Lady in (a lot) of stress...so could you please shut up?

I was raised in the time of "mind-over-matter" and was expected "to pull myself up by my own boot-straps" (whatever THEY were...I wore sneakers all the time). Issues pertaining to mental health were viewed through the arrogant veil of condescending sympathy. "Poor honey," the right-minded would mutter, sometimes able to suppress their recipe of cerebral success, "so delicately fragile, the little dear."

I call "bullshit." And you know I'm right. Some of you all are just better at hiding it than the rest of us. We all have SOMETHING.

I had several "somethings." Prior to the pandemic, I had learned to live ungraciously with what I like to view as my little "quirks." Claustrophobia that no drug could touch. A paralyzing fear of crowds. Crisis-mode when touched by unfamiliar people. Difficulty making a decision when faced with a large selection.

But at least I was functional. Deep breaths (or no breaths at all) would get me from the entrance to the exit of Howes Caverns during school field trips. The technicians manning the MRI machine and my dental staff have been trained to ignore the tears streaming down my face during appointments and know to refrain from being nice OR administering "tough love." I have (mentally) fought my way through more airports than I can count to get to my daughters on the West Coast. My husband has termed this process, Risk versus Reward, and we utilize it a LOT now.

And then the pandemic and my Crazy Kraken was released. The Stay-At-Home Order. The classification of Essentials and Non-essentials. Separation from family, friends, and students. Fear (of what?). Uncertainty. Anxiety. Isolation. I was swept out of my tranquil pond into a dizzying, un-ending whirlpool. I was drowning. Brad had a tight hold of my wrist but even he can't shield me from the "You'll get over it" folks. I wish you all had color-coded t-shirts so I know who's going to hand me a life-preserver and who's going to weigh me down with a rock. I am a verbal processor who utilizes humor as a self-defense mechanism. I make fun of myself before others have a chance to do it. But sometimes I'm not quick enough.

I feel weak. Embarrassed. And ashamed. I apologize CONSTANTLY to the people around me for putting them in such an awkwardly mortifying position when we do manage to go out in public. Brad has resigned himself to looking like a domestic abuser as I pay for our groceries, stricken silent with tears as he stoically bags our produce and thanks the cashier because I'm not able to. I have researched every anxiety-reducing behavior modification technique in the book ("But please," Amy said sarcastically, "tell me how you would FIX me."). I intentionally focus on my five senses...I recite the Ten Commandments forwards and backwards, Brad quizzes me on the state capitals, I breathe, I swear...then I shake, I sweat, I can't breathe, and I cry. And then I swear some more.

It is SUPER helpful (Amy said, sarcastically) to tell me to "get over it." Or to "count my blessings." Or to realize how many people out there have it a LOT worse than me (like I didn't know THAT before). To explain how I'm being "enabled." Or to scoff and comment that I've obviously never experienced "real" difficulties in my life. I sink beneath the weight of those comments. Maybe I am just being a big baby.

Meanwhile, as I am battling to just keep my head above water, Brad is fighting the current with me. Making lists. Searching for patterns...triggers. Helping me to visualize store lay-outs and alerting me to any new rules or procedures. Celebrating small successes (even if I only make it as far as a parking lot). Letting me rant, rave, and claim to quit before encouraging me to continue. He can't feel when the air around me grows heavy and oppressive...he can't see the walls threatening to close in on me...he doesn't realize when my heart feels like it's going to explode out of my chest...but he knows when I've had enough. I hate that I have done this to him. I have brought an enemy into our home and Brad Mosiman cannot fight this demon for me. Swords and sai, choke-holds and strikes will not rid us of this invader. So Brad Mosiman has had to put aside his conventional weapons and the damsel in distress has had to pick up her's. No...he cannot fight this demon FOR me but with everything that he has, he is fighting it WITH me. Thank God for Brad Mosiman.

Be kind...EVERYONE  you meet is fighting a battle that you know nothing about.