Today I have a puffy and crusty eye but I’ll call it ebola or some form of eyeball stenosis. Just roll with it, ok? I’m a card holding hypochondriac and have come to embrace it because it’s all I know. I make light of it when I reach out to my friend who happens to be a doctor because there’s a part of me that, despite being a pretty logical thinker, is overtaken by irrational and fearful thoughts. My mother was convinced something was trying to kill me and everyone I loved, and that’s how I lived the first 13 years of my life. I suppose it bled over into my mind and how I approach my own health and wellness. It’s a struggle to buffer it from my kids, but I think I do a pretty decent job.
Alexa, one of my closest friends, also happens to be my kids’ pediatrician. She’s exceedingly…normal. I’m fascinated by it all, actually. Alexa’s reaction to things is pragmatic, proportional, and confident. She never seems rattled. I have never seen her react to anything in a hasty or emotional way, even after nearly 16 years. Well, except the time I texted her in the middle of the day and asked her about where I should take a friend who I feared would hurt herself. She knew instantly that friend was me, and she was on it faster than white on rice. It’s not like I wanted to harm myself; my reality was deeply distorted. It was my first bonafide PTSD episode. I was hearing things, feeling things, and seeing things…that weren’t there.
Alexa was my lifeline, remains a constant connection to a world that is bereft of my burdens, and I trust her implicitly. In a sea of acquaintances there are 3 people I trust outside of my husband. 3. Only 3 people know the real me. She is one of them. Incidentally, I don’t think I’ve ever told her she’s in the inner circle. That’s odd. She could call and tell me to meet her in some dark alley at precisely 2:58 am, to bring a shovel, body paint, and Krispy Kreme donuts and I’d be there. No questions asked. That all sounds very exciting and the stuff of a good sequel to Thelma & Louise. The thing is, I’m more likely to get a text that her dog ate a tampon or that she ran into Target for toothpaste and spent $250.
Alexa, for being a well-respected physician, is also a wonderfully clueless first-time dog owner (see tampon comment above) who has a startling level of unease with canine bodily functions. “Is she supposed to have buried the dead squirrel and then bring it back to me [picture attached]?” “Here, let me share this list with you of things my puppy has eaten, which I’ve meticulously logged, alphabetized, and ranked according to danger level.” If it’s a random weekend, she’s in a random stadium. She’s a photo-bomber of any celebrity. I might have to bail her out of jail one day because she takes pictures of anything that comes close to resembling one. Her via text: “OMG! I just saw [insert celebrity name here] at [insert location here]. Look at this picture!!” Me: Facepalm. That’s a tree with a shadow over it. It’s all quite fabulous. But these stories are for another installment. When I formally introduce you to her.
Back to my ebola-stenosis. I fought the urge to text her all day because I’m a big girl and I have big girl pants. You see, after the first prolonged exposure session, which was an absolute failure, I flipped out. It was as if I transported myself back to being 13 and then I had to force myself to hang out in it. I failed and will feel like a failure when I report the outcome to Dr. Mandolin. During the ensuing flip-out, I was hysterically crying. Like you can’t catch your breath and your bottom lip risks being sucked in by your lungs kind of crying.
Tears everywhere. Me on the floor of the bathroom. More tears. Grab the first thing I see to wipe the snot and flood from my eyes, which happens to be a used, wet towel that my son left on the floor. Panic will make you do strange things. Normally, I’d wear a hazmat suit and use grabber tongs to pick this kind of thing up and deposit into the wash machine where I’d sterilize the crap out of it. But during a panic attack? All bets are off. Just get through it. Usually without a thought, because instinct has taught me to work on safety now, worry about eye ebola tomorrow. This is a skill I’ve honed over time and I’m fantastic at it. I’m the person you want with you in the middle of a crisis. It’s the time after that sucks.
Well, as luck would have it, the next day I started feeling puffiness in my eye. Then an achy itchiness and it got a little crusted over. I hit the internet because I have my Google MD. My next step would normally be to text Alexa and ask her some random question that sounds something like this, “so, my eye is falling out and I wonder if I should start shopping for prosthetics.” She replies with the question marks everyone uses on the iPhone, and then I elaborate with less hyperbole. Three minutes later I realize I’m not dying and go about my day.
But today, I haven’t texted Alexa. I have instead told the world I’m batshit crazy and let complete strangers into the inner workings of my cPTSD brain. Working on being less reactive is hard. I do it all in an attempt to normalize my condition for the millions of other people who suffer the same way and wonder if they are losing their mind… I’m here to tell you that you aren’t. You likely have pink eye like me. From a disgusting dirty towel that you should have never touched.
