I hate suds. I don’t like suds in the bathtub, and I hated when my babies got them everywhere. They leave a filmy residue behind when a big ball of them flies out of the tub because toddlers are throwing them at you. I don’t like suds in the kitchen sink either. Too much dish soap makes my hands slimy and the smell is overpowering. And no, the fragrance free isn’t; it still stinks. Using the wrong kind of detergent in the washing machine or dishwasher results in a sudsy disaster. That shit goes everywhere. It’s like white, frothy tentacles reaching out of the appliance in which the soap was incorrectly placed, and it’s seemingly endless. Cleaning it up requires the use of every clean towel in the house. Awesome.
Imagine my joy when Dr. Mandolin explained SUDS to me. The subjective units of distress scale. It’s a way to quantify personal levels of distress so that progress can be tracked over time. The scale goes from 0 to 100, and, as I’ve been taught, it works in increments of 25. Zero is the place where you feel the most calm, relaxed, and at peace. No fear, no worry, no dread. Think of the beach on a breezy night, sunset, and toes in the sand. That is my zero. 25 is a moderately yucky situation that still enables normal activity. 50 is worse, with distress being noticeable but not completely hindering activity. 75 is when the shit gets real; a person likely can’t function as normal experiencing a 75. Essentially, it’s a place nobody wants to be. 100 is supposed to represent the worst level of distress a person has ever experienced. It is my unhinged.
To assign my 25, 50, 75, and 100, Dr. Mandolin and I had to talk through panic attacks and situations I avoid. As someone with cPTSD spanning decades, there are a ton of places and circumstances I avoid, quite masterfully, too. Fortunately, from my treasure trove of situations, we could easily find one to fit each numerical category. For me, being in the car as a passenger on the highway is a 100. Not rush hour, but when there’s enough traffic going 75 mph and people are weaving in and out of lanes. Enough space to garner speed and enough speed to do serious damage and kill someone. I’ve played this scene out in my head thousands of times. In my mind, the scene happens in an instant but is also in slow motion; I can focus on one particular moment in the scene and freeze-frame it. I can hear the sound of metal bending, glass shattering, female voices screaming, and tires squealing on the highway as drivers in other cars slam on the brakes.
When living through a 100, the panic is so bad my vision becomes distorted, breathing speeds up, heart rate, too. My hands shake uncontrollably. Legs are wobbly noodles regardless of being seated or standing. I feel as if there’s an agitator from an old-school washing machine where my spine once was and I’m spinning off balance. I sweat profusely but my hands are cold to the touch. I cannot hear anything or anyone yet the entire situation feels like an ASMR video on TikTok. My five senses are amplified but muted at the same time. I can see my pulse reverberate in my vision. My skin feels like millions of little tiny acupuncture needles are piercing through every layer of me and poking out the opposite. My tongue and mouth dry up. And I cry…but not a normal cry. Just tears running down my face as if a faucet turned on all the way. No noise. It’s the kind of crying a person would do when hiding behind a wall from Michael Meyers, inches away from certain death. To experience panic at the 100 SUDS level, to me, is a living hell of paradoxes.
Panic attacks are dreadful. Especially nasty ones. There are a ton of people in this world that I don’t like, a few that I hate with a deep passion. I’m not sure I’d wish a 100 on anyone, not even them. Maybe, but I can’t be certain. These panic attacks are so awful that I worry about when the next one will strike. I preemptively plan my day so that I can avoid things that might set me off. There are the basic things I know will scare me, and then my brain likes to screw with me and throws new ones in sometimes. So, I’m worried about a future panic attack which means something will need to terrify the crap out of me, but I don’t know what it will be yet. I am essentially worried about being worried in the future about a subject that I do not understand yet, know about, or comprehend. It’s all pretty fucked up.
The thing is, when you reach a 100 on the SUDS scale, logic won’t win. Ever. I can tell you logically that my father is dead. If the phone rings and I see it’s an area code from my home state, here comes my 100. There is no way to brain your way out of it. In fact, thinking about how illogical it all is, when it is happening, makes it worse. The inner dialogue is pedantic, tortuous, and endless. This is what it feels like when your brain wages war on you, masterfully gaslighting itself and stripping away all sensibilities.
It’s about the only thing I hate worse than the suds themselves.
