introverted-n-anxious

[introverted-n-anxious]

Grey

“Annie, are you planning on dying you hair?” Running my hands through my hair, salt and pepper. I’ve been steadily going grey since my early thirties but I suddenly feel self-concious.  “Um, n-no? I like it natural.”

“Don’t you find that women look younger when they dye their hair? I think so,” my aunt persists, using a tone my mother has perfected - the “question suggestion.”

“I guess so, but it’s so much upkeep and expense..” I trail off, already sick of this topic.

“Well, I have some friends who dye their own hair! It’s easy!” She is not going to let it go.

“Yeah... but I like it.”

[introverted-n-anxious]

I love that Tumblr comes with analytics to track your following and an inbox for your ‘fan mail.’ 

As soon as I get over 9 followers and anyone tries writing to me, I’ll be loving it!

But seriously, I love my 9 followers. Especially since my first couple “followers” were actually just pornographic tumblrs that clearly had no interest in my content.

[introverted-n-anxious]

I’m no artist, but I drew this little guy because I came across some coloring pencils and wanted to create something. Thought I’d share, so enjoy!

Someone told me he looks very recognizable, so I wonder if I’ve conjured him up from somewhere subconsciously....? I love doing Tim Burton eyes and stripes, so I find myself copying his style. (Best to acknowledge it before some internet smart ass points it out. Not that I compare myself to him in any way, I just love his style!

[introverted-n-anxious]

Thanks but no thanks.

When my sister and I were very young - early primary school years - our parents took us to a modelling agency for what I suppose you’d call an ‘assessment.’ 

We were both dressed in the same dress with matching white tights and shiny black shoes and my dad had styled our hair with extra care. 

We arrived at a building where my sister and I were told to sit side by side in the waiting room while our parents disappeared behind a door with an agent. I was still quite young, so it wasn’t entirely clear to me why we were there or what to expect. All I knew is this is where little girls go to start their modelling career, so I found it somewhat exciting. I’ve always been up for receiving attention. 

Several moments passed before my parents emerged and we all exited and made our way to the car. My sister asked what the agency had to say about us, and that’s when it became clear to me why we couldn’t sit in the meeting room with them. 

They said they saw definite potential in my sister and they felt I would be wonderfully suited to pursue acting. 

....pause to let that sink in....

You don’t have to be an industry insider to understand model equals pretty, but actress doesn’t always equal pretty (though I’m sure it helps.) 

Tell me again how a painfully shy, introverted child with zero known talent can be assessed as a potential actress based on sitting in a waiting room chair. 

Despite the fact that the actress suggestion was clearly made in order to spare me my feelings, I have still held a tiny bit of pride in thinking, “Someone thought I could be in movies!” They unwittingly planted this seed of interest in my mind and I have often entertained the fantasy that maybe I really could be a good actor. 

So, look out for my star on the Hollywood walk of fame! Just as soon as I get over my crippling anxiety, shyness, lack of funds to pursue the interest, fear of rejection, zero experience, zero knowledge of the industry and total lack of motivation to get started. 

*Side note - I relayed this story to my parents decades after the event and they were horrified to know that not only did I remember it , it was also literally one of my earliest childhood memories. 

[introverted-n-anxious]

The Other Cold Meat

My Dad worked for a funeral home for as long as I can remember. When I first started making my own money, I would join him at work and help out wherever I could and he’d give me twenty bucks. 

I was fairly young when I would join him and I’m embarrassed to admit that I always felt a tinge of fear. It looked just like any ordinary office and during the day my sister and I would have a ball rifling through desk drawers and filling out forms for our imaginary deceased friends. Perhaps this is where my love of filling out forms started.  The offices were a dream for a stationery lover like myself and I would sneak Post-It notes and brand new pens into my pockets. 

But then, when night fell, my imagination would run away with me. There would be doors that were always locked and I drove myself mad wondering what was behind them. 

One room I knew was the Viewing Room, but I didn’t always know if there would be a casket in there. I’d approach with my vacuum in tow and stand with my hand on the door knob for several minutes, psyching myself up to open the door. There was rarely a casket left in there and if there was, it was hardly ever left open. Yes, that means that sometimes I’d walk into a room with a casket and yes, sometimes it would be left open. 

If it wasn’t open, I’d go about my business vacuuming the room. Dad would saunter in and ask, “Hey, want to see who’s inside?” I’d always make him open it and look first in case the body had changed in any gruesome way. 

I always vacuumed that room the quickest, leaving a wide berth between the vacuum and the casket. My fear was I’d knock the trolley holding it up and the whole thing would come crashing down, the body rolling across the floor to my feet. 

The funeral home I hated the most had a door that led to the morgue straight from the chapel. The door was a massive, imposing thing and there was a large mystery stain on the carpet at the base of the door. In my childish mind, in the days before I knew how a morgue worked, I assumed it was a massive stainless steel room where bodies were piled on top of one another, waiting to be buried or cremated. Therefore, the mystery stain could only be a result of the seeping bodily fluids of those corpses. I vacuumed that room pretty quick too. 

As I got older and learned more, I became less fearful of things like that that frankly didn’t make sense. I’d wander the casket room and urn displays and decide which one best suited me. I’d sit at desks and look at family photos and wonder just what kind of person would choose to work with grieving families on a daily basis. 

When I was in high school I was still occasionally working for my dad when a classmate of mine died in a car crash. I was meeting a friend to walk to school and I saw she was crying as she appeared over the crest of the hill to meet me. 

We’d both gone to school with this boy since primary school and while my friend cried, I felt strangely disconnected. Perhaps I was just stunned. I’d never known anyone to die who wasn’t a grandparent, and this was a peer. Just a kid.

My high school was grieving not just for him, but for the other teen who died in the crash and the for the injured friends who had survived and had to live with that traumatic event. 

That week, I went to work with my dad and started by emptying out all the rubbish bins around the offices. As was my habit, I checked out the whiteboard to see the week’s activities. It was divided into a grid that gave details of upcoming services and there at the top I saw his name. 

It seemed so odd to me that such a massive event was reduced to another name on someone’s to-do list. I felt like his death was somehow more ‘special’ than the other ones and it wasn’t fair to just add his name with the others, only to be erased next week once his service was over. Looking back, I’m not sure what sort of fanfare I expected. 

One day, I’ll just be a notation on a whiteboard too. 

I wonder how people’s perceptions of death change once they work in a funeral home. For me, I find it silly when people are grossed out by funeral homes. I’ll mention that my family worked at one for several years, and the inevitable reaction is shock and disgust. Perhaps they, like me as a child, picture rooms stacked with bodies on top of each other. 

Now, I just picture my dad in the hearse, casket in tow, snacking on a sandwich and navigating traffic while onlookers gape in horror. Pointing to his sandwich, he’d say, “Don’t worry, it’s not that kind of cold meat.”

[introverted-n-anxious]

Sweet Screen

My dad is the one who taught me to drive when I turned 16. There was never any doubt that it would be him because my mum is the type that grips the dashboard at the slightest turn of the wheel or feather of pressure on the brakes. 

I’d only had a couple lessons in a driving school to learn the fundamentals when my dad suggested I drive him to work that night for some practice. I assumed this was a joke as the journey was at least 40 minutes long and involved going from the suburbs into the city, using the freeway and a narrow bridge along the way. 

While I was grateful that my dad was so laid back about it, there was part of me that felt there was such a thing as too laid back. 

The first problem I encountered was that the turn signals did not work. 

“Oh don’t worry about that,” Dad said, shrugging while he opened a can of Coke. “When you want to turn, just drive real close to the curb and people will just assume you’re turning.”

Right. 

I flinched every time I turned and got honked at or had abused hurled at me. It’s probably worth noting this was back in the days when you didn’t need to display an “L” on your car to indicate you were learning. So there was no leniency or explanation for my erratic driving. 

Next up was the Second Narrows bridge. And they call it narrow for a reason. Cars zip across it at freeway speeds with minimal space between lanes. I swear, when it’s windy, you can feel the bridge sway underneath your car. Knuckles white, seat set forward and upright and concentrating on the road, I navigated over the bridge. (Did I mention it was night time? I should have mentioned that) It was at this moment that my Dad took a big swig of his Coke, choked on it, and cough-sprayed it all over the interior of the windscreen. 

Dad laughed hysterically while grabbing tissues to lean over to my side and clean the mess. 

These days, I like to think jumping into the deep end has made me an excellent driver. Meanwhile, my mom still grips the dashboard and suggests I leave more space between our car and the vehicle in front. 

[introverted-n-anxious]

It took a bloated body on the beaches of Thailand to make me rethink my ‘dream career.’

I always thought I would make an excellent forensics professional working in crime, and this was long before CSI was a show. I grew up watching true crime shows with my mum. City Confidential and American Justice were our favorites. The best part for me was when the nerd in the lab coat would describe the feeling of elation when they found that hair/ blood/ fiber match. 

When I wasn’t watching those shows, my nose would be buried in an Ann Rule novel. In my opinion, she is the best crime writer - no drama, no fluff, just the facts. 

While my mum shared this interest with me, my Dad would often comment that I was too soft to pursue a career in crime. I refused to agree with him, despite the fact that my empathy is so strong that I once blacked out from witnessing a middle aged woman fall off her bike and scrape her knee. I wasn’t repulsed by the blood. In fact, the image that is seared into my brain is her bewildered expression and the way she sat on the sidewalk with her helmet on - her legs stretched out in front of her the way a child would sit. I remember feeling so sorry for her that it broke my heart. My mind immediately began wondering what her day was like, how happy and excited she would have been to go to the park and how it had all come literally crashing down. 

Despite this incident, I continued to think I’d excel in forensic sciences. I reasoned that I wouldn’t feel an empathetic with a dead body. Once that person isn’t alive and suffering, then there would be no need to feel particularly sorry for them. 

Fast forward a good 20 years later. I didn’t go into Forensic Sciences, opting instead for a degree in Business Administration. (Also equally useless for an introvert like me). 

I am vacationing in Thailand with my husband and two kids when I notice a small gathering of people a few feet down the beach from us. We are the only other people on the beach, so the activity catches my attention. Soon I realize they are gathered around a person lying on the beach. 

A local working on the beach states quite calmly, “They find a body. Somebody drown.”

Immediately, the blood drains from my face and I immediately feel what can only be described as fear. As is my custom, I begin catastrophising an already grim scenario. In my mind, the man on the beach died while on a party boat with several other people. The boat went down, meaning there are surely at least another dozen bodies somewhere in the water. 

I look towards my husband and kids splashing in the water and I imagine what it would be like if they bumped into another dead body in the water. I try to persuade them to stop swimming, but my husband thinks it’s ludicrous to assume there would be more corpses around. I can’t help looking down the beach continually, staring at that body and once again I formulate a background story to the man on the beach. 

I am caught up in his back story - who he is, who his family is, who will miss him and receive the devastating phone call today? I am also stunned by the casual manner in which the locals gather around the body. Sipping drinks, talking and laughing. 

Back at our car, we are brushing the sand off our feet when my husband asks why I’m so quiet. I can’t believe he didn’t notice the dead body or understand my frantic gesturing. (He thought I was telling them they were swimming too deep). He shrugs it off and says it was probably a drunken tourist that drowned during a night swim. No biggie. 

And I sit there, still stunned, soft as a poo sandwich.

[introverted-n-anxious]

Carrying a tune.

People often ask me if I have trouble sleeping since my accident. 

To be honest, once I’m asleep, it’s all smooth sailing until the morning. It’s more the going to sleep that causes me issues. It’s gotten to the point that I deliberately delay the bedtime rituals for as long as possible. 

There will come a time at night when I know it would be sensible to go to bed. I even start negotiating with myself. “Come on, you love reading, you could read a book for half an hour..? Imagine how fresh you will feel in the morning!” But still I will find something to keep me up later. And later. 

I’m jealous of people who fall asleep within minutes. I can’t imagine how clear your mind would have to be for that to happen. Nighttime, in particular those moments when one is prepping to go to bed, is when my mind struggles the most. 

I will stand in front of the mirror and observe the grey shadows under my eyes and wonder how much worse they will look in the morning. It is around this time that I will often notice there is a song repeating itself continually in my mind. Sometimes it will be from a video I was just watching on the internet, and sometimes I won’t be able to put my finger on why the song entered my mind in the first place. But there it is nonetheless. 

Surely we’ve all had songs stuck in our head before, but I feel like this is something different. Nine times out of ten, it is 3 or 4 counts of a song. A bar of notes that repeats itself incessantly and I don’t seem to have any control over it. Equally annoying is when the tune contains lyrics because then it will be a handful of words that loop over and over again. 

It doesn’t matter if I know the full song or not, I seem to have no control over the fact that my brain has decided to pay full attention to just this one snippet. Once I notice it, the volume is turned up to full and I know it will be hours before it’s gone. Eventually, somehow, I always fall asleep. 

But that’s not to say the record doesn’t keep playing the moment I open my eyes. This is the part I find most bizarre. I will stand in front of that same bathroom mirror and while I’m brushing my teeth I will think, “Wait, isn’t this that song??”

Bedtime for the over thinker is a challenge to say the least. When the world is quiet and the tasks are complete, all that’s left is you and your own mind. This creates the perfect environment for overthinking. A clean slate that you can fill with any variety of poisonous thoughts. Heaven forbid my mind should have a moment of peace.

I came across this quote from Tim Burton, and I related to it immediately. My fondness for windmills was always based in aesthetics, and this quote caused me to wonder if subconsciously there is a deeper connection to the imagery.

My mind IS a windmill, I just wish I could pick what makes it spin. 

So yeah, sometimes I think about my accident and how things could have been and should have been different and these thoughts will likely haunt me forever. But for now, I just want to get this damn song out my head. 

**In case you’re wondering, the song that was stuck in my head last night was Death with Dignity by Sufjan Stevens. Specifically JUST the line, “Tired old mare, with the wind in your hair.”

Maybe it’s a sign. 

[introverted-n-anxious]

Hope

It’s getting warm and I finally wake up. These days, there’s nothing worth getting up early for. I keep my eyes closed for as long as possible, delaying the start to another day. 

My skin feels dry and once again I berate myself for not finding appropriate shelter the night before. What kind of survivor am I? How do I deserve to be here still? 

Blinking rapidly, I finally begin to focus on my surroundings. Dry. Everywhere. What I’d give for  a day of rain- to tilt my head up and let the cool drops run down my face. My limbs wake and the skin cracks, protesting my movements. That’s when the panic sets in. 

I can hear the blood pulsing through my ears as my hands search the ground around me, the sand embedding itself under my nails. Finally, the cardboard box is in my hands. I turn it around, checking the tape that binds it. It peels back dangerously, but somehow there’s enough of it after all these years to keep it shut. I dust the sand and debris off the pieces of tape that hang loosely, but I know it’s hopeless. 

A feeling of calm washes over me once the box is securely in my arms. I stand up and stare across the vast area of desert that stretches ahead of me. How long has it been? Months... Perhaps even years, that I’ve been searching. It’s been so long that I struggle to recall the meaning of this journey. 

All I know is this box somehow means I’m chosen. It’s my responsibility. It’s been my trophy and my burden for as far back as I can remember. The magnitude of it’s importance was lost to me at that age, but now I can’t imagine my existence without it. I protect it fiercely and, thankfully, there has never come a time when I’ve felt compelled to open it. 

Its contents have the power to change everything, even life as I know it. But what does that mean? I’ve laid in bed at night cursing the box and the secrets it holds, but I’ve never been brave enough to rip the tape and feast my tired mind upon what has been revealed. 

As I begin my journey for the day, I begin to wonder; is it fear that stops me from opening it? Because recently a new nightmare has been invading my sleep. It fills my mind like a cloud of ink and I find I can’t escape it. 

Throwing the box on the ground, I come down upon it hungrily. Impatiently ripping at the tape, pulling at the frayed edges of the cardboard box. In my haste, the box nearly rips in two and I look at down. My eyes dart from the dusty interior of the box, to the sand and back up again. My heart races and the blood drains from my face as the realization dawns on me. 

It’s empty.

And sometimes when I startle awake, I stare at the box. Still sealed, still with the grainy packing tape twitching in the breeze. And I pick it up 

And I keep walking.

[introverted-n-anxious]

Introvert Problem #4  The Wrong Class Debacle

This story is 19 years old, but still haunts me to this day. So, let me share. 

To give a bit of background to the level of horror in this story, let me first tell you about a recurring nightmare I have. Whenever I find myself at a crossroads in life or about to do something that is out of my comfort zone, I tend to have the same fitful night’s sleep marked by a bizarre dream. 

In the dream, I have shown up to my new school with a sheet of paper in my hands showing me precisely what my classes are, where to find them and what time I should be there. But when I arrive at the school, the room numbers don’t make sense, clock keeps ticking and I find myself frantically unable to find any of my classes. The remainder of the dream just an escalation of panic, of imagining myself walking into the class late while all eyes turn to watch me scan the room for a seat. 

Cut back to real life. 

It’s 2000 and I am starting my business degree at university. I find my classroom, I’m early and I locate a seat in the back. Perfect. The class starts to fill and the professor arrives. Just as I am grabbing my Accounting books out of my back, he begins the lecture with, “Welcome to Creative Writing.” 

Fuck. 

I am in the right class at the right time - ON THE WRONG DAY. So, now I am faced with two choices. 

1. Stand up, gather my books and do the walk of shame out of the door, never to see these people again. This is what I assume most reasonable people would do - you are in the wrong class, so just leave! In my mind I am thinking about how stupid I will look if the professor questions why I am leaving. Not to mention the fact that my sudden movement in a quiet classroom will draw attention to me and these classmates will surely watch me leave the class. Of course, this is the moment I will likely trip on a desk or struggle with opening the door. 

2. Stay. Stay and pretend you are part of the class. 

I chose option 2. I sat in the classroom for two hours, even after the roll call revealed I was not meant to be in that class. (Really? My name’s not on the list. That’s weird, haha.) At one point, we went around the room introducing ourselves and explaining to the class why we decided to enroll in a creative writing class. 

I took notes, I wrote down my homework. Then I left and never came back. 

I tell this story often and people are usually amazed by my level of fear in drawing attention to myself. But what they fail to understand is that that situation was my nightmare come true. 

What would you have done? 

[introverted-n-anxious]

Introvert Problem #3

Ordering drinks at a bar. 

It has been a very long time since I have been brave enough to approach this seemingly basic social task. Fortunately, being married means I have a permanent beverage purchaser and can safely avoid the anxiety inducing chore of ordering a drink at a bar.

I went to a brewery recently with a friend who is still quite new to me. She is a self-professed introvert, but a lot of people say that without really understanding what it means. 

Not wanting to seem like too much of a freak, I jokingly said, “Ugh, I hate ordering drinks at the bar. I know it’s silly - I mean, what can really go wrong?” I threw in a few “ha ha’s” for good measure. 

Her response backed her initial claim of being an INFJ, “Oh my god, SO MANY things could go wrong!” 

I breathed a sigh of relief and we spent the rest of the afternoon taking turns approaching the bar. 

If you are unfamiliar with this particular social anxiety, allow me to share with you all the things that can go wrong: 

1. I will trip on the way to the bar. Everyone watching me with laugh at me and assume I am a drunken idiot. 

2. I will have to stand shyly in the queue, too polite and shy to be assertive and approach an empty space at the bar. If I approach that empty space, I run the risk of being yelled at for pushing in the queue. Anyone within earshot will think I’m a jerk, even though I am not. 

3. Despite repeatedly rehearsing my drink order in my head, I will somehow stumble on the words when I’m ordering. The bartender will think I am either drunk or stupid when I am neither. 

4. I will hand over the wrong amount of money and I will have to find more in a panic. This is why I will always prefer to hand over a note that is well over what I would expect to pay. Better to leave with piles of change than be left looking like an idiot rifling through my handbag. 

5. The bartender will say something like, “I like your wallet” and I will reply with, “You too.” When I’m 80 years old, I will replay this conversation in my head as I lie in bed. 

6. Obviously, I could spill the drinks on the way back. 

In conclusion, find yourself a partner who is okay with doing all the drink orders. Then, make sure you time the consumption of your beverage to coincide with theirs, so they don’t have to make extra trips to the bar just for you. It’s just considerate. 

[introverted-n-anxious]

Finding a body.

It had been five months since I broke my neck when I did this run. 

I have been working hard on having a positive outlook and I should have embraced this as a massive accomplishment. Then I look at the picture I took to commemorate the occasion of my first post-surgery 5km run and I realize just how much negativity is still living inside of me. 

Rather than take a picture of the beautiful scenery or snap a sweaty selfie, I take a picture of the goddamn beam I was too afraid to walk on. 

A few months ago, I used to run to this park and use this beam to practice my balance and do handstands. On this day, I didn’t even go near it. Even if I had walked up to it, I know I wouldn’t have been able to climb onto it let alone walk across it. 

In fact, as I sit here writing this, I am seething about no longer being able to enjoy this detour on my run. 

The fact is, I CAN climb onto this beam and I probably could walk across it. And if I fell, I would be able to just land on my feet and continue on my way. This injury has warped my brain into thinking I can’t do any of these things. 

The body I am in no longer feels like the body I used to have. I feel like I am operating a vehicle I have never been in before. Everything feels difficult and unfamiliar. Runs are a lot work and the recovery is worse. I hope this is all temporary and one day the fear will go away. 

Only then will I find the body I used to have.

[introverted-n-anxious]

The fidget spinner in my neck.

No, I didn’t actually swallow a fidget spinner. 

This is what it looks like when you land a double front somersault directly onto your head. To answer your first question - no, I am not in a wheelchair. I fractured two vertebrae and pushed one into an unstable position where a metal plate and four screws needed to be placed to hold my neck together. 

To answer your second question, there was a variety of circumstances that resulted in this injury and for various reasons I’d rather not get into it. I’ve spent too many sleepless nights thinking about it already. The bottom line is, it happened and sometimes I can’t believe it. 

A lot of people, my surgeon included, like to tell me how lucky I am to be able to say I walked away from this injury. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel better. I know I should be very grateful, but hearing people always bring up the term “quadriplegic” actually makes me feel....I’m not sure... a mix of stupid and annoyed. Stupid because I often I’m being scolded rather than reassured. Annoyed because if anyone has lied awake at night thinking of all the ways this could have been prevented and all the ways this could have been worse, it’s ME. 

I also get annoyed because although I know people are only trying to make me feel better, it also sounds like they’re minimizing the caliber of this kind of injury. This isn’t a scraped knee. No, I’m not in a wheelchair, but at the same time my neck will never be the same again. 

I’m never going to be able to trust my body again. I used to have such pride for being fit and capable. Now, I stand at the edge of a pool and I’m too frightened to jump into the water. I don’t trust this body I’m living in anymore and I find that really sad. I grieve for all the things I used to be able to do that I can no longer do. 

I might sound extraordinarily ungrateful, but I’m sick of hearing about how SUPER lucky I am.

[introverted-n-anxious]

Introvert Problem #2

I'd been getting massages on an almost daily basis at a lovely little shop in Thailand.

One day, a woman working in the shop whispered something to the girl massaging me and they both stifled little giggles.

That was the moment I realized, despite having no understanding of the Thai language, that obviously they were whispering about me and laughing at me. Perhaps about my fat rolls, or tatty underwear... or maybe just calling me a silly tourist.

Whatever it was they laughed about, one thing was for certain- I could never go back there again. From then on out, I'd have to walk further to another shop to lie there and hope the new girls don't laugh at me.

What's more disturbing is that I'd also have to walk PAST the former shop, with the girls sitting out front, recognizing me, and surely laughing at me again once I'd turn the corner.

In reality, the conversation was probably something like:

"Dude, that guy just tripped on the sidewalk."

"Oh man, I missed it."

*stifled giggles*

And here I am 2 years later still thinking about it.

[introverted-n-anxious]

Fuck you, Mr. Sedaris

Today I bought tickets to your show. However, it is the book signing I am most excited for. Why?

Because you wrote THIS in it and it has been driving me mad ever since. What does it all mean!?

I have posted it in forums and on your official Facebook. I've tagged it in Instagram and sent it to friends... nothing!

My only fear now is that you'll see this and be like, "Damn...I can't remember."

Why didn't I ask you at the time, because I was too nervous and trying too hard to combat my social awkwardness to even LOOK at what was written until after I'd left. And then I was too embarrassed to double back and ask.

Come January 21st, my question will be answered!

[introverted-n-anxious]

Introvert Problem #1

Having to show up 20 minutes early for Body Pump because I absolutely have to be in the back row.

Because otherwise I'll be able to feel everyone's eyes on me, judging my form, laughing at how light my weights are...And any errors in coordination will cause me humiliation.

The reality: no one gives a fuck what I'm doing.

INTROVERT PROBLEM #2

The girls who are usually in the back row are secretly hating me and talking about me stealing their place. 😓

[introverted-n-anxious]

Introvert Problem #1

Having to show up 20 minutes early for Body Pump because I absolutely have to be in the back row.

Because otherwise I'll be able to feel everyone's eyes on me, judging my form, laughing at how light my weights are...And any errors in coordination will cause me humiliation.

The reality: no one gives a fuck what I'm doing.

INTROVERT PROBLEM #2

The girls who are usually in the back row are secretly hating me and talking about me stealing their place. 😓