ABSTRACT
As each social event drew near, Richard’s panic steadily increased. Anticipating an encounter was almost as painful as the event itself. Conscious of his potential to go red with embarrassment and let himself down in front of others, he endured meeting people only by virtually holding his breath. He made frequent visits to the bathroom to check his face for signs of blushing in the mirror and – if he thought he saw the slightest evidence of raised colour – he splashed his face with cold water and verbally attacked himself in the harshest way: ‘What the hell is wrong with you? . . . You’re so stupid!’ A safe corner of the room, or remaining near a quiet relative, offered temporary refuge, but inwardly there was really nowhere to hide. Afterwards, the onslaught of self-attacking continued for days as he obsessed about every aspect of the encounter. At thirty-four years old, this was a problem he had been growing into, rather than out of, since he was fourteen years of age.
