My Arms Are Just for Show Now
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Oh sure, she has no problem! |
Part of having anxiety is being afraid to ask for help. Mostly
it’s because I don’t want to be an inconvenience, but I also have an intense
fear of rejection. What if I asked and they said no?! I’d die, probably.
This covers everything from needing to borrow money to
needing help hanging a medicine cabinet. It
extra covers needing help with my mental state, but that’s a whole other blog
post.
I usually end up mentioning what I need help with in hopes
that someone will offer to help, even though that’s a chicken way to go about
it. My ex couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t just come right out and ask. I just can’t! Anxiety won’t let me!
Today this particular aspect of anxiety hit me hard, twice.
Yesterday one of the bosses asked for my help with
something. They’re having students volunteer to come in and speak with our
vendor about one of our websites so we know what needs to be improved. The boss
man has an appointment and couldn’t make it to some of these interviews, so he
asked if I could go in his place. Absolutely!
I eagerly agreed without thinking about the fact that I also had an
appointment scheduled for today.
You see, I see my doctor for so much that’s already wrong
with me, I hate making appointments for new problems. I’ve sort of let them
pile up, and now I have three problems that are more than just a little
annoying, so I finally scheduled an appointment. (Just watch, I’ll get there
and be so self-conscious after discussing two problems, I’ll chicken out and
won’t mention the third.)
When I realized today that I double booked myself, I could
have explained the situation to the boss man. He’s a nice guy, I’m sure he
would have understood. But I just couldn’t do it. I’d be making things harder
for him, and what if he resented me, what if he canceled his own appointment, I’d
feel so guilty, blah, blah, blah. So I canceled my appointment and rescheduled
for later this week. Not a big deal. Really.
So I get there and the boss man explains that he tried to
pick up the sweatshirts that we’re giving to the students as incentive to do
the survey, but they weren’t ready yet. I volunteered to go get them, on the
other side of campus.
No worries!
I hiked over to the President’s office, where I was to pick
up the sweatshirts. I didn’t wear a coat because there are tunnels between the
buildings, so no need to go outside. I got most of the way there and came to a
detour due to construction in one of the buildings. I made a mental note to
remember how to get around that weird bit.
I got to the President’s office and saw the box. It was
huge. Why didn’t I anticipate how big a box of 16 sweatshirts would be?! I
picked it up. My T-Rex arms don’t fit around it. This is going to be tough. I
look around. There’s no one to ask for help. The President’s secretaries were
in an office next door. No way was I asking them for help – they’re dressed
like president’s secretaries, they’re not going to trudge across campus
carrying shirts in their high heels. So I put my phone in my bra (because of
course my pants don’t have pockets) and hoist up the box.
Fuck this is heavy.
I got to the elevator and I was already struggling. I
discovered that if I prop the box on my shoulder it’s a bit easier. See, I can do this! Then I got to the
detour and discovered stairs instead of an elevator. Fudgenuts. I didn’t think about that earlier. I walked up and down
the hallway and couldn’t find the elevator, so I was forced to ask for help. As
I approached the nearest desk (the afternoon is a blur, I think I was by student
registration, I don’t even know) all eyes were on me – the short girl carrying
a box on her shoulder. They politely pointed me in the direction of the
elevator and asked if I needed help. “No thanks, I’m good,” I respond, while
inside I’m screaming SOMEONE TAKE THIS
GOD FORSAKEN BOX FROM MY WIMPY ARMS!”
The elevator doors opened and someone I know was inside. He
offered to help, I politely declined. We walked a ways, he offered again, I
graciously accepted. Sadly, he could only help through the rest of that
building, then we parted ways.
I got about halfway to my destination when my arms started
feeling like they would fall off. I was sweating profusely. I started having to
set the box down for a rest in between each building I went through. At one
point, while bumping a door open button with my butt, a few shirts fell out of
the box – they were stacked up higher than the box, it happened several times
on my journey.) I tried to catch them and dropped several more. I heard
laughing. I looked up and a guy was standing there laughing, not offering to help. I gave him my best
death glare and carried on.
The closer I got to my destination, the more confusing
taking the tunnels got. I was dripping sweat, my arms were on fire, and I just
wanted to get there. So I went outside in 28 degree weather to get to my
destination quicker. Christ it felt good…
for the first few minutes, then I strongly regretted my decision.
When I finally got back to the room where the surveys were
being done, I was a hot mess. The vendor was in the middle of interviewing a
student and I just walked in, dropped the box on the floor, mumbled a mostly
sincere “sorry” for interrupting, and hightailed it to the restroom to put cold
wet paper towels on my arm pits. I’m pretty sure I smelled like a pig.
The moral of the story, dear cucumbers, is to fight your
anxiety and ask for help. While this time it was just my nonexistent arm
muscles that paid the price, too often it’s my mental state that takes the hit
when I try to carry the weight of the world (or a large box of sweatshirts) on
my shoulders.
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