She was 22 and dirty, poorly dressed, having been dragged into my clinic office by a social aide.  She knew her diagnosis.

“I got social anxiety disorder. I am social phobic. I don’t want to leave my apartment.”  She was looking me straight in the eye, through her tangled blond hair with a purple streak.  I think her clothes had been black, what the kids call “goth,” before they became soiled.

She didn’t do drugs; that was the good news.  She did drink; her friends brought her that in exchange for; guess what.  Yes, whatever charms she had, she certainly was not ashamed to exchange them for booze.

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