We've all been living in a heightened state as of late and, when I recently watched the horror classic The Tingler, all I kept thinking was that no one living through this past year would need drugs to understand the nature and power of fear. The idea of the fear and anxiety inside being a self-fulfilling, self-fueling monster within is terrifying, especially in these often overwhelming times. But hopefully, we all find the grounding forces in our lives and let them support us when things get too heavy.
MUFFLED
Yawning, you head downstairs to make a cup of coffee. You can hear your mother already puttering around. The sound of clinking mugs and plates grate a bit, but the scent of freshly brewed coffee lures you closer.
“Morning.” Your mother hands you a mug.
You nod and fill your cup, as well as an insulated thermos for your partner, Tai.
“All I’m saying is,” a droning voice on the television says, “it’s just a little convenient that this virus showed up during an election year and now the Shadowy CDC is pushing a rushed vaccine on the public in a desperate attempt to sway the election.”
You roll your eyes. It’s too early for this. “Mom, change the channel.”
She shakes her head and sips from her mug. “I like listening to the news in the morning.”
This isn’t news; it’s talking heads. But you’ve had that argument a thousand times before.
“I don’t trust the vaccine,” the voice continues. “I will not be getting it and anyone who would is gambling with their lives.”
Do yourself a favor; turn off the TV.
You rub the base of your back as a tingling cramp builds, bowing your shoulders forward with a pained grumble. Suddenly, you feel Tai’s fingers press into your back. “You okay?”
You groan and sink into her fingers as they massage the strain. Leaning back, you kiss her lips. “Just tired.”
Her arms wrap around your waist and she lays her cheek on the top of your head, enveloping you in her comfort. She squeezes tightly, making you squeak, and you suddenly feel like you can breathe a bit easier. She kisses your forehead. “Take it easy today.”
Nodding, you hand her the thermos full of coffee. “Be careful.”
She waves her mask at you before putting it on. “I always am.”
As you hear the front door open and close, you go to top off your cup and get ready for your day.
“I don’t know how she does it,” you hear your mom say behind you. “Wearing that thing on her face all day.”
To be honest, neither can you. You hate wearing them even for short trips to the grocery or drug store. But you’re glad she does. She needs to go out everyday for work and you want her to be safe.
The idea of Tai getting sick sends a shudder along your spine. You’ve seen the news stories and social media posts of hospitalized people, hooked up to ventilators and monitors, emaciated and all alone. You recall online articles and televised segments about climbing death tolls and refrigerated trucks filled with bodies like mobile morgues. You’ve read the accounts and interviews of grieving families who never even got to say goodbye.
In the face of that, you don’t really understand how a scrap of constricting cloth could protect Tai but, if the experts say it will, who are you to argue? It has to be better than nothing. Doesn’t it?
You rub your lower back, stress prickling your nerves again.
———
Done with work for the day, you slam your laptop shut and sit up straighter on the bed. You roll your shoulders back and hear—feel—the bones creak and crack. Working from home should make things easier. You’re safe from the virus. You don’t have to dress up or worry about parking or a commute.
So why, some days, does it seem so much harder?
Stretching, your knees hurt, your back is sore, and there’s a throbbing pain in your left temple. You’re just so tired.
Stuck in your home, month after month, it feels like one never-ending workday. A purgatory repetition of the same thing over and over. You feel all that time press on you, each day like grains of sand that pile on top of you without ever passing. You feel buried beneath the crushing weight of them.
Get up.
With a groan, you stand up and stretch. You need to head downstairs to make dinner but, when you open the fridge, you see mostly empty shelves.
You straighten at the sharp chirp of your phone’s notification. Taking it out of your pocket, you look down and read the news alert.
“Will wildfires devastating the coast drive up the price of produce?”
Great. You know that, in news, if it bleeds, it leads, but you wonder where all the good news has gone. Your jaw sets as you grab your purse, your mask, and some reusable totes and head out of the house. You don’t know why you bother. The world is burning and your solution is, what? Cloth bags and efficient lightbulbs. You try to do whatever you can, but none of it feels like enough. When the problem seems so much bigger than you, everything you do feels like a failure.
As you walk to the store, it seems weird being out of the house. You’ve lived in this neighborhood for years now, but a strangeness surrounds the familiar setting as you inhale. The way your mask moves against your face, the cloth pressing in against your lips and nose, makes you feel stifled, almost claustrophobic. Logically, you know you can breathe, but you feel like you can never get enough air. And the air you do get feels invasive as it fills your lungs. While part of you longs to breathe fresh air after being huddled indoors for so long, the air outside no longer feels clean. You know it’s not, but it feels infected. Infectious.
It’s so strange that, when you’re home, all you want is to get out. But, now that you’re out, all you want is to be back home.
When you get to the store, try hard to get in and get out as quickly as possible. Everywhere you look, there are people without masks or with their masks half-hanging off their faces. You swear, you can hear them breathing, great gusts of hot, heavy air blowing through heaving nostrils all around you.
A part of you wants to yell at all of them. Shout and rant like all those viral videos you see online. You can feel the need to scream simmering beneath your skin.
But you don’t. You feel like you can’t. Social niceties feel like a tether around your throat, your angry words choking you as you try to swallow them down. The mask, now moist against your mouth with your own droplets from every exhalation, feels like a gag, holding back all the frustration and rage boiling inside you.
As you wait in the checkout line, you stare at all the magazines with huge high-def covers of hospitalized people crammed into overwhelmed facilities, and of political protesters being beaten and gassed in their neighborhood streets, and of those in power too busy bickering to do anything about any of it. Even the pretty ones, featuring glossy spreads of professionally styled stars and glamorously made-up celebrities, seem like a desperate attempt to pretend nothing’s wrong. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, like some easily cracked candied shell trying to conceal a rotten core.
You jump when an arm reaches for one of those magazines. It’s been so long since a stranger has been this close to you. Their arm hair feels like some kind of insect, making your skin crawl. Their body heat feels oppressive against the chill racing through you. You flinch away, covering your shoulder with your hand. But, as you do, your knuckles brush against their skin. You feel the slight contact like a punch to the gut. You want to scream. You want to push him back. You want to shove him six feet away.
Don’t. Just get out of there.
Once at the register, you throw all your groceries onto the conveyor belt. Gritting your teeth, you watch the cashier touch and scan each item, their fingers gripping and grasping at your things. When you hand over your card, their fingers nudge yours awkwardly.
Some young kid takes your totes from your cart and grabs your food, packing it into the bags. You want to stop her. Want to tell her that you’ll do it. But her hands are already touching everything. Frowning behind your mask, you stand back and wordlessly watch as you feel a sick feeling slither up your spine. Don’t shout. Don’t cause a scene. She’s just doing her job. Be grateful.
As soon as all your bags are packed, you politely thank them before grabbing your things and slinging them over your shoulders. Rush out of the store. Get outside. Breathe.
Except you can’t. Not comfortably. Not with the feel of your damp mask against your skin, clammy as it clings to your face. Not with the need to scrub everything—your food, your bags, your body—down making your skin prickle.
The bags on your shoulders drag on your back as you begin your walk home, making every step heavy. You swear you can feel the small, tingly pinch from earlier grow and climb up your back. The strain stretches as if sinking claws that dig and clutch along your spine. You feel it drain on you, making your body weak and sluggish.
You pause to adjust the bags, hoping you haven’t hurt yourself. The last thing you need is a trip to the doctor or, God forbid, the ER. You have insurance, sure, but even small medical emergencies could financially crush people. Plus, during a pandemic, a hospital or clinic filled with sick people, seems like the last place you want to be.
Just imagine going to the doctor only to get sick! If that happens, what would happen to Tai, to your mom? Your mother is seventy and has health problems, putting her at an already higher risk. And, if you got sick and couldn’t work, Tai could never take care of all three of you on her income alone. Your thoughts spiral as you picture your life—all your lives—crumbling.
Just get home. You grit your teeth and focus on the walk. The sooner you get home, the better. Pain shoots up your back and you remember hearing from somewhere—the news or a coworker or someone—that unusual aches and soreness are one of the symptoms of the virus.
Your anxious fingers fumble with your keys as you, still juggling your groceries, clumsily unlock and shove open your door. Once inside, you drop all your groceries on the floor and lean against the door.
You need to wash your groceries, throw your clothes and bags into the washer, and take a shower. This is your new normal. Your routine that, no matter how many times you’ve done it, still feels strange. But, for the moment, what you really need is to breathe. Yanking your mask off, you can hear your keys jangle in your shaky hands. Your knees wobble as they threaten to buckle beneath you. You can feel your heart racing and your lungs heave. Breathe.
As you press your back against the hardwood door, the sore tension there feels like a fist tightening its grip while it climbs your spine. Not knowing what else to do, you push against the hardwood and pray for it to stop.
———
You look up when you hear the door slam.
Cutting through the scent of dinner cooking, something sickly sweet wafts in as Tai storms through the kitchen. You see the huge brown stain all over her shirt and splattered over her pants. “What happened?”
She shakes her head angrily as she strips off her shirt. “Some jerk threw his soda cup at me from his car.”
You frown. “Why would someone do that?”
Her shoulders tense and hunched, she shoots a glare at you. “Why do you think?” Her hands are shaking as they fist the stained fabric. Her jaw is clenched as if holding back a flood of furious words.
You want to tell her to let it loose. To scream and shout as much as she wants. She has every right. As a white woman partnered with an Asian woman, you’ve seen racism. Even witnessed it—in family members, coworkers, and strangers—in ways you never had before you met Tai.
But none of that compares to what Tai has experienced her whole life. And now…
As uncertain and treacherous as the world might seem for you, it’s so much worse for her. Not only does she have to deal with all the same dangers as you, with the virus and social tumult, there were people out there who, because of her race, blamed her for those dangers. As if it’s somehow her fault the world was turned upside down.
This isn’t the first time someone has taken their rage and fear and frustration out on her. It’s one of the reasons why you don’t hold hands or kiss or show much affection with each other in public, even before quarantine. The looks and comments you’d hear from total strangers broke your heart. And scared you, if you’re honest. You’ll never understand how people could look at your love and feel hate. How they could look at your beautiful, smart, caring partner and think she’s less than amazing. Helpless rage surges through you because there is nothing you can do about it.
You wish you knew what to do, what to say. But you don’t and every time you’ve tried to comfort her, you end up so upset that she has to console you. Making you just one more burden she has to bear. And you don’t want to do that to her. So you press your lips together tight, swallowing it all down as you try to keep it all contained.
She looks at you over her shoulder. “You might want to check on the food.”
You turn and notice smoke rising from the pot of simmering meat you have on the stove. Quickly, you turn down the heat and wave the haze away. Which is all undone, when you lift the pot’s cover to check the state of the food, and a steaming cloud surrounds you. You step back and cough. Well, there goes dinner.
As you frantically open the window and try to fan the burnt fog out, you see Tai bent over the sink, trying to rinse her ruined shirt out. Her back is bent and her shoulders are hunched. You gasp.
You blink as the smoke burns your eyes, trying to clear your teary vision. It can’t be. It’s not possible.
Yet you swear—for a second—you saw something move along the strong curve of Tai’s back. Some strange slither that started at the base of her back just beneath her skin and snaked up her spine.
You wipe your eyes with the back of your palms and force your gaze to focus. But, by the time the smoke clears, whatever you saw—if you even saw it—is gone, leaving nothing but smooth, sleek skin.
You shake your head, feeling foolish.
But, as you feel the echo of that slinking slide squeeze all along the column of your back, you wonder if what you saw really did disappear. Or if it just settled deeper.
———
You stare at the email from the president of your company. She waited until the end of the day to send it. You almost missed it as you were ready to log off.
But you saw it.
“Effective immediately, the governor is lifting most of the state’s restrictions. While case numbers are still high, hospitalizations and deaths are trending down, so we agree with the governor that we cannot allow fear of the virus to ruin our great state’s economy. Starting next week, we will open our offices again. We expect all employees not experiencing symptoms to report to the office for their regular hours. If you are experiencing symptoms, please stay home, using your PTO. See you soon!”
Sitting up straight on your bed, you stare at your laptop disbelieving. How can they do this? The pandemic isn’t over. Not even close. The vaccine isn’t even available yet. The infection rates are still horrifyingly high. And your boss wants to cram dozens of employees into tightly packed cubicles. You already know at least a handful of people, including your boss, who will refuse to wear masks. And, once they do, you know more and more will follow suit.
You recoil as your mind fills with the sound of your coworkers’ heavy breathing surrounding you. You want to scrub your skin raw at just the thought of hundreds of unwashed hands touching unsanitized surfaces. Handing you papers. Borrowing your pens and stapler. Using your phone. Shaking your hand. You feel boxed in as you imagine standing too close to people in packed elevators or while passing the printer or in line at the public restroom. Every sneeze or cough in that office would feel like a siren as it spread germs and droplets around the space.
The tension twinging along your back seems to clench your throat and grip your heart. You gasp for breath. You feel irrational. Out of your mind and out of control. As if all the fear you’ve held inside for so long has risen to the surface and is threatening to overtake you.
Tell yourself to calm down. You can’t panic. If you do, your mother will and she’ll worry herself sick. So stop it. Right now. Just don’t be too disappointed when, after living in this agitated state for so long, your exhausted body simply can’t.
So instead get up and close the door. As it clicks shut, try not to feel the world loom in around you.
You wish Tai was here. The one person in the whole world who it feels safe to hold and be held by. You wish you could tell her everything, to let all this dread dragging you down spill out.
But, if it spills out of you, wouldn’t that mean it would pour onto her? You imagine every dark thought, every tarred, black word, slip from your lips only to stick sickeningly thick onto her. It would seep into her, attaching itself to her, feeding off of her. You feel ill.
You buckle over onto the bed, the weight of it all crushing. Burying your face in your pillow, you scream. As loud as you can. As long as you can. Then you do it again. And again. And again. You shriek, forcing all the darkness inside you out, and smother it into the pillow.
You stop when a hand touches your back. Feeling lightheaded, you turn to see Tai sitting on the bed beside you. When had she gotten here?
She strokes your back. “You feel better?”
You swallow, your throat scratchy and dry. You feel tired. Drained. Empty. Is that better? You shrug.
“You want to talk about it?”
You bite your lips. “I don’t want to be a burden.”
“You’re not a burden.” Tai’s hand stops for a moment before it continues to rub your back, soothing the tension there. “You’re my partner. A burden is something you’re forced to carry. A partner is the person who helps you carry it.” She pulls you close and hugs you tightly. “Let me help you. Talk to me.”
So you do. Tucked in the safety of her embrace, you let every worry and fear and doubt out. You give voice to all the chaos that’s been roiling inside you. And, instead of sticking to her, you feel it wash off of you as you cry on her shoulder. You feel the tight tweak of tension unclench inside you, uncoiling itself from your spine, leaving your body weak but free.
It’s still there, that strain, that buzzing tingle. You can feel it settle and rest, like a sleeping beast at the base of your back. But it no longer feels bigger than you, no longer overwhelms you. With Tai’s body wrapped around yours, she gives you strength. There’s nothing more powerful than the two of you together.
When you run out of words, you let her just hold you as you savor your small haven in her arms from the rest of the world. Even in the quiet, with her as your anchor, you don’t feel empty. Instead, for the first time in a long time, you feel light.
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