I still think about that stranger
I just read Lou Plummer's post about the nicest thing a stranger had ever done for him. I've never had to go to the emergency room before, but there is a nice stranger I think about often, whose name I never found out.
The year before the pandemic, I was doing a mandatory summer semester at my university, between my first and second years there. I had severe, untreated social anxiety that hadn't shown up until I left my home town. Whenever someone showed an interest in befriending me, I assumed they had malicious intentions. Why else would they want to talk to me, unless for personal gain? My brain would constantly remind me of the fact that most violent crimes were committed between people who already knew each other, rather than strangers -- minimize the people you know, and you'll be safer, right? Maybe so, but you'll also be miserably lonely.
After class, one of my classmates tagged along with me as I walked to my dorm. I tried to stay calm, but I also wanted to shake him off, as if he wasn't doing a completely normal thing for people to do when they wanted to make a friend. At some point we parted ways, which gave my anxious brain the space it needed to make up all kinds of stories about what this guy wanted from me. Could he figure out where I lived? Could he get into my dorm in the middle of the night, while I was asleep?
The thing that sucks the most about anxiety is that on some level you know you're being irrational. You have to watch yourself think things and say things you know aren't true. I called my mom to tell her about this guy, hoping she could talk me down from what was becoming a panic attack. She sort of did, but I also just needed to ride it out. I couldn't go up to my dorm room, because I was crying, and I didn't want anyone to see. I went to the side of the building where the fewest people walked and sat with my back against the wall, holding my legs close, trying to steady my breathing.
The stranger that I still think about didn't do very much at all. She walked by me, stopped, and without saying anything, gave me a thumbs up and raised her eyebrows, as if to ask, "Are you okay?" That made me smile a little, and I gave her a thumbs up and a nod. She returned a smile and a nod and continued on her way.
It meant the world to me at the time, and I think that's why I still think about it. It showed care while not smothering me, at a time when I needed space. It was a solid "I see you, you're not alone" without the (I felt at the time) terrifying quid-pro-quo obligations that came with friendship. She did not expect anything in return, that was clear. She didn't even expect a conversation. She just wanted to know that I was alright, and that was all I needed.