Anxiety at the Deli Counter

I don't know what it is about men who work behind the deli counter but another one flirted with me this past Friday at Detwiler's Farm Market. With the top of his hair bleached blond under his hairnet, he looked like a kid to me so I'm guessing I am old enough to be his mother. That's not what I want to talk about, though. What I want to talk about is anxiety.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

One of the repercussions of the car accident that has hung around is anxiety. It makes my skin itch. It makes my heart race. It makes me sweat. I keep it under control as best I can but under certain circumstances it gets the best of me. Standing around with everyone else while waiting for my turn at the deli counter gives me anxiety. I have to gently push my way to the front to pick a number from the dispenser. I fumble around trying to rip off one ticket and end up with two. I don't know where to put the extra one; this dispenser is freestanding and it is mocking me. I lay the ticket on top of it knowing it will probably fall to the ground. Oh, well! Not my problem.

My number is eight. The number lit up on the deli counter display is four. Not too bad. I look around. It isn't that crowded. I find a place to park my cart. Not too far away but not a part of the herd. I'm also claustrophobic. The kid with the hair hands someone their order and they are done. He looks behind and then calls out, "Number five. Number five. NUMBER FIVE. Is anyone NUMBER FIVE? Number five. Number five?" The herd is looking at one another. No one is admitting to be number five. Did five give up and decide not to wait? Does it matter? No one is answering. Move on, please.

Then he calls out, "How about number eight? Is there a number eight?" What!? I'm number eight but I see people standing there waiting that are ahead of me. I look to my right and ask the woman next to me, "How did hego from five to eight?" She just smiles and shakes her head. One of the herd speaks up and offers, "I'm six..."

Great! Let's go people.

Another deli person looks at the number on the counter and asks,"Number five. Number five?" I look at the counter and see that blond hair never updated it. A man that has been silent this whole time says,"I was number five but I am being waited on already."

Oh My God

He decides to speak up now instead of a few minutes ago? I looked at him incredulously. The deli girl updates the number to five. "Six. Number six!" Six speaks up and we are ready move on to seven. The counter is updated again. 

While this is going on I am getting a headache. I feel adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream. The lady that had number seven puts in her order and walks back to her cart to the left of me. I turn to her and admit I have so much anxiety right now. She smiles and says, "Imagine having number seven. He went from five to eight! I wondered if I would be waited on at all or left standing here." 

Sure. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

It is finally my turn and it is the bleached blond guy. "Hello, Sweetie. What can I get you today?" My voice shakes when I tell him. I can hear it. What the hell. I have to get a grip. His overt flirting is embarrassing.

Earlier in the day I was at our company's holiday brunch. I was having a great time up until the point when it was announced that because of the growth we have experienced we were all expected to go up to the front of the room, take the microphone, and talk about ourselves. Bam! My heart jumped in my chest. Eventually it was my turn. I took the mic and spoke into it. I saw the crowd but no faces. I heard their reactions to my words as if I were in a tunnel. I was on autopilot with half of my brain sitting in the copilot's seat and the other half curled up under the bed hiding.

I used to get nervous but never like this. All that extrovert behavior that visited me after the accident packed up its shit leaving behind the one thing that didn't fit in its suitcase. 

 

 

.

How is this happening?

I finished writing this at 4:06 this morning. I'm polishing it as I write now. I think I started it somewhere around 3:30am. What is happening with this election is sending people into a state of anxiety to the point that they are seeking professional help. I'm not the only one that is up at night thinking about it. Either are you.

How is this happening? We haven't grown at all. We are still living in caves.

If Hillary were a man, would we feel the same way?

How as a rude, pompastic, (Yes, it is a word - http://wordorium.blogspot.com/2005/03/pompastic.html) and CRAZY man that has NEVER served our country either in the military or by holding any kind of public office, gotten this far in the presidential election process?

What has happened in America that some people think he would make an excellent president when he cannot (1) properly prepare for the presidential debate believing bluster over facts and personality over substance was enough (2) respect the other candidate enough to allow her to voice her opinions and thoughts uninterrupted and (3) show a level of maturity beyond that of a sixteen year old boy?

What about the big decisions? War. Staying out of others' war. Not going to war. Not dropping nukes. Making nice with foreign powers. When things don't go his way will he take his ball and go home no longer willing to play because he's not winning the game and is angry? Will he roll his eyes at a foreign head of state? Will he tell a woman that represents her country that all he wants is for her to be happy? (And don't we all know that if a woman is bleeding from somewhere that that is impossible to make happen?)

We, as a country, will be unwittingly unfurling the mainsail and jib turning ourselves loose in the high winds of the open sea without an experienced captain on which to rely and look to for making wise decisions for OUR safety with each peril we meet.

Heart. He lacks heart. (I can't write his name. I just can't.) He lacks KINDNESS. He lacks a love for the American people. The roots of his poison run deep. Divide and conquer.

In our history, what presidential candidate has EVER behaved like this? NONE. So, who are we now? He stands before his followers in Canton, Ohio asking the audience who among them are not Christian Conservatives and will they make themselves known. He asks the crowd, "Should we keep them in the room?" This is NOT close to being funny. Divide and conquer.

The fact that not all of us are frightened by his behavior scares me. C'mon people. Americans! In the recent past we fought an unbalanced demonic dictator on foreign soil.(I have one in particular in mind but take your pick.) Will we have to do it at home as well?

It's My Party and I Would Cry if only I Could

So I don't know who I am. I know I am repeating myself. I'm not sure I have relayed to you as deeply as possible what that means.

It is talking and then realizing that you didn't know you would say that. It is acting on feelings and not knowing why you are being so extreme or at the other end, why you don't care. It is fighting anxiety on a level you never knew before.

The brain is magnificent and delicate. It is amazing and intricate so when it is even slightly damaged, it is unlike any other destruction. Someone having had a stroke is understood. Another dealing with the ravages of Alzheimer's is understood. But a closed head injury is something that few understand.

Sometimes I want to cry, but since the accident that is very difficult for me to accomplish. I don't stay on one emotion long enough or feel it deeply enough. Like a ghost slipping past me in the night, tears come and then swiftly dry up.

Meditation has become my cool water in the heat of the day. It relieves the anxiety and soothes me. It helps me clear my head of the noise. The music of my medication CDs gently drifts in, around, and through my tired brain bringing it peace and comfort. I fall asleep into a meditative state. I wake up refreshed, freed from anguish. I understand myself better but I know it will happen all over again.

If you are cold, move closer. My body heat will warm you up.

The New Me...?

Almost a year and a half later, I still surprise myself at times.

I always kept my thoughts and feelings to myself only sharing when I was with a very trusted ally.  Now I speak my mind with freedom.

I morphed from situation to situation depending on what I thought was the safest way to behave. Now I am the same person no matter who I am with or what the circumstances are.

I used to be able to concentrate on tasks in a way that would freak people out. Now I have to listen to music while I work because instead of it being a distraction as it would have in the past, it helps me to concentrate. Having Attention Deficit Disorder has been one of the harder things to adapt to especially when trying to get things done. I found myself walking around the house taking care of one chore, see another chore, dropping the first chore and then realizing I was supposed to be doing the something else but not remembering what I was originally doing. It took months to teach myself to keep on point. I have learned that when I feel confused the only way out of it is to stop moving both physically and mentally. I don't care where I am; I will stop and get quiet to ask myself, "What are you doing? What should you be doing? What were you doing?" It's like hitting the reset button.

My typing skills have suffered, too. I consistently type letters in the wrong order. That rarely happened before the accident. It still frustrates the crap out of me. I can hear you thinking - "what's the big deal? That's not life and death." Well, for this grammar and spelling Nazi, it can make me want to smash my fist down on my desk.

Speaking of wanting to break things...

Not long after the accident there were a few new things about me that towered above the rest. I wanted to punch the walls. I wanted to drive my car into the ditch. I wanted to destroy things! These overwhelming feelings of destruction were not because I was angry, sad, or bitter. I wasn't angry. As a matter of fact, I didn't give a shit about anything. I felt nothing. My array of emotions had left town and I didn't know if they would come back from vacation. So, I was a dichotomy of wanting to slam my fist into something hard and unforgiving to being void of emotion all at the same time.

When I shared these feelings with my doctor, his first question was, "Are you hitting anything?"

"No. I'm not," I answered back with a meek smile on my face. "At this point I am controlling the urges."

He seemed to physically relax, "Good. Is there anything else?"

"Yes. I am having really bad nightmares. They are like horror movies with people getting torn apart. They are very vivid."

He thought for a few seconds and then prescribed an anti-anxiety drug. "If all of these feelings don't get better, let me know. This is the mildest strength we can go so if needed, we will raise it."

The little pill worked! I was safe around society and the nightmares ceased. But, I still didn't give a damn. That turned out to be a blessing. Work had become a hotbed of personality disorders run amok and my personal life was less than optimal. Poppy (my Chihuahua) and my mother became my safe places. I also developed a close friendship with the only other sane person in the office. Even though she now lives somewhere else, she is still my rock.

Slowly, very slowly, feelings moved back in to one degree or another. Thinking about the range of emotions I have in my color pallet now, I am fine with it. At times I think I am emotionally steadier than I was until I react to a situation like a volcano erupting.

Oh, well. Life wasn't perfect before so why should I expect it to be perfect now?

The cool night breeze feels good. It gently moves my hair. Are you sure you aren't cold?  I'm always hot so I'm not a good judge.

Beautiful Soul

Saturday is my day to run errands.  I plot my route like an air traffic controller keeping in mind all of the different needs and details each stop requires along with one eye on gas usage.  Going to the grocery store 99.9% of the time is my final destination before home.

Since Winn Dixie has great ground beef, prices, and gas rewards, I shop there.  Winn Dixie has wider aisles and less tumult than Publix.  The cement floor is homely and the clientele watch their pennies.

One of my hangups is I cannot grocery shop comfortably when a store is crowded.  I get anxious to the point where I will forego picking up everything on my list just to get the hell out of there.  The anxiety sometimes makes me feel like I can't breath so I will do the "Can I live without this item until I go again?" thing in my head.  If I can, boom!  It is added to my next grocery store list and I am released from the torture sooner rather than later.

Today there were very few people shopping and I was in my own little world of indecision as I stared at the meat prices matching up which of what was on sale and which of what was buy 1/get 1 free when I felt someone looking at me.  I stood up and looked behind me to my right and saw a young woman maybe in her mid twenties.  She had her straight light brown hair cut short and was pretty.  Her left hand was bent at the wrist in an unnatural position and she held onto the cart with that along with her right hand.  I noticed her stance was off kilter, too.  I smiled at her and she smiled back.  "Am I in your way," I asked.  It wouldn't have surprised me if I was as I become oblivious to my surroundings when deep in thought.  She replied, "No" clearly enough that I could understand her.  That was the final clue that she probably had cerebral palsy or something similar.  I smiled again and once again she smiled back but there was more that was unspoken.  I was treating her as I would anyone else.  I was showing her respect one person for another; I was not transmitting pity or averting my eyes.

There was an older woman about 6 feet away from the young lady looking at the cold food items and I figured it was her mother.  She wore the same no-nonsense clothing and haircut.  Even though they were not near each other or talking, I sensed a strong bond between them. As the daughter grew, the mother allowed her her own space.  The mother had to decide a long time ago how she should behave when it came to caring for her child when she became an adult.  By the way they both respected each other, it was clear they had worked out a healthy balance between hovering and independence.

I went back to concentrating on what I should buy and eventually we passed each other.  I met the daughter's eyes one last time.  After they both were behind me I turned around and saw that because her right leg was shorter than her left she walked on her tip-toes on her right foot.

There was something very beautiful about the young lady.  Maybe I was seeing her soul as it touched my soul.  To me she glided over the floor.  I would have like to have talked to her.  While the muscular dystrophy reeked havoc with her body, her spirit was not disfigured.  It was gentle.  In my mind I untwisted her limbs and unfroze her tongue.