I was asked to describe if I have ever felt lonely in a group of people. I have felt this type of loneliness often and it is paralyzing. I felt this way today. It began when I approached the truck manager to ask if I could work with him to create a plan for a truck to pick up apples from a farm. It would be a lovely time. The farmer asked me nearly two weeks ago to plan to pick excess apples from his farm. I drafted communication to invite people to pick apples with us.  However, I need a way to bring the apples back to our warehouse. I need to use a truck. The truck manager went on vacation. He instructed me to coordinate with someone who was filling in for him. I tried, but he felt that he could not make the decisions without the truck manager. Now the truck manager has returned, and the farmer is telling me that the apples need to be picked now, they’re falling on the ground. The cold is coming and they won’t be viable for much longer. But I have not invited anyone to pick the apples yet. When I spoke with the truck manager, he explained to me, very slowly, that he has to allocate a pool of labor hours. He mentioned that planning for these labor hours is incredibly complex. The trucks are scheduled a year ahead of time. There are federal restrictions on how many hours a truck driver can work. Saturdays are just too late in the week for anyone to work, the truck drivers all have too many hours by that point. 
    My mind flashed back to the years I spent mulling over the allocation of labor hours. To the hundreds of people I directed, making sure they never worked more than corporates strict allocation of hours. I remembered the math I had to rework multiple times per day, adding people to my line and removing them within minutes, in order to meet precise labor expectations. In order to keep boxes from falling off the conveyor belts, in order to make sure that as few hours as possible went to waste. In order to make sure that I maximized the possible throughput per hour of the operation. Measured in units that were meticulously tracked. I recalled the complex spreadsheets indicating exactly how many people were working, not able to work too quickly, and definitely not able to work too slowly. I reminisced the feeling of satisfaction that came to me, when I was exactly on target. Not above or below. The feeling of perfection that swept through me. I felt triumphant when I could easily do the calculations in my head, when I could predict what changes were coming in the next hour and already have a game plan. But now this man before me tells me that these calculations are very complicated, that I would not be able to understand. 
    I nod in agreement with the things he says to me. “So do you think it would be possible at all to pick these apples?” I give the responsibility back to him, because allocating labor hours is hard. I’ve learned that men will speak to me slowly, and their ego’s bruise easily. The best thing to do is nod, and flash an empty smile. 
My mind glazes over and I bite my tongue as I return to my desk. I used to know that I was capable of so much more. But now, I am like one of those dolls that get attached to dashboards of cars. My head bobbles in agreement to the events occurring around me. I don’t fight the rhythm. 
I try to breathe and return to the tasks that wait for me. To try to salvage what I can of this plan to pick apples. Anxiety starts to knot in my stomach, because I expect so much from myself, but I feel that I am set-up for failure. Then a lady came in with a group from her church to volunteer. They come in every month. The group begins to fill the lobby, chatty and excited. “What is this group here for?” One of the warehouse staff asked.
I inform her that this is the group that comes in monthly. Quickly, I registered the disappointment on her face. “I didn’t know they were coming.”
“They are on the company calendar,” the friendly receptionist mentions. The girl quickly leaves the room to make a call to her superior.  
 Although I help to schedule for volunteers to come in to volunteer,  I am far removed from the operational process. I am told here that I do not understand how warehouses work. I want to remind the people who tell me this that I used to manage one of the most productive warehouses in the world, but instead I freeze. I nod and agree, because I do not have the will to argue. 
    Now while this lady is yelling at me, because her group only works on meat boxes, there are apples and poptarts laid out in the warehouse. “Why is this?” She questions me. But I do not have an answer for her. I think that if I had the ability I would run this operation differently, that I would pivot the project plans and the volunteer group would bag the apples. I quietly suggest this to the staff member, but I am told that is not possible. I don’t understand why they can’t bag apples and the lady looks at me annoyed and expecting. 
    I do not want this group to be sent home. I want badly to control the situation that is unfolding before me. I apologize weakly. I feel the blood draining from my head and into my toes. I feel my eyes begin to haze. Solutions run through my mind, but I know that my suggestions will be met with contempt. 
    This is when I know that I feel lonely again in a group of people. The blood roars as it rushes through my veins. This happened last month, with the same group. The warehouse staff were not prepared for the group to come. I do not understand why this is happening again. The same group always comes on the same day of the month, every month. I was reprimanded the last time this group was sent away. “You need to take more initiative and be the one to send the group away. That is your job.” 
    I want badly to excel at what is expected of me. I want badly to ease the anger that the group that is filling the lobby is feeling. I want badly to disappear into the walls. I try to remember the breathing techniques that were taught to me. I try to remember that this moment will pass soon. I try to remember that I have a warm bed waiting for me at home, and remember that I must wait to return to it. 
    This is when I feel my mind leave my body. My limbs tingle, and I float outside of myself. My eyes well, and I stare directly ahead and do not let myself blink. If I blink tears will well out of me. I try to think of words to say to make things right. I try to think of something to say other than “I am so sorry.” I try to push away the feelings of anger I am holding at others around me. I try not to hold onto the blame that I know will come to me later. I try to ease myself back into existence again. I try not to feel lonely in this room full of people