When I look back, I can feel it.

Not a moment. Not an event. A hum.

Low. Constant. Under everything.

I was a quiet boy. Few friends. Some of them questionable. At the time, I thought I needed them — that they brought something to my life. Now, in the middle of my own, I can see they weren’t friends at all. I don’t even know what to call them. Proximity, maybe. Convenience.

I wasn’t afraid of people. That’s the strange part. I wasn’t timid in my thinking. I knew right from wrong. I had morals. Principles. I just lived quietly.

But there was something underneath.

I remember learning the word pacifist. I heard the definition and thought, “That’s me.” So I became one. I didn’t want conflict. I hated the bullies at school. Sometimes I was their play thing. When they pushed me to the ground, I developed a system — curl into a ball, stay still, let them think I was crying. They could never quite tell if it was real.

Maybe that was the actor emerging.

Home wasn’t easy either. My parents weren’t getting on. Divorce was hovering in the background. Nothing dramatic, just a steady tension. Another layer of noise.

I existed more than I lived.

I had my own world in my head. Sometimes I was happy there. Other times I wanted more — to be popular, to move more freely in groups, to not feel like I was observing life instead of participating in it.

Conversation was the barrier.

I’ve never understood small talk. Even then, it irritated me. Mundane exchanges that felt empty. I would think, That’s not real. Why are you saying that? And I’d shut down. Mentally cross someone off. Decide not to bother.

I started keeping myself to myself.

It wasn’t intentional. I didn’t label it anxiety. I didn’t label it anything. But I fell into a pattern and stayed there.

I did find one friend I could trust. A real listener. That mattered.

Later, when I spent time with older friends, they knew I was shy. They would answer for me sometimes. I’d add a small squeak just to prove I was present. I remember thinking, even then, You need to start talking more. Don’t let other people speak for you.

It took until about eighteen for me to come out of my shell properly. Even now, I can converse well. I can hold depth, spontaneity, creativity. I like jumping in a car and driving for hours just to see something new. Repetition bores me. Predictability suffocates me.

But introduce small talk, and something still tightens.

The hum returns.

Looking back, I don’t think anxiety arrived later in life. I think it was always there — shapeless, unnamed, woven into shyness, into observation, into silence.

I was shaping up to be a good adult. I knew I’d do something creative. I just didn’t know what, or where, or how. That came later.

The hum came too.

It never announced itself.

It was just always there.