PTSD and Anxiety in a Masked Society
Yesterday I popped into the store after I dropped my son off at work.
Who am I kidding? There’s no “popping in” to the store anymore. Halfway to the door I realised I didn’t have a mask, I turned around and headed back to the car. In the cubbie, I keep a packet of “just in case” masks. I usually wear a cloth mask, I have three or four, but who knows where those had disappeared to. “Treat them like your underwear,” they say. Well, whoever “they” are, they clearly don’t understand my relationship to the humble brassiere. My bras are to be found, or not, in the strangest places around my house as I discard them in frustration as soon as is politely possible. Much like my reading glasses, they have even been found everywhere, including in my car. No, not due to any excitingly passionate encounter, merely due to my discomfort with confinement.
So, back to the mask. I grabbed a white and blue medical grade impostor from the sealed packet in my cubbie and looped the elastic bands around my ears, fiddling with the nose piece to try and create a snug fit under my glasses. Clearly an impossibility, as I should already have learned. In frustration I ripped the glasses from my face as my creepily warm breath escaped over the top of the mask, creating a fog that rendered them useless.
Now, before any of you jump up and down offering remedies for keeping my glasses fog free, step back and keep quiet. It’s been a while now, do you really think I haven’t scoured the internet and picked the brains of everyone I know, and don’t know, to find a solution? Do you think I haven’t tried every single one of the suggestions? Trust me. Those surgeons who spend 48 hours in a mask performing miraculous, life saving surgery are wearing medical grade masks. These are not available to us mere mortals. The shit they’re selling us ordinary folk is the same quality as the ridiculous disposable underwear they provide before said life saving surgery!
Anyhow, I digress. Stumbling through the door to the store, which was now disturbingly out of focus, I made my way toward the trolleys. Now, I usually shop at a different store, but since this one was just around the corner from where I’d dropped my son, I’d gone for convenience. Convenience. Hah! A thing of the past. Hunting through my purse for the coin I kept aside for the trolley, my breath feeling hotter and hotter on my face, I seized the little sucker and attempted to shove it into the trolley slot. No go. Different supermarket, different coin. Why the fluff??? Is there any logical reason for this? This is not a rhetorical question. I’m really interested in speaking to whatever person or group, of men I’d assume, came up with this decision. Give me two minutes in a room with them. I’m already wearing the mask, all I need is a blunt object.
I turned in frustration and grabbed a basket. The mask had now ridden up my face and was half covering my eyes. Hot breath on my eyeballs. I closed them. Readjusted the mask. I saw the vague, blurred outline of the disinfection station to my left. Fluff it, I thought as I clutched the basked in one hand and my purse and shopping bags in the other. I made my way in the direction of the bakery section. From what I could make out there were two men unpacking fresh bread onto the shelves. No way to get close… Hot breath on my face I began to feel beads of perspiration pop out on my forehead.
I turned the corner toward the fridges. I needed milk and cheese, but the mask was riding up my face again. Tucking the shopping bags and my purse under my arm. I grabbed what I assumed was a three litre milk and placed it in the basket.
Hot breath coming all the quicker. Flash back, hands on mouth, pillow over face… I could now feel my heart rate increase, and the hand clutching the handle of the basket was slick with sweat. I wanted to adjust the mask again, it was half covering my eyes, but I now had a packet of grated cheese in my hand. I had no idea if it was cheddar or mozzarella, or a combination. I dropped it into the basked.
I was becoming disoriented. Hot breath out, shallow breaths in, flashes of memories. I could feel the palpitations starting. I have not had a panic attack, or suffered PTSD symptoms for a number of years, but here I was, about to lose my shit right here in this store.
I flung a couple more things into the basket, turned, bumped into the fridge; the basket dropped, spilling contents. I fell to my knees, heart pounding, an ocean in my ears. Hot breath engulfing me I pulled the mask down from my eyes, clutched wildly at the items on the floor, throwing them back into the basket.
I was now fighting for breath, the back of my neck was ice cold, my heart was hammering wildly in my chest, skipping every few beats. I stood.
My observing mind, the one I’ve cultivated and nurtured through years of meditation, watched silently, then spoke in measured tones… “You know what to do,” she said. “You need to ground yourself. Just breathe.”
“You think I can fluffing breathe?” I screamed back, outwardly silent, aware of my hot breath, my cold neck, the whooshing sound in my ears. The shopping basket was still on the ground, my palms too sweaty to grasp the handle.
I stumbled up the isle, in what I hoped was the direction of the exit, mask riding up my face again. Bursting out into the damp air I ripped it off, taking big gulps of fresh air. Trying desperately not to hyperventilate, I made my way, on now very shaky legs, to the car.
It took several minutes before I was able to focus enough to press the button to unlock it. I collapsed behind the wheel. Head back against the headrest. I tried to slow my breathing, tried to calm my hammering heart. I wiped my palms on my thighs, leaving dark, wet marks on my jeans.
It was a good half hour before I was able to drive.
I’m sharing this for all of you who suffer from PTSD and/or anxiety, and also for those who don’t. These are not normal times. As much as we may believe that we are okay, and for the most part, we may be, our bodies react out of their own memories of trauma. The things we learned in order to cope, will be challenged. This doesn’t mean you are regressing in your healing, it doesn’t mean you are failing. It means that we are reacting to abnormal times, abnormal stimuli. Your coping skills will be severely challenged.
Do whatever you have to to keep yourself safe, but mostly, know that you are not alone. We’re all struggling. To those who are managing better than others, be kind, stop the judgement. You have no idea what people are dealing with. My own PTSD and panic attacks are the result of childhood trauma and rape. Even if you’ve known me for decades, you may not be aware of this. It’s not something one shares in casual conversation. It’s not a secret, it’s just a part of my life. I have learned how to counteract and manage my body and my mind’s reaction to external situations; but there are instances when I have little control over that reaction.
To those of you for whom this is a foreign concept, just understand that you are making judgements about people without having all the facts. Your default setting should be kindness.
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