Party

Everyone is scared of something.

My little sister is scared of clowns; her boyfriend is scared of spiders. My dad is scared of being trapped in a small space; my ex-boyfriend was scared of rollercoasters; my mum is scared of... well, just about everything, including tofu and halloumi cheese (“it`s the texture”). My best friend – and this is my favourite fear – is scared of any animal that flies. Birds, insects, butterflies; if it flies, she wants nothing to do with it.

“What about robins?” I once asked her. “Nobody hates a robin.”
“I do: I hate robins,” she said. “They`re creepy and scary and they freak me out and they shouldn`t be flapping around with their little flappy wings, it`s horrible.”
“But robins are cute.”
“No, they`re little red breasted devils.”
“Robins?”
“Please stop saying that word.”

Me, I`m scared of parties. I`m scared of other things as well, obviously – planes and earwigs and brushing my teeth in public and being alone for the rest of my life – but I`m really scared of parties. Other people`s parties, yes; it`s taken many years to be able to attend them without dissolving into a nervous mess on the doorstep (years and large quantities of alcohol, more specifically). But – predominantly - my main fear is any party I have anything to do with. Which means that – unless you count the Halloween parties my mum threw when I was eight years old, which also freaked me out – I`ve never thrown one. Not one. When forced by my flatmates to hold one at University, I simply took my name off the invites and pretended I was a guest for the evening in my own house.

A psychoanalyst would have a field-day. I can see her already, rolling up her sleeves and patting the long black leather chair that I`ve already lain myself down on (I will lie down on anything given half an opportunity; I like napping).

“What is it, exactly,” she would say in a low, calm, expensive voice, “that you find scary about parties?”
“Firstly, I`m really shy. Parties make it hard to cover that up."
"Ok," she would nod, smiling gently. "I`d say that`s pretty standard. What else?"
"They`re a big commitment.”
“In what way?”
“You say you`re doing it, you have to do it. You can`t flake out on your own party without drawing a lot of attention to just how flakey you are. And I don`t like doing things I can`t flake out on if I want to. It makes me feel trapped and panicky. Contracts, promises, all of that. Scary.”
“Uhuh.” I`ve never seen a psychoanalyst, but from all the films I`ve seen they say Uhuh a lot.
"It`s like a wedding but on a smaller scale," I clarify. "The thought of it actually brings me out in a cold sweat."
I see the therapist making a note of that on a pad of paper so that we can discuss that at a later date.
"What else?”
“It`s a test, isn`t it? A popularity test. If people turn up or not, it`s showing whether people generally like you or not. And I don`t want that test. I failed that test throughout my formative years; I am not doing it out of choice when I`m an adult.”
“Uhuh. And what else?”
“There`s huge responsibility. Are people having a good time? Are people talking to each other? Is everything going well? Do they like each other? Do they like me? I don`t like responsibility.”
“Uhuh.”
“And I`m very private. I`m happy to share some things, but I need to be able to keep bits hidden. And people in my house, in my space: the thought of it makes me feel like screaming or crying and I don`t know which. It`s where I hide and where I feel safe; letting people in makes me feel exposed and vulnerable, even just when it`s one or two people, let alone twenty.”
“Uhuh.”
“And..." I would continue, on a roll, "I`m a total control freak, so I don`t like being in a situation where things might get out of my control; where people might get upset, or break things, or go home early, or not go home early enough, or have no fun, or have too much fun, and then what do I do to change it?”
I would take a deep breath.
“I think that`s about it,” I would add. “Apart from the mess I have to clean up afterwards. And I hate cleaning. I really really hate it. And washing up. And cooking. And you have to cook and wash up before and after a party, right? I hate that.”
“Right.”
There would be a silence.
“So,” I would say, just before the psychoanalyst could open her mouth, “I think I am mainly scared of parties because I`m a painfully shy, private control freak, terrified of responsibility and commitment and exposure and rejection, and all the things that a party inevitably threatens you with. Which doesn`t mean I shouldn`t have one, does it? I mean, you have to face your fears, don`t you? Isn`t that part of becoming a better person? And I really want to become a better person.”
“Mmm,” the psychoanalyst would finally say, nodding sagely. “Exactly. Well, I think that this has been a very useful session. I`m so glad I was able to help. Please leave fifty pounds with my receptionist on your way out.”
I would stand up to leave.
"Oh, and Holly?" she would say as I got to the door. "Parties are supposed to be fun, too. You know that, right? Try and have fun."
And then she would listen to my laughter bouncing around the corridors for minutes afterwards, and make another note in her pad to discuss that at a later date too.

Facing your fears, sometimes, is not always about doing something huge; it`s not always about jumping out of a plane or swimming with sharks. Sometimes it can be as small and as apparently trivial as facing that spider in the bath, or getting into a lift, or eating a strange type of cheese, and when you do it - when you stare that clown in the face - you`re a better person for trying. For me, throwing a party is the best way I can think of to improve myself, and to start facing commitment and responsibility and rejection: even if it`s just for six hours on Friday night. To attempt to conquer painful, inherent shyness that will never be truly conquered but might be pushed back a little further for a little while longer, until I`m as convinced that it`s gone as everybody else is (I have become brilliant at pretending to everyone but myself).

Parties aren`t spiders, or robins or rollercoasters, but they`re my own private fear. So - this Friday night - I`m pouring vodka into jelly moulds, and I`m putting my diary in a safe, locked box, and I`m opening my house to all of it; to friends and colleagues I`ve invited in with little pieces of paper, and to the mess and fear and exposure and rejection I`ve invited in without them.

And who knows? I might even end up having fun with them.