Clean Up on Aisle Three

Uncategorized, , , , , , 27 Comments

I am standing in the grocery store on an ordinary Tuesday in October, list in one hand, phone in the other. Like most people, I do not enjoy grocery shopping, especially since my son is usually with me jumping up and down, begging for every single shrink wrapped toy dangling within his reach. But, today, I am alone and for once I am Ed-McMahon-just-rang-my-doorbell-with-a-giant-check thrilled.

I knock items off my list like whacking moles at an arcade:

Cucumbers. Mostly water, good for bloating. Check.
Zucchini for “zoodles,” which my kid will probably hate. Check.
Dark chocolate Dove squares to hide from family in box of tampons. Check.
Cottage cheese–No, hell no. If shame had a flavor it would be this shit.

As I stare down at my “Eat Me” board on Pinterest trying to figure out what to make for dinner I steer my cart full of good intentions into the cereal aisle.

Standing there next to my friends Tony, Snap, Crackle, Pop, and the Cap’n a strange feeling comes over me, slowly at first. It starts in my ears where I can hear my heart beating at about the tempo of a Souza march. I shove my phone and list in my pocket and grip the plastic bar of my cart.

Then, the skin on my chest and neck starts to feel warm and itchy. I unzip my jacket.

Sweat, fulsome and sticky, seeps like lava from my brow, my pits, between Lucy and Ethel and, worst of all, in and around my, uh, box of Trix.

I know I need to move; I’m sure I’m in the way standing there in the middle of the aisle or I will be, but I can’t.

Am I having a heart attack? I have no arm pain, jaw pain, chest pain.

Am I having a stroke? What’s the acronym for that? S.M.I.L.E? F.A.C.E? I know it has something to do with smiling or talking or smelling burnt toast— Fuck, I have no idea.  

I contemplate sitting down right there mid-aisle, but my pride won’t let me. It would be just my luck for someone to snap a viral-worthy photo of me  — “Moist Lady Needs Clean up on Aisle Three.”

I try to accept the discomfort. Be in the moment. You know, “The Power of Now” and all that. But that only makes me more aware of fresh sensations I can’t control—the feeling I’m being strangled by some super villain bent on revenge, for example.  Nope, nope. Fuck Ekhart Tolle. He wouldn’t last a half a second standing in my sensible shoes right now.

Finally, I try to take a few deep breaths:
In for four, out for eight.
In for four, out for eight.
In for four . . .  

I close my eyes for a minute or two or ten or I don’t even know.

When I open them, something inside me has unlocked just enough to have what feels like an epiphany: I need to eat. I need to eat RIGHT NOW. I begin pulling boxes of cereal off the shelf like a contestant on “The Price is Right.”

I skip the rest of the items on my list, go through the do-it-yourself check out line, come home, leave the groceries in the car, except the cereal – Oatmeal Crisp, (AKA “Crack in the Box”) – and pour myself a bowl. And not one of those delicate Crate and Barrel cereal bowls designed for sensible portions. Fuck that shit. I got the biggest, the deepest, the most sinful vessel I could find–The Popcorn Bowl. I don’t even sit down. I stand there at my kitchen counter dumping back more sweet flakey love than I’ve had in a very long time. Years, actually.

Later that night (and well into the next day) I was reminded why I gave up cereal. Let’s just say I had a lot of time to sit in my fortress of porcelain solitude and reflect on (and Google) what happened to me in the grocery store. I had had my first Panic Attack. I spent an obsessive amount of time trying to figure out why it happened — Why then? Why there? Why me? — but what I’ve come to realize is they are called Panic “Attacks,” not Panic “Hey you might wanna not schedule anything important for 9AM next Tuesday,” for a reason. For me, sometimes there are known triggers, but mostly there aren’t.

Many years later as I reflect on what it’s like to live with anxiety, I’d like to say I have found a quick and easy cure like the perfect yoga practice or breathing exercise or self-help book, essential oil, combination of medications that don’t eventually stop working, chamomile-ashwaganda-kava-kava super herb or something. But I haven’t. I mean, all of those things have worked for me at one time or another – well, the kava kava gave me the trots – but nothing took the anxiety away completely.

I’ve come to (mostly) accept my anxious nature, like that quirk you discover your partner has after the honeymoon period. The one that makes you you want to scream “WHY THE HELL ARE YOU LIKE THAT!?” at first but then you decide to love them right past it.

Right now, as I write, I am anxious about how to end this. I am anxious that my tale might seem flip or trite or miss the mark. I feel the weight of responsible storytelling, the weight of getting it “right,” and so I contemplate leaving this one in my drafts folder, like so many tubs of cottage cheese left to rot in the back of my fridge.

Instead, I think I’ll love myself right past this feeling and put it out there, in the hopes that someone, somewhere will feel what I want to feel: less alone.

Linking up to Yeah Write‘s weekly writing challenge. I welcome constructive feedback, so feel free to leave it in the comments.

Image: cereal aisle by Ben McLeod licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

27 thoughts on “Clean Up on Aisle Three”

  4. Ohhh, it’s like you’re in my head. Well, my past self’s head. When anxiety reared it’s ugly head at the worst of times – grocery aisles included. You showed it so perfectly in this. As always, I find your bravery to tell us the dirtiest parts of life so openly and casually. You definitely are not alone. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  5. So glad you shared this. I love your humorous take on anxiety. You sucked me in, making me feel your anxiety, too.

    There so many great one liners in here. But I have to ask, what is a trot?? I drink kava tea all the time now for my anxiety, but I’ve never heard of that. I even googled it, but couldn’t find anything that made sense.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  6. Reading your piece I had no idea what was going to be the cause of your actions. I’ve never had a panic attack, but you pulled me in and made me sweat and eat cereal right along with you and be able to imagine the difficulty that a non sufferer will never truly understand. While I have nothing constructive to say as I feel you’re always amazing, creating a moment when you’re reader is pulled in as you have, communicates more about anxiety than a thousand md articles ever could. Keep up the important work you do.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  8. From personal experience, I knew where you were going with this the moment the strange feeling came over you. Thank God, I’ve never had a panic attack in public, but there is always the first time. I love your line “the weight of responsible storytelling” as I feel that every time I hit the link up button to be on the grid. I’m always so glad when you share what’s in your drafts folder.

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

  9. My panic attacks seem to come in clusters – I have them for a few days and then they leave for months. When I have them, I can’t breathe. I am sucking in air like a bellows but no oxygen is reaching my brain. When it arrives in the middle of the night it drives me out of bed to pace around the house. Nothing works, I’ve tried it all, even meditation but it’s hard to meditate when you can’t breathe. Ditto Yoga. But then one night, as I was staggering around sucking in air like a jet engine, I decided if I can’t breathe then I may as well not do it drunk. Apricot Brandy to the rescue! Two healthy shots and my chest loosened and oxygen finally reached my brain.

    I’m not advocating booze as a treatment for anxiety but in my most severe cases, it helps sometimes. AND….I really like Apricot Brandy.

    Anxiety is a bitch and it’s different for everyone. You have my deepest sympathies. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. Not that I have enemies…..

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    2. And those middle-of-the night ones are the absolute worst. One time I could literally hear my heart go from normal to rapid within seconds. I was like, “I’m JUST LAYING HERE OKAY? NOT RUNNING A FREAKING MARATHON!” Maddening.

      Liked by 1 person

      Reply

  10. You aren’t alone and I’m glad to see that neither am I.
    There are times at the store that I’m happily shopping from my list and then all of the sudden, without warning it hits. Loss of concentration, embarrassment because I’m convinced people know I’m lost or whatever, hot heat from hell itself and the need to leave. Like run. Get out of there. Forget the groceries and eating ever again. Sucks.
    And there are weeks when I don’t have to deal with that crazy person. She’s also a bitch. We hate each other.
    Anyways thanks for sharing. We are not alone. Hey, let’s all go to the store and sit in the cereal isle!!! I like the Cap’n (cereal or rum).

    Like

    Reply

  11. This was quite an accurate description. I have left the grocery store in tears because of my own anxiety. I love that my sister always suggests meditation for it. I actually panic over trying to meditate. My husband often says it must be exhausting to be me. He has no idea. Luckily, he is always there to make sure I get through being me… 🙂

    Liked by 1 person

    Reply

    1. Not you too?! Now it’s your turn to write about what it feels like, if you are comfortable. (Unless you already have.) I often return to your posts over and over to study them and to learn.

      Like

      Reply

Leave a comment