A Shivering, Fuzzy Mess Hiding Behind The Toilet

"Remember: There's nothing you can't change if you just put your mind to it, and no mind you can't change if you just put your fists to it."

No, I'm not referring to some icky out-of-control dust bunny resulting from years of household neglect. The sentiment refers to the Lhasa my mom used to own (R.I.P., Gizzle). Any time this furry little sister of mine would feel overwhelmed or stressed (so, yeah, pretty well anytime a piece of furniture was moved so much as an inch or someone knocked at a neighboring door), she would retreat behind the toilet in the master bathroom.... a shivering, fuzzy mess. Apparently this is somewhat par for the course for this particular breed. Given that, it's possible I'm part Lhasa (and yes, most of them look just like "Gizmo").



This past weekend, I was thrown into a social situation... mentally stripped of my comfort zone. The culprit? My l'il redhead's football game. I made it explicitly clear if I coughed up the money and gave the whole thing my thumbs up, I was not to be subjected to actually bringing him to any of his games. It is not that I don't support HIS social/physical/mental development - I just prefer to casually observe all of this without actually participating. A week beforehand, The Mr. had arranged for a small pack of his friends to come out and help him in constructing a ginormous shed in our backyard. "Oh well, then Van can just skip next Saturday's game then. No biggie".  Yeah, no. It was "picture day" and The Mr. didn't think it wise to allow our son to skip it because of Mama's silly "little" issues.

Kitty has an intense social phobia and an even more intense fear of entering any situation unprepared. The latter is so intense that my 'Ol Man had to at least drive up to the field separately to make sure I knew where in the hell we were supposed to go. As I pulled into the parking lot, my palms were instantly sweating and my heart, racing. Cars. Everywhere. People. EVERYWHERE!!!! Why in the hell didn't I pop one (or a dozen) of my beta blockers before leaving the house!? Furthermore, why didn't I get loaded, as planned, and take a cab up there? I clearly have no shame as I would have been unaffected by reeking of booze at 9:45am on a Saturday. The Mr. smiled and honked as he drove off back to the safety of our home. The bastard.



It was awful. AWFUL. I do not exaggerate - everyone there looked perfectly at home amongst the hoards of people, noise, heat and *shudder* children shuffling this way and that. All I could do beyond forcing a small grin as my son hugged me and ran to meet his team is repeatedly vomit in my mouth. I immediately retreated to the furthest corner of the field and curled up in a fetal position on the grass. After about 3 minutes or so, I texted my husband warning him I would be in need of therapy by the time this was all over to which he replied "LOL". There's absolutely nothing fucking "LOL" about putting me in this situation. It wasn't enough that time was moving backwards as snot-nosed little brats were wandering up to me asking where their mom/dad/the bathrooms/their coach/their dog was...As I gazed off in the distance, there was my l'il guy looking absolutely MISERABLE.

My inner dialogue was debating whether I was perhaps projecting the misery on him - but my heart was aching for him. His coach asked him no less than 5 times what his name was and then he would just stand there in silent horror as all the older kids ran circles around him, repeatedly yanking his flags off just to be shitheads (after all, the poor kid didn't even have the damn ball!). I had selfishly told him upon arriving that if he wanted to leave, we didn't have to tell Papa - we could just escape and heal over ice cream. But he was a trooper. He stuck with it for 1 hour and 52 minutes (but who's counting, right?). By that point, every muscle in my body had seized up in terror and I fully believe my ears were packed full of blood.



The remainder of the weekend was a complete haze - mostly because I did proceed to get entirely smashed in a feeble attempt at recovering. I maintained JUST enough composure to make it through Mother's Day/My Wee One's 2nd birthday with a small level of dignity. And yet, that 1 hour and 52 minutes will forever haunt me.

There really should be a series of Public Service Announcements (it would help if they feature G.I. Joe, Adam West or someone of equal caliber) explaining that social phobias are more than proverbial Tic-Tacs as compared to other diseases. The degree of mine may not be as extreme as most - I'm somewhat able to function working outside my home and occasionally handling quick outings to a grocery store (so long as I'm escorted by someone I trust in case I get the urge to disappear off into the ventilation system). Bars? I have relatively no issues with. My only request is that they be dark, dingy, mostly unoccupied, and that should I need to "break the seal", I don't have to walk past more than exactly 2 patrons.



As I face the upcoming plans to fly out of Denver International Airport (after quite possibly enduring a 1-1/2 hour public shuttle ride up there), I'm beginning to question whether there is enough Valium on the planet to survive it. Should you see me there during this unreasonable mission, it's probably best to avoid eye contact and allow me to move about like a shadow in the night. And now I must go wash my hands for the 6th time this morning as my palms are sweating once again.

*shiver*

No comments:

Post a Comment

Kitty

Monday, May 9, 2011

A Shivering, Fuzzy Mess Hiding Behind The Toilet

"Remember: There's nothing you can't change if you just put your mind to it, and no mind you can't change if you just put your fists to it."

No, I'm not referring to some icky out-of-control dust bunny resulting from years of household neglect. The sentiment refers to the Lhasa my mom used to own (R.I.P., Gizzle). Any time this furry little sister of mine would feel overwhelmed or stressed (so, yeah, pretty well anytime a piece of furniture was moved so much as an inch or someone knocked at a neighboring door), she would retreat behind the toilet in the master bathroom.... a shivering, fuzzy mess. Apparently this is somewhat par for the course for this particular breed. Given that, it's possible I'm part Lhasa (and yes, most of them look just like "Gizmo").



This past weekend, I was thrown into a social situation... mentally stripped of my comfort zone. The culprit? My l'il redhead's football game. I made it explicitly clear if I coughed up the money and gave the whole thing my thumbs up, I was not to be subjected to actually bringing him to any of his games. It is not that I don't support HIS social/physical/mental development - I just prefer to casually observe all of this without actually participating. A week beforehand, The Mr. had arranged for a small pack of his friends to come out and help him in constructing a ginormous shed in our backyard. "Oh well, then Van can just skip next Saturday's game then. No biggie".  Yeah, no. It was "picture day" and The Mr. didn't think it wise to allow our son to skip it because of Mama's silly "little" issues.

Kitty has an intense social phobia and an even more intense fear of entering any situation unprepared. The latter is so intense that my 'Ol Man had to at least drive up to the field separately to make sure I knew where in the hell we were supposed to go. As I pulled into the parking lot, my palms were instantly sweating and my heart, racing. Cars. Everywhere. People. EVERYWHERE!!!! Why in the hell didn't I pop one (or a dozen) of my beta blockers before leaving the house!? Furthermore, why didn't I get loaded, as planned, and take a cab up there? I clearly have no shame as I would have been unaffected by reeking of booze at 9:45am on a Saturday. The Mr. smiled and honked as he drove off back to the safety of our home. The bastard.



It was awful. AWFUL. I do not exaggerate - everyone there looked perfectly at home amongst the hoards of people, noise, heat and *shudder* children shuffling this way and that. All I could do beyond forcing a small grin as my son hugged me and ran to meet his team is repeatedly vomit in my mouth. I immediately retreated to the furthest corner of the field and curled up in a fetal position on the grass. After about 3 minutes or so, I texted my husband warning him I would be in need of therapy by the time this was all over to which he replied "LOL". There's absolutely nothing fucking "LOL" about putting me in this situation. It wasn't enough that time was moving backwards as snot-nosed little brats were wandering up to me asking where their mom/dad/the bathrooms/their coach/their dog was...As I gazed off in the distance, there was my l'il guy looking absolutely MISERABLE.

My inner dialogue was debating whether I was perhaps projecting the misery on him - but my heart was aching for him. His coach asked him no less than 5 times what his name was and then he would just stand there in silent horror as all the older kids ran circles around him, repeatedly yanking his flags off just to be shitheads (after all, the poor kid didn't even have the damn ball!). I had selfishly told him upon arriving that if he wanted to leave, we didn't have to tell Papa - we could just escape and heal over ice cream. But he was a trooper. He stuck with it for 1 hour and 52 minutes (but who's counting, right?). By that point, every muscle in my body had seized up in terror and I fully believe my ears were packed full of blood.



The remainder of the weekend was a complete haze - mostly because I did proceed to get entirely smashed in a feeble attempt at recovering. I maintained JUST enough composure to make it through Mother's Day/My Wee One's 2nd birthday with a small level of dignity. And yet, that 1 hour and 52 minutes will forever haunt me.

There really should be a series of Public Service Announcements (it would help if they feature G.I. Joe, Adam West or someone of equal caliber) explaining that social phobias are more than proverbial Tic-Tacs as compared to other diseases. The degree of mine may not be as extreme as most - I'm somewhat able to function working outside my home and occasionally handling quick outings to a grocery store (so long as I'm escorted by someone I trust in case I get the urge to disappear off into the ventilation system). Bars? I have relatively no issues with. My only request is that they be dark, dingy, mostly unoccupied, and that should I need to "break the seal", I don't have to walk past more than exactly 2 patrons.



As I face the upcoming plans to fly out of Denver International Airport (after quite possibly enduring a 1-1/2 hour public shuttle ride up there), I'm beginning to question whether there is enough Valium on the planet to survive it. Should you see me there during this unreasonable mission, it's probably best to avoid eye contact and allow me to move about like a shadow in the night. And now I must go wash my hands for the 6th time this morning as my palms are sweating once again.

*shiver*

No comments:

Post a Comment