Yesterday was an average day. Saturday, sunny, and mildly chilly. White cotton-puff clouds filled the sky, just like those from Andy’s room in Toy Story. Ideal fall weather in the south. Given my recent hermit crab proclivities, getting out of the house with my daughter for a pedicure was a welcome, albeit angsty, endeavor. I want to go out with my girl and do all the girly things. I want to go sit and enjoy someone rubbing my toes and picking out paint colors. All the things. I want all the things. Well, I don’t want all the things. I want to want all the things and have to go through the motions for all the things. And for now, that will have to suffice.
We arrived at the nail salon before they got hit with a huge rush. After about 10 minutes of waiting, we got our seats and prepared ourselves for a little relaxation. I had already done some deep breathing and grounding exercises before we left home. This was a decidedly good choice given the climate of the salon. It was loud from talking, a ton of visual distractions, people everywhere, and ambient music playing. In truth, it wasn’t ambient. It was some cool jazz station playing instrument only riffs that I’d once jammed out to in my youth. I’m sorry, but Duran Duran and Flock of Seagulls are not meant for a woodwind solo. Also, televisions everywhere. My God. It was all too much.
Despite the sensory overload, I had a corner seat in the back and it gave me a panoramic view of the entire salon, which was huge. At least 50 clients getting their nails done at one time. I could see my path for emergency departure, and despite being cluttered, I could get out in a hurry if necessary. Yes, I always establish a way out of every place I go. If I cannot determine a way out, it is rare that I’ll hang out for extended periods of time because I catastrophize everything. No exit path means that you’ll die when some chunk of blue ice from a Delta flight drops on the roof and I can’t get to the door in time. I know. It sounds insane, but preparation is key in my world. When you are prepared, fewer things can go wrong.
My girl looked beautiful as we sat. It seemed like mere weeks since she’d been born and she’s now approaching her 14th birthday. Her manicure selection was some bizarre shape and an iridescent color that would have been hugely popular in the 80s. Yikes, they are too long, but whatever. It’s the Thanksgiving holiday and she loves them. I try to say yes whenever I can because life is full of no’s. And, there will be a time, far more important than a pair of janky-ass fake fingernails, where I will have to say no and she better understand that I mean business. I’m basically banking my no’s for when they matter. This is a strategy my mother-in-law hated. Anyway, my girl and I have a great relationship built on respect, communication, trust, and support. She knows I’d take a bullet for her. Plus, she has Pearl’s eyes and high cheekbones.
We concluded our nail extravaganza and opted to hit the local grocery store for a sub sandwich, because that’s what you do in the south during the fall if you’re not watching college football. As I made my way out of the salon, to the car, and through the parking lot to procure lunch, I could feel my anxiety amping up. I was oversaturated, overstimulated, over it all. Pushed myself too hard. It’s awful, this existence. Not really life, but also not not life. I’m in a purgatory where everyone around me is hustling and bustling their way through their world and I’m stuck. Frozen. Scared of everything.
My daughter loves to grab a sandwich and a few groceries by herself. Despite my proclivities to protect her with my body at all times, I have to prepare her for the real world. She’s smart, in tune with her surroundings, and responsible. I trust her implicitly. Well, not the clean her room or close the refrigerator door, but I digress. It was 3 in the afternoon, sunny, and the grocery store is in a safe area. I gave her my American Express card, dropped her at the front, and parked about 5 spots up an aisle. We both have our cell phones and I can track her.
Sitting there wound up and shaking, I decided to listen to the breathing exercise Dr. Mandolin gave me not long ago. The woman that guides the breathing session…yikes. Her voice grates on me like a gazillion little serrated fingernails going down a chalkboard. It’s atrocious. She sounds like a very breathy, sultry, and sex-starved Meryl Streep who happened to have eaten a few too many recreational gummies. Very heavy emphasis on vowels, and it makes my eyeballs hurt listening to her.
Anyway, close my eyes and breathe. The fact that I can make it through the grounding session without vocalizing my desire to strangle the woman in my ears is likely something to be celebrated in Dr. Mandolin’s world. Positive movement, however small, should be noted. The fact that I physically cannot strangle her is not under consideration here. I processed my emotions and kept listening. Eyes closed…in through the nose…out through the….
BAM!
What the actual hell just hit me? I’m sitting, parked, in a rather large SUV, and whatever it was that collided with my vehicle was big enough to startle me out of Meryl’s vocal world. I look over and see some rando guy getting into his rando truck. He had opened his door with such momentum that it shook my entire car when his door hit my front panel. Really? The dimwit was at least backing out. I was panicking so at least I wouldn’t have to see him when I looked at the black paint from his door smudged on my Charlotte. Yes, my car is named Charlotte. York-Goldenblatt if you must know.
I opened my door, walked around the front of my car, and bent over to look. I made no eye contact or movements or signals to the idiot that just hit my car. In an instant he slammed on his breaks, threw his car in park, and got out.
Him: ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?!
Me: No. I’m looking at my car.
Him: That’s an insult. I barely hit your car.
Me: I was in my car with my eyes closed and I could feel it. You hit my car.
Him, 6″ from my face screaming: words words words words
Me: disassociating commencing in 3, 2, 1…
No clue what happened for a few moments. He could have been telling me the secret nuclear codes and I don’t think I would have known.
Moron Man eventually got back in his car, all the while grocery store people were watching, and I just stood there. Tears. Silent tears from my youth. He backed out about 4 feet, then hastily pulled back in the spot, this time much closer to my car. He opened his door but because Moron Man cannot park (see commentary above) he couldn’t exit his car and get around the door without physical acrobatics. He stood and the door to his truck was between us.
Him: words, words, words…
Me: staring, no words
Him: spits in my face (whether it was deliberate or if it’s because he was never taught proper speaking skills and to swallow one’s saliva before going on a diatribe is up for debate)
Me: I don’t know who the hell you think you’re…
Him: Kicks me under the door of his car. My right front shin.
In that moment, that split second in time, everything stopped. But not like it has done so many times in my past. Usually, everything stops and I can take a look around and see people, cars stalled, and a life that was in motion now on pause. Like a Polaroid. But not now. I saw nothing but Moron Man, the black truck door between us, and grocery store employees at 1 o’clock, 5 o’clock (behind me), and 9 o’clock (to my left). An elderly woman sat in her car with the door open and watched. Outside of these people, there are no details.
I came unhinged. Completely unhinged. This man had spit on me and kicked me. In a millisecond, I was a little girl again. I had been hurt by someone without provocation. I didn’t do anything wrong. I have been working so hard on myself, my therapy, my breathing, my emotions, my medications, my nutrition, my relationships, my everything. And Moron Man took all that progress and set it ablaze.
The words that flew out of my mouth were eloquent, slicing, decisive, and brutal. I took no prisoners. I was channeling my inner Pearl without even trying. The good Pearl that always stood up for the little guy. Not the broken Pearl that hurt me so badly. I called Moron Man everything in the book. Called into question his ethics, morals, standards, penis size (yep, I went there), ability to drive, ability to parent, ability to live in civilized society, his age, eyesight (can you see, you fuckwad?), IQ, and the kitchen sink. And he tried to talk over me. Just like Mick did. That was it. The level unhinged I went just got fuel injected.
I threw my keys down, my purse down, my cell phone down. I put my face right into his. At the top of my lungs, I screamed, “you think you’re such a fucking man?!?! I have just endured the 3 worst years of my life. Why don’t you hit me you schoolyard bully? Hit me. Fucking bring it on. Make my day. Or are you too much of a pussy to stand behind your big-man bravado?!?!?! Huh? Huh? Huh? You too scared? That’s what I thought. Be mean and nasty to the woman because you think your penis entitles you to treat others like trash…[more words more words more words].”
All the rage, all the fear, all the anger, all the disappointment, all the sadness, all the second-guessing myself for nearly 5 decades came spewing out at me and right at Moron Man. For the first time in my life, I stood up to the bully. I didn’t take any time to think, I acted. In fact, the rush of adrenaline I had from that event is like nothing I have ever experienced. He got into his car and backed out and left.
Then I completely fell apart. I was skeeved out by Moron Man’s spit on my face and I puked in the grocery store parking lot. Then I instantly started worrying about communicable diseases that live in saliva. I was shaking, my vision went black on the periphery (this happens only in the worst panic attacks), I could feel my pulse in my tongue, and the hair on the back of my neck. I was dizzy, couldn’t speak.
Moron Man was a proxy for Mick. I am dealing with such atrocious baggage from my youth, and all I ever wanted was for Mick to be a dad. My dad. But nope. He was just like Moron Man. Entitled. Believed in his superiority over women. Liked to play the victim when he was in the wrong. I feel nauseous typing this.
After the police, mall security, and store managers set me free, I got in my car with my girl and drove home. That is where the weirdness started.
In my youth, I would be hurt and then I’d do everything in my power to push it down. Fake like it didn’t happen. I’d go over the scenario in my head a dozen times and think of better ways to be a victim. Fucked up, right? Events would be rehashed so that I could be smarter the next time, not get hit as hard, not be called so many bad names, not be treated like trash. I learned so many shortcuts that I could deploy to save me from future harm, physically and mentally. Then a new surge of adrenaline would begin, and this one would embolden me. Keep making my plans. You’ll break free. Stay the course.
But this time, I had my insides fighting each other. The push-it-down me was up against the deal-with-it me. I was instinctively packing the event up to be boxed away in my psyche, but all I could hear was Dr. Mandolin’s voice telling me to deal with events as I had one foot in reality. Let my brain process them in a safe environment. I was at war with myself. Worse yet, I didn’t need to rehash these events for a future crisis. I’m not likely to see Moron Man again. Plans for my escape weren’t needed either. I am safe. In a home. With my family. Pearl and Mick are gone.
This is a very bizarre feeling. Being stripped of ritual. Ritual is what gets you through bad things. They are a safety mechanism. You get used to the rote nature of it all and it becomes a process for moving beyond it and bolstering yourself for the next time. Only this time, I kept trying to go through the steps that were second nature to me only to hit a dead end. I instinctively kept going back to the old ways of coping and kept realizing that my old world and my new world don’t and cannot coexist.
I am bereft of healthy coping skills. The kind that well-adjusted adults would use in the middle of a shitty confrontation with an idiot and immediately thereafter. Worse yet, I was reckless and stupid. What was I thinking? Asking a complete stranger, who was so obviously unhinged, to hit me.
My God, I need to be on Freud’s couch right now.
