On Tuesday I was wearing my favorite pair of jeans. They were immensely comfortable, seeming to have been crafted especially for me. We all have a pair of pants like that. Unfortunately, tragedy struck.
Tragedy struck when I snagged the back of my jeans on something, probably while getting off the commuter train that morning. The result was a small tear leaving only my boxers between my ass and the world. Truthfully, it was a small tear, and likely unnoticeable unless you already happened to be looking at my ass. Yet in my mind, I was basically naked.
That is because my anxiety goes into overdrive with any imperfection. A minor hole in something I am wearing, or a cut on my hand, or a blemish on my face, and I am positive that that is all anyone can see.
So by the time I showed up for my weekly therapy appointment, I was sure it was obvious. I was sure my therapist would judge me for having clothing in disrepair. “But it was an accident, it only happened this morning, I swear,” I almost blurted out before realizing that that would probably be seen as a set back by my therapist. Besides, I spend the whole time sitting down. And for that matter, I spend my whole time at work sitting at my desk. It was ridiculous to think that it was a big deal, but that is my anxiety for you, ridiculous and overblown. Which is why I spent the whole day thinking, please ignore my ass. And my anxiety.
P.S. Two days later and I still think that people are judging me for having a tear in my pants, even though I’d be willing to bet good money that no one at work even remembers what I was wearing two days ago. Why? Because anxiety is a ridiculous asshole that I can’t ignore.