The Stillness of Sisyphus: Taking a Break from Social Anxiety
- Caleb Robertson
- May 13
- 6 min read
I entered the waiting room just as a maintenance worker stopped by my therapist’s office down the short hall to my right.
I couldn’t help but overhear that the bathroom sink’s issues had apparently been caused by a piece of the pipe that had corroded and dissolved nearly to the point of dust. It’s an old building. Wear and tear happens.
Little did I know, the plumbing wouldn’t be the only thing to fall apart that day.
I entered the waiting room just as a maintenance worker stopped by my therapist’s office down the short hall to my right.
I couldn’t help but overhear that the bathroom sink’s issues had apparently been caused by a piece of the pipe that had corroded and dissolved nearly to the point of dust. It’s an old building. Wear and tear happens.
Little did I know, the plumbing wouldn’t be the only thing to fall apart that day.
Our four-hour EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing) session began by revisiting what I had referred to in our last time together as a “deep and universal exhaustion.” I had realized that I bore a sunken tiredness down to my core. One that cut far deeper than mere sleepiness or the need to sit down after a long day’s work. I had realized that I’d become, for the most part, numb to the hooks that this exhaustion had set into my being. I had scarred over the barbs. It was now just a way of life.
But what was I exhausted by? Nearly twenty years of striving to avoid the fear, pain, and shame that accompanied the stuttering experience that I encountered every day of my life since I was around eight years old.
I’ve spent two decades striving to rid myself of the painful physical experience of “freezing” on words and trying to force them out—even my own name. Two decades trying to push away the handful of adverse experiences in which I was made to feel less than, ostracized, and othered due to a speech impediment I had no control over. And yet every day for two decades there’s been some instance when I had to use a voice that felt like nothing less than my worst enemy.
What other mangled, rough-barked tree would grow from this seed of social anxiety if not exhaustion?
During the session, I likened my experience to Sisyphus’s curse—pushing a barely manageable boulder uphill knowing there is a crest that will end the suffering, but always losing control of it near the top. The boulder rolls back to the bottom and the task repeats. Endlessly. Sisyphus remembers the failure. He understands it will repeat. Yet he is still compelled to try again. He is trapped in a loop of striving. An infinite cycle of exhaustion.
There was one added ingredient to my own Sisyphusian experience, however. My hands were chained to the boulder––leaving me with three options.
One, I could push uphill, knowing at least I was making progress. In my younger days, this meant substituting enough words or dodging enough interactions to avoid stuttering. Later, it looked like the well-intentioned effort to use speech- and mental health therapy strategies in the hopes of promoting fluency.
Two, I could let the boulder go and surrender to gravity (allow myself to stutter). However, since I am chained to it, I am left wounded as I’m dragged through the dirt, arms pulled from their sockets (experiencing the sensation of choking, lockjaw, immense pressure behind my eyes, and an overall painful tensing of the body; risk encountering another adverse social experience).
Three, I could stop. I could brace the boulder against my exhausted body and at least enjoy a moment without movement in any direction (spending time alone without any obligation to speak). And yet, during this faux relief, I would know it was only a matter of time until I was either compelled to continue upward or downward.
Once again, as I talked through this with my therapist, I felt the barbed hooks of exhaustion. I felt nothing but apathy and hopelessness.
As always before resuming eye movements, she said, "Go with that." Referring to this mythological mental image and the sense of depletion that ran down to my soul. "Try to notice how you're feeling in your body."
Strangely, the barbed hooks began to feel rather like a blanket—weighted and warm, covering me from my shoulders down to my feet. Coming out of the eye movements, I sat with the bodily sensation for a moment. And then something profound took place.
I felt my shoulders and chest relax to a point I have no memory of them ever achieving before. My shoulders felt literally weightless. My sternum felt like it was finally where it belonged after twenty years.
While this rest stretched across my torso, the world around me seemed to clarify. I heard the faint jets of a plane far overhead. I heard my therapist's dog breathing beside me. I heard the tires of vehicles slowly cruising through the quiet neighborhood. The bay's wind running up and over the building.
I relayed this somatic experience back to my therapist. As I did so, I had a life-altering realization. Not only was I truly still—truly at peace physically—for the first time in my life. I was experiencing that stillness in the presence of another person when, for as long as I can remember, another person's presence, no matter our relationship, forced me to painfully and exhaustingly brace for disaster.
Tears flowed from my eyes as the dam was broken. I couldn't believe it. I had the capacity to be truly, truly present with another human being without striving uphill or plummeting to the bottom. To be with another without the weight of fear hanging over me by a thread. My breath and body quivered and I continued to cry as I experienced such an immense moment that I not only never thought possible, but didn't even know I was missing.
After a time of simply sitting with that emotion in silence, we did another eye movement. My imagination shifted again to myself on Sisyphus's hillside; this time I was taking a break from the journey. However, rather than desperately trying to rest before continuing, I noticed something. I noticed that where I sat looked out over a tremendous view. I noticed the sky's expanse overhead and the rolling landscape below. The sun and the breeze worked in tandem to comfort me. Best of all, another person sat with me. I could rest and be with someone. Those two factors were no longer required to compete.
Better yet, when I would eventually need to continue on (leaving the utopian stillness since that is what life often requires), I would have a whole new view when I rested again. Hell, there'd be a view to enjoy on the way.
And should gravity take hold and I fall, gaining wounds and bruises on the way down, I'll end up somewhere with another view.
What I once perceived as a lose-lose-lose situation, had suddenly shifted to one far more dynamic and scattered with silver linings. On my more confident days, I may even say it's a win-win-win.
This story doesn't end with my stutter being cured. And that's okay. Because it ends with a reclaiming of what belongs to me; what was robbed from me so long ago: my chance—mine—to be still and present with another. It does end with a life-changing discovery that fear and relationship can be unlinked.
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Disclaimer:
These thoughts are presented with curiosity, wonder, and a sense of discovery.
There is so much scholarly material around religion, history, sociology, and psychology (realms I spend much of my time in). While that is immensely valuable and should be consulted when lives are at stake, I'd never produce anything if I required myself to scour these depths before voicing my thoughts which I believe to contain value and worth.
As such, it would not surprise me if my conclusions change in the future. And I hope it doesn't surprise you. That change of mind could come tomorrow, or it could come years from now. Curiosity isn't concrete. Trying to make it so robs it of its strength and beauty. As you read, I hope you will remember this - on my behalf and on yours.
“I have found that when another person has been willing to tell me something of his inner directions this has been of value to me, if only in sharpening my realization that my directions are different.”
Dr. Carl Rogers
Additionally, this post is not a substitute for psychotherapy or professional advice. If you are experiencing emotional distress or seeking personalized guidance, please consult a licensed mental health professional or other qualified expert.
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