CV19: The Yelling Man
We walked the aisles in our masks, breathing warm air that fogs our glasses. No contact, swerving deference to all whom we encounter. Nods and a raise of eyebrow convey a greeting, acknowledgement. All is normal.
Until a woman and her small child, tucked into the front seat of the grocery cart, split the 10-foot difference between the two “lanes” in the refrigerated area of the store, and she walks down the middle.
The man on the right, upon removing his head and upper body from the refrigerator case, sees her placidly making her way within 4.5 feet of him, swirls on his heel, and shouts, “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! DON’T ANY OF YOU KNOW HOW TO KEEP SIX FEET! FUCK THIS! FUCK YOU! WHAT THE HELL! SIX FEET PEOPLE! SIX! STAY AWAY FROM ME! He’s waving his arms, neck taut and vein bulging. If we could see his mouth under the mask, would it be frothing?
He slams the glass door and grabs his cart. I am frozen in place. Other shoppers move along, as if nothing has happened. I wonder, how do I get far enough away from this guy? We veer left toward a gap on the opposite side.
This was the second rage incident of our day.
Just an hour before, on the way to the store, a man in a black Audi wagon with a bike on the back rack, was tailgating me. I sped up to 5 mph over the speed limit and he kept pace, getting closer and closer until I couldn’t see his headlights in my rear view mirror. But I could see his face clearly and he was angry. He waved his right hand in a WTF, move! gesture (palm up, then shoving it forward). So I put my signal on and pulled over to the wide shoulder on the side of the road next to a farm. As he passed, I glanced left and he was shouting something over at us through his closed window, continuing to wave his hands in frustration. So, no, he wasn’t on the phone or with someone else. His rage was directed at my car, me.
Our lives moved on, sequestered back at home with family, big slobbery dog, and a refreshed supply of comfort food.
Until nighttime. I couldn’t sleep and woke at 1 am with nightmares and feeling like I needed to check the house, the security cameras. My body would not settle down. I got a drink of water. I pulled on the weighted blanket. I tossed and turned in fits and bouts of jumpy sleep until 4:30 am. Awake again at 7, then one last plea for rest. I woke up exhausted just in time for my 9 am call and kept the zoom video off.
I pushed through the day, feeling at times on the verge of tears. Feeling inexplicably afraid and unfocused and angry and jumpy. I’m just overtired, I told myself. As the day went on, my ability to hold information, to understand a sentence I was reading, to find words, got worse until I just couldn’t anything anymore.
That afternoon I took my computer and headset to my car in the garage and sat waiting, in the only place I could get a moment of true privacy, for my therapist. She clicked in to our video chat, said hello, and instead of responding in words, I just cried, sloppy indiscreet tears.
This hour of time with an expert in trauma was where I learned that I was having a PTSD response. Those aggressive, emotionally violent experiences with strangers triggered something deep in me, waking up old nightmares and slicing anew wounds that are still healing.
The best thing for me to do is to stop pushing through my to-do list and commitments and to take a break to let my system come to a place of safety and calm again. This takes longer than I’d like, but time is the necessary medicine.
I didn’t teach my writing workshop. I didn’t publish one of the thirty pieces I have drafted over the last month. I didn’t make excuses that diminish my needs. I didn’t try to please others, or look and act OK.
I am sharing what happened and what is real. I froze emotionally and physically when I encountered these angry people. I lied to myself saying that I was fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, that I could handle it. So I am letting my feelings rise to the surface and exist so they are released from tapping the worn, sensitive PTSD vein over and over again.