When Fun Got Lost in the Crowd

New York Comic Con.

An annual gathering of all things nerdy, geeky, and creative. It’s an opportunity to be around like-minded people who enjoy the things you enjoy. It’s the chance to check out all the exclusive merch that’s going to skyrocket in price as soon as the convention ends. It’s travelling into the city with friends and spending nearly an entire day surrounded by the media you adore. You’ve been waiting for this event for months, and it’s finally here. It’s going to be amazing.

Of course, that is how it’s supposed to be. Unfortunately, reality has a knack for falling short of our expectations. This is especially true when you have extreme social anxiety and choose to attend one of the busiest, most populated events of the year — in one of the largest cities in the world. You tell yourself this time will be different; you’re an adult who has been through plenty of anxiety-inducing social situations. Surely this time you’ll keep your cool, maintain a level head, and fully enjoy everything the convention has to offer.

That’s all well and good until you take your first steps through the doors of the huge convention center, already finding yourself jam-packed between an anime swordsman and a book character you vaguely recognize. Somehow, you’re stuck in a security line that looks like it’ll never end. You have no idea when or how you even got into this line with all of the commotion. The heat is intense and getting hotter as other attendees bump into you, your costume uncomfortably sticking to the sweat spots forming on your back. The crowd of people is never-ending, and there’s nowhere to escape to. You’re not even in the actual convention yet, still waiting to go through security, and that terrified little voice in the back of your mind is screaming at you that it’s time to go.

It’s time to go now.

After an hour of waiting in line, you finally get in. For a brief moment, there’s a reprieve. You go to a panel where the voice actors of your favorite childhood show talk about their experiences and show off upcoming media. You have a chance to sit down during the panel, the strain on your legs becoming more noticeable as they finally get a release. But at least things are calm, and your brain isn’t screaming at you to run for the hills. For the moment, anyway.

As they do, all good things come to an end. The panel concludes, and you’re released back into the unfathomable amount of people able to fit into one building that suddenly feels like a reverse TARDIS: big on the outside, but so much smaller on the inside as you bump into one person after the next. Eventually you get lost, your friends splitting up to check out different panels and exhibits while you struggle to stay afloat, hoping for a Moses-figure to part the sea of people and give you an inch of freedom from the growing static and chaos taking over your mind. 

Make it stop, make it stop.

Then, the inevitable happens. You’re having a full-blown panic attack in the middle of a tightly packed convention without a recognizable face in sight. Get out, get out, get out. Despite the roaring in your head, you manage to navigate out of the most crowded zone, stumbling upon a designated “quiet area,” which is only marginally quieter than the cacophony of noise around you, but you’ll take what you can get. You sit down against the wall, your friends catching up with you, making sure you’re okay and giving you time to quiet the pandemonium stirring around your head. Time passes. The roaring quiets.

Once the panic subsides, you feel brave enough to once again enter the crowds. You explore a few more exhibits and panels, your reconvened friend group acting as a shallow barrier against the next panic attack you already feel rising in your body. There are, thankfully, some moments of joy, and you and your friends partake in comic con exclusive activities, walking away with happy memories from the day.

However, even the happiest memories from the convention are tainted by the anguish you endured as your own mind crumbled under the strain of being around too many people. As your friends talk about how much fun they had and what character they should go as next year, you must ask yourself: can you honestly put yourself through this again? Or is it time to accept that you will never thrive in such an extreme social environment?

Who knows?