the day. And I was too young to articulate any of that. I went all the way to the back of the yard (a good distance from my mom's watchful eye) to hide. I climbed up on an old trailer sitting along the fence. It was the kind with a tongue at one end, two wheels in the middle, and open all around. I was feeling good about the situation until gravity took over, tipped the trailer the other way (like a bad seesaw) and spilled me onto the ground.

I wasn't hurt, but I'd stained my dress. And just like that, a crappy party went to sheer hell. I tried sneaking back into the house - though I have no idea what I was going to do after that - but I got caught by some helpful woman and delivered to my mother. Who was absolutely horrified by my appearance. I had stained my dress. At my very own party.

I was allowed to change into comfortable play clothes and then thrown back into the party. I had to apologize the rest of the day to everyone for my appearance. I had to apologize to my mom for ruining all her hard work. It felt like the rest of the party was one huge punishment for running away in the first place.

I was eight. And this party has been preserved in my memory with amazing clarity - something really unusual for me. I couldn't tell you who my second grade teacher was, what sports I might have played that year, what my favorite game/movie/tv show/book was, or whether or not I liked school. I'm sure some people have all that information stored in their head but mine got misplaced. So the retention of my First Communion party strikes me as significant.

I think it was the beginning. I think it marked the time when my shyness started to become crippling. It was the first party I tried to hide from everyone, and I've spent years hiding at parties ever since. My father used to bang on my bedroom door and tell me to stop being antisocial, come out and enjoy the party.

I suspect that many people who think they know me wouldn't use the word "shy" as a description. But it's true. I work really hard at overcoming this feeling but the truth is that it's incredibly difficult for me to walk into an unfamiliar situation, meet new people, make connections with the people around me. Even now, after 7 years of hosting a Christmas shindig for 15-20 family members, I have to eventually go hide in the kitchen or risk a total freak out. I've overcompensated at times and found myself in some really bad situations. Sometimes I totally fail and cancel at the last minute.

It's not that I want to stay an arms length away from everyone. It's just that sometimes I don't feel like I have any choice.

In a world full of noise.

There's a deep part of me, strangely silent, that yearns for words. The right words or wrong words, awkward or flowing, it doesn't matter. The silence is deafening and it is echoing through my soul.

In a bad way.