Fighting tooth and nail to get over this...

I haven't had my nails done in almost two years. It wasn't a terrible sacrifice but I do admit that it was a luxury that I missed. Having survived a small session of clothes shopping with Sydney, who harvested my non-verbal choice selections from subtle shakes of my head, we decided to ride this wobbly wagon as far as we could. 

So an appointment was made and I promptly expelled any thought of it from my mind.

Until an hour or so before we were set to depart.

Obviously, if I were by myself, I would have cancelled. 

But Sydney was going. AND she had invited our poor, unsuspecting friend, Jessica who THOUGHT she knew, through Sydney's descriptions, how my anxiety would appear which is much the same as READING about the scent of a skunk's spray as opposed to EXPERIENCING, firsthand, the packed punch of that aromatic armament to the face. 

I felt like I was walking through two feet of wet mud as I approached the salon. The air was thick cotton. I am well-versed in my triggers. Loud noises. Sudden movement. Gatherings of unfamiliar people. Unwelcomed touches. Strange places. Sydney planted me in the chair closest to the door and sat in the neighboring station with Jessica beside her. I hesitantly showed a picture of the nail design I'd researched to the technician who immediately dismissed it. Panicking, I whispered, "Pink." 

Pink. Ugh.

The beautician guided one of my disfigured feet into the bubbling brew and I watched, with horror, as I forgot to fight gravity and the consequential SLAP of my sole resulted in a wave like that from a retired whale at Sea World. My technician and I both silently agreed that it was time to throw in the towel. Her, to mop up the tsunami that I'd caused and me, to have an emotional breakdown.

I hate the tears. I have tried EVERYTHING to stop them. Mental, sensory, and physical distractions. I'm embarrassed to admit that I have even discreetly stabbed myself with small, sharp objects in an attempt to abate the involuntary eruption of emotion, to stem the tide of tears, dam up my flood of fear. It doesn't work, of course, and then I'm just pissed at the pain. 

Fortunately for me, I was assigned TWO technicians which threw my feelings of being over-whelmed into over-drive. I had not figured language confusion into my triggers and listening to my daughter try to calmly explain that I was just feeling some anxiety and to please continue made me feel even more ashamed and embarrassed than usual. Everyone always assumes that my anxiety is rooted by fear of the virus. Fuck Corona. I was never afraid of the virus. But I took a GIANT mental hit by the societal changes that resulted from the lock down...where I previously experienced problems pertaining to trust and control...now I am a basket-case. 

I hate appearing weak but that's all I've experienced for over a year...every time I venture out in public. And I have to ignore everyone's assumptions because I am unable to accurately voice what is wrong with me. So there I sat, whispering answers to Sydney's state capital quizzing while clients and staff tried, surreptitiously, not to stare at me. Inconveniencing and embarrassing my family is bad enough, but I felt TERRIBLE for the salon technicians. No salary or potential tip is worth working on a sobbing, snotting, shaking woman. The poor receptionist was beside herself...especially as I was the first thing that clients saw as they entered her establishment. First, she whispered in my ear, reassuring me that all her employees were vaccinated. I sighed in resignation, used to people making this leap. Later, she thrust her cell phone at me. "Watch," she told me, "It will make you happy." Through my veil of tears, I squinted, expecting romping kittens or kids hitting their unsuspecting dads in life-altering areas with sports paraphernalia. Instead, I saw a man, presumably in a third world country, with no legs or forearms, hauling buckets of mud or concrete across a parking lot. "See?" she said smiling, patting my leg. "You're not him. You are very lucky." 

She was right, of course. I am very blessed. I have so much to be thankful for...I thank God often for my husband, daughters, dogs, health, family, friends, jobs, and nationality. Not a day goes by that I do not experience shame about my ridiculous lack of self-control in light of all the tragedy in the world. 

Sydney was furious but I realized that the gesture came from a place of kindness...of wanting to help. I imagine how I look to others...how infantile I must appear. The receptionist truly believed that she was offering aide. Much better than the person who'd hinted that perhaps my condition was a cry for attention. That suggestion sent me spiraling as I spent several sleepless nights terrified that it was true. That comment is my constant companion now...further crippling me. Believe me, I want to pull myself up by my bootstraps (after I slap the person who uses this term silly with it first). I want to shake it off or fully realize that it's all in my head. 

All I ever want to do is stay home. But that is the easy way out...to just let the tide take me. It may not look it, but I AM fighting the current but it is so tiring. I grow weary of the weight of my own imagined fears but as I venture out more and more, beyond the set circumference where I feel safe, I find that I am even more exhausted by the heavy weight of opinion and judgment that is so often offered without invitation. Surrounded by Olympic swimmers, I am just managing to keep my head above water. It would really help if we could forego the platitudes and just ignore me. But if you can't do that, then please hand me a tissue and just show me a video of cute kittens. 
 

So, I did it. I survived the salon. Barely. And while I would like to say that I was as "tough as nails," that would be a HUGE lie. I still need to polish up my social skills a bit but this manicure is really starting to grow on me.