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brightlotusmoonI am still trying to find words. I need to get this out.
I have a pathological fear of ice. Ice on streets, sidewalks, anywhere I could slip and fall. Ice sends me into panic attacks.
When I got to the Shady Grove metro station, where I would ride the bus home, the icy rain was still falling. Everything was covered in sheets of ice. Warnings blared over the metro intercom system. People were actually taking them seriously.
The bus dropped me off across the street, and one of my neighbors got off with me. He took my hand and helped me off the curb, and we carefully walked across the street, which did not have a crosswalk, or a traffic light, or a stop sign, just a curving yellow line in the middle of the road where pedestrians could safely wait to finish crossing.
From, there, my panic began to very slowly mount. I began to walk very slowly, a mix of crab-scuttling, baby steps, and a crouching march. The only safe places to walk were the dirt, the grass. Gradually I made it to the curb that led to the parking lot, where the townhouse mailboxes were. I had to get to my mailbox. I knew it was bursting with mail, because I'd forgotten to get the mail yesterday, and we get a lot of junk mail.
I stepped off the curb and felt the ice beneath my boots. The panic rose. And thus began a slow, shaking journey. I will not embellish nor exaggerate my perceptions or emotions here. Laugh if you must, shake your head and say, silly girl, it's just ice, who cares if you fall, just pick yourself up. Say that when you have several chronic illnesses that cause intense pain, soreness, and fatigue, when you know that even a slip and fall might lead to a hospital trip. Say that when you have a mind-numbingly severe terror associated with ice on the streets that you cannot just make gone. For some people, walking across icy streets is nothing scary. That's fine. For me, like many others, it is intense and horrifying.
I managed, somehow, to make it to my mailbox, clinging desperately to cars layered in ice, feeling my breath drag through my lungs. My gloves were sticky with ice, my fingers completely numb and nearly bloodless. I jabbed my key into the lock of my small box, grabbed the bunches of mail and stuffed everything into the plastic shopping bag that held my still closed mini umbrella. And then I began the desperate journey to the other side of the parking lot, to the sidewalk, to the grass, that would lead to my house.
There was nothing to grab. There was nothing to hold onto, besides ice-covered cars. There was nobody there. There was only me.
I made it to the strip of grass and dirt and slowly crept across it. I then had to step off that curb and get across the asphalt with nothing to lean against, nothing but the street. And the panic flooded me. I burst into tears. I bent over, gasping raggedly, clutching my purse and that bulging plastic shopping bag. I crouched there in the grass and the shadows, whimpering. I cried shakily for a while, hysterically, in huge gulps, pleading with unseen deities to help me, to help me get through this, pleading with myself. I forced myself to calm down, because there was no one else. There was only me. If I didn't get myself across that parking lot, I'd be out there for hours, in the cold and rain and ice.
Baby steps. Crouching down so low that I must have looked very strange. Yes, I could have just let myself go, slide, slip, fall. But no, I would not. I was too overcome with sheer terror. And I would make it to that sidewalk. No falls, no bruises, no pain. I would prove it.
And then I stepped onto an island of grass and dirt. I let out a shuddering, breathy sob. I kept going. The beige sidewalk was not as bad, but still dangerous. I kept to the side, in the grass, baby marching steps, clinging to fences of neighbor's houses. I got to my fence. I made it to my front door. I opened the door. I got inside my house.
I stood there in shock for a moment. I walked into the living room. I said hello to Jupiter, who meowed. I put my things on the couch and unzipped my coat. I noticed two open Budweiser beer cans on the table, and I made myself get irritated at the person or people who left them there. Because irritation was better than fear and panic. I took the beers, which still had beer in them, to the sink, then the trash. I told myself that the next time I spoke to my roommate and his friend who'd slept in the living room last night, I would politely but firmly remind them that in grown-up houses, we empty out and throw our beer cans and beer bottles in the trash when we are finished with them, that this is not a frat house. I held onto that irritation, because I needed something to keep that panic at bay. I was still shaking.
I went upstairs with my purse and coat and put those on my bed. I went into the side room to check on Penelope. Someone had moved her food and water bowls, and both were empty. I gritted my teeth, moved the bowls back into place, and filled them. I played with her for a bit. I got a plastic bag and scooped out her litter box. I took the bag downstairs and scooped out the two litter boxes in the doorless closet by the stairs. I tied off the bag and threw it in the trash. I washed my hands. I found the other two cats and picked them up one by one and held them. I came back to the living room and sat down at my laptop and turned my laptop on, and logged into LiveJournal, and began writing this.
In a few minutes, I will go into the kitchen and wash the dishes. I will make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I will eat my sandwich. I will wish I had Entenmann's mini chocolate donuts and cheesy garlic bread or French bread pizza. And I will eventually stop shaking.
I understand that some of you may want to offer me tips and advice, but I am okay, and right now I just want to congratulate myself on not having a complete screaming nervous breakdown in the middle of a frozen parking lot. I know I need to face my fears and remain calm and all that, and I did face such fear -- I got myself home. That is what matters.
I have mentioned that I hate winter, yes? Yes, I believe I have.
Fin.
I have a pathological fear of ice. Ice on streets, sidewalks, anywhere I could slip and fall. Ice sends me into panic attacks.
When I got to the Shady Grove metro station, where I would ride the bus home, the icy rain was still falling. Everything was covered in sheets of ice. Warnings blared over the metro intercom system. People were actually taking them seriously.
The bus dropped me off across the street, and one of my neighbors got off with me. He took my hand and helped me off the curb, and we carefully walked across the street, which did not have a crosswalk, or a traffic light, or a stop sign, just a curving yellow line in the middle of the road where pedestrians could safely wait to finish crossing.
From, there, my panic began to very slowly mount. I began to walk very slowly, a mix of crab-scuttling, baby steps, and a crouching march. The only safe places to walk were the dirt, the grass. Gradually I made it to the curb that led to the parking lot, where the townhouse mailboxes were. I had to get to my mailbox. I knew it was bursting with mail, because I'd forgotten to get the mail yesterday, and we get a lot of junk mail.
I stepped off the curb and felt the ice beneath my boots. The panic rose. And thus began a slow, shaking journey. I will not embellish nor exaggerate my perceptions or emotions here. Laugh if you must, shake your head and say, silly girl, it's just ice, who cares if you fall, just pick yourself up. Say that when you have several chronic illnesses that cause intense pain, soreness, and fatigue, when you know that even a slip and fall might lead to a hospital trip. Say that when you have a mind-numbingly severe terror associated with ice on the streets that you cannot just make gone. For some people, walking across icy streets is nothing scary. That's fine. For me, like many others, it is intense and horrifying.
I managed, somehow, to make it to my mailbox, clinging desperately to cars layered in ice, feeling my breath drag through my lungs. My gloves were sticky with ice, my fingers completely numb and nearly bloodless. I jabbed my key into the lock of my small box, grabbed the bunches of mail and stuffed everything into the plastic shopping bag that held my still closed mini umbrella. And then I began the desperate journey to the other side of the parking lot, to the sidewalk, to the grass, that would lead to my house.
There was nothing to grab. There was nothing to hold onto, besides ice-covered cars. There was nobody there. There was only me.
I made it to the strip of grass and dirt and slowly crept across it. I then had to step off that curb and get across the asphalt with nothing to lean against, nothing but the street. And the panic flooded me. I burst into tears. I bent over, gasping raggedly, clutching my purse and that bulging plastic shopping bag. I crouched there in the grass and the shadows, whimpering. I cried shakily for a while, hysterically, in huge gulps, pleading with unseen deities to help me, to help me get through this, pleading with myself. I forced myself to calm down, because there was no one else. There was only me. If I didn't get myself across that parking lot, I'd be out there for hours, in the cold and rain and ice.
Baby steps. Crouching down so low that I must have looked very strange. Yes, I could have just let myself go, slide, slip, fall. But no, I would not. I was too overcome with sheer terror. And I would make it to that sidewalk. No falls, no bruises, no pain. I would prove it.
And then I stepped onto an island of grass and dirt. I let out a shuddering, breathy sob. I kept going. The beige sidewalk was not as bad, but still dangerous. I kept to the side, in the grass, baby marching steps, clinging to fences of neighbor's houses. I got to my fence. I made it to my front door. I opened the door. I got inside my house.
I stood there in shock for a moment. I walked into the living room. I said hello to Jupiter, who meowed. I put my things on the couch and unzipped my coat. I noticed two open Budweiser beer cans on the table, and I made myself get irritated at the person or people who left them there. Because irritation was better than fear and panic. I took the beers, which still had beer in them, to the sink, then the trash. I told myself that the next time I spoke to my roommate and his friend who'd slept in the living room last night, I would politely but firmly remind them that in grown-up houses, we empty out and throw our beer cans and beer bottles in the trash when we are finished with them, that this is not a frat house. I held onto that irritation, because I needed something to keep that panic at bay. I was still shaking.
I went upstairs with my purse and coat and put those on my bed. I went into the side room to check on Penelope. Someone had moved her food and water bowls, and both were empty. I gritted my teeth, moved the bowls back into place, and filled them. I played with her for a bit. I got a plastic bag and scooped out her litter box. I took the bag downstairs and scooped out the two litter boxes in the doorless closet by the stairs. I tied off the bag and threw it in the trash. I washed my hands. I found the other two cats and picked them up one by one and held them. I came back to the living room and sat down at my laptop and turned my laptop on, and logged into LiveJournal, and began writing this.
In a few minutes, I will go into the kitchen and wash the dishes. I will make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I will eat my sandwich. I will wish I had Entenmann's mini chocolate donuts and cheesy garlic bread or French bread pizza. And I will eventually stop shaking.
I understand that some of you may want to offer me tips and advice, but I am okay, and right now I just want to congratulate myself on not having a complete screaming nervous breakdown in the middle of a frozen parking lot. I know I need to face my fears and remain calm and all that, and I did face such fear -- I got myself home. That is what matters.
I have mentioned that I hate winter, yes? Yes, I believe I have.
Fin.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 12:54 am (UTC)You do what you gotta do.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 12:58 am (UTC)Thank you.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 03:15 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 12:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 01:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 08:00 am (UTC)You *did* it though. You didn't collapse, you didn't give up and scream for help, you just kept putting one shaky foot in front of the other and you got home.
Good work! I think you earned more than peanut butter and jelly!
((hugs))
no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 03:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-13 10:09 pm (UTC)On a lighter note-- you can always give the lower latitudes a try. I prefer not going too far above about 30° N myself. :)
no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 12:59 am (UTC)I will give you advice, neverless. Buy some yak tracks. They are portable, and give you unending grip on ice. I wore them into work today from the car and the difference was unbelievable.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-14 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-15 03:58 pm (UTC)at least when they are helpful, you can be profoundly grateful for them!