Ugh. It’s been a hard evening for me because of that visit to the state-appointed psychiatrist who thinks that depression and anxiety are the only mental illnesses. [Eyeroll.] If he overturns my disability, it should be easy to appeal and point out what limited space I was given to explain what happens when I go to work.
The evening got worse, though. It’s coming up on 8:30 now, and I just got back from the drugstore. LuLu has been wound up all evening because I was too stressed out to walk her properly today despite multiple opportunities. So I dragged her with me to the drugstore and tethered her outside to a post.
The problem was that while I was in the store, I needed to get out quickly and rescue my ornery dog. Here’s what went wrong. I got in the regular lane because I was paying with cash and their self-service stations only take credit/debit. I shot a death beam into the neck of the slow guy who was taking forever to pay ahead of me.
When I walked up to the counter, I had my usual paranoid stance of here’s my item, let’s get this over with so that you can avoid polluting my energy. Nothing personal.
The cashier freakin’ got mad at me. First, she took forever counting my exact change. Then she used hand sanitizer, which I thought was odd, because she hadn’t put my change into the register yet. Poor planning? Then she said to me, “Do you have a problem talking to me?”
I was taken aback. “What?”
She repeated herself.
“I have a problem talking to everyone,” I said in a nasal voice. “I’m paranoid.”
“No, you’re not! I’ve seen you talking to other people.”
This is possible, but if true, I was probably trying to force some marginal social normalcy. That, or she saw me talking to my dad. He goes to the drugstore with me all the time. It’s right around the corner. Hard to know.
“No, I’m not making this up,” I insisted. “I’m… I’m really paranoid.”
She scoffed and handed me my bag. “Here you go.”
I retreated, but I couldn’t shut up. “I’m not making this up! It’s true! SCHIZOPHRENIC!” I waved my arms around in despair. And at this beautiful junction, I found myself in the direct line of fire of the security camera that hangs over the front door. Add that to your greatest freak-outs, Meg. They’ll be showing that in sensitivity training for years to come.
And then I fled.
I was wondering if anything would happen this January to rival last year’s candy theft, and this contends!
I feel bad for her. I hurt her feelings, obviously, but it was so unintentional, and my mind was on my tethered dog outside, and I was unable to hone in on my intuitive inner voice that was saying that she was upset. So I made a scene.
If that woman’s thinking, oh, holy hell, she was telling the truth and I didn’t believe her, well, I feel bad for her. I really do. I never meant to hurt her feelings. I’m distant from cashiers because they’re facing right into my energetic field, and it hurts if I let them in. Too much pollution.
I don’t find this remotely amusing. I swear, I’m not laughing at all. Not even a little bit. Why? Because it’s not funny.
Okay, it’s a little funny.
Oh, hell. I’ve been turning over the day’s events with my dad, Mr. Brains, and he’s convinced that the disability guy is going to maintain my disabled status. Mr. Brains thinks that my casual talk of pollution and coworkers becoming animals ought to do the trick. I hope he’s right.