I’m often seen as rigid, but I do like to try new things. I remember many years ago deciding that I wanted to learn how to knit. Finding a class seemed like a good place to start. One day I came across a Facebook post from the local art center advertising knitting lessons. I immediately signed up, picked a date, and paid the fee. The evening of the first session, I was nervous but excited.
When I arrived there were several other ladies (most older than me), and one young girl. The instructor greeted us and we all followed upstairs to the knitting area. We sat in a circle and went around the room with introductions, sharing our experience with knitting, if any. Once everyone was settled, the instructor walked us through the first step or two, and I was following along fairly well. By the third or fourth step I was starting to get mixed up and a bit confused.
My knitting didn’t look like everyone else’s, and I was progressing much more slowly. I needed to ask for clarification a few times, but the instructor was constantly assisting the young girl. All the other adults were moving along with no issues at all. Occasionally someone would have an issue, ask a quick question, and then instantly get back into the groove. I was falling more and more behind and needed help. I was convinced I was making one small mistake and just needed someone to point it out. I felt like I was too needy, too stupid, being annoying, etc. My frustration was growing as the evening went on. Meanwhile I was having a serious talk with myself internally:
Why did I even sign up for this class?
Why can’t I understand this?
Am I just stupid?
Why am I so needy?
I should have known better.
I just don’t like being around people.
I went home very upset, stressed out, mentally exhausted, and feeling very bad about myself.
Two years ago, I made a similar mistake. My husband and I had purchased a few handmade pottery pieces and they were so unique and cool. I had been exposed to pottery when I was young in Girl Scouts, but we only painted the pottery. The process of creating pottery looked really fun to me, so my husband and I decided to take a class together.
Again, I had the same feelings of nervousness and excitement the day of the class. The pottery class began in much the same way as the knitting class, and I could slowly feel that familiar anxiety creeping in. I started falling behind. My husband tried to assist and explain things when I couldn’t get the instructor to help me (or was too embarrassed to ask). He encouraged me to “just ask the instructor for help,” but I already felt like she had reached her capacity of patience with me.
The really bad part was that I was turning my frustration into resentment toward my husband. I was angry that he wasn’t having any issues. He was having fun, chatting with others, and seemed completely relaxed. I was a bundle of anxiety and frustration, ready to burst. I had officially given up and just wanted the class to end.
On the way to the car, my husband was bubbling with excitement, chattering on and on about the class and how much fun it had been. We got into the car and I proceeded to vent the entire way home. I was angry, crying, completely melting down. He tried his best to understand, but I know it seemed like a dramatic overreaction.
I didn’t stop trying new things because I wasn’t interested. I stopped trying new things because too many experiences ended the same way. I’d start excited, quickly realize I needed more instruction than everyone else, notice the impatience around me, and leave feeling frustrated with myself. Eventually my brain stopped seeing new experiences as opportunities and started seeing them as risks.
It never occurred to me that maybe I learn differently than others. I just assumed I was stupid, or maybe there were just certain things I couldn’t do. Looking back now, I can see that the issue wasn’t intelligence at all. It was the way my brain processes information, but I wouldn’t understand that until many years later.