Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

Paranoia, Pandemic, Panic

I have paranoia.  It’s mild, as these things go, and oddly specific - I’m convinced that people see me and whisper cruelly, judgmentally, laughing at how fat, how ungainly, how poorly put together and ridiculous I look.  They whisper and giggle and watch me bumble through life and thank their deities that they aren’t me.  

Along that vein, Paranoia also tells me that people wish I would just.  shut.  up.  No one wants to hear it, no one cares, good grief would I please be quiet and better yet, go away?

I’m not worried that anyone is out to get me.  Instead, I know that people are judging me and finding me wanting in every way.

It’s the nature of the beast, and I struggle to gentle it - it’ll never be tame.

Then there’s panic.  Not like panic attacks or generalized fear (which are horrid in and of themselves), but more like targeted, herd panic.  Y2K was a struggle against myself.  Daily I had to tell myself not to give in to the hysteria.  The quiet voice of reassurance in my mind told me we’d be ok, but it was nearly drowned out by the noisy jangling of fear mongers and conspiracy theorists.  I avoided a tinfoil hat and a bunker, but it’s possible I stocked up on a few things, just in case.

These days, it’s COVID19.  Conflicting reports from experts in epidemiology, medical professionals, people inside the afflicted areas, combined with a media feeding frenzy, are saturating my world and poking the bear.  I’m fighting the rising tide of “Omg, I’m going to die because I’m older, fat, at risk, not worth saving!” created by tales of overwhelmed hospitals, sick staff treating sicker patients, limited resources quickly running out, and having to decide who to spend those resources on, who gets the respirator and who will have to wait.

Believe it or not, I’m high risk for complications if I catch this monster.  I know, right?  I meet several of the criteria for higher fatality risk.  Go, me.  I’m low priority on the treatment scale, though - middle-aged, non-productive, I don’t do or make anything necessary to society (by current standards) and am not considered terribly valuable in the grand scheme.  If a choice has to be made, it’s unlikely I’d make the cut.  Superfluous, me.  So there’s that.

Then there’s the concern over every day things like food, water, daily medications.  Stock up.  Don’t stock up.  Panic.  Don’t panic.  Wear a mask and gloves.  Don’t wear a mask and gloves.  It’s in the air, no, it’s on surfaces, no, it’s transmitted by touch.  It can survive for long periods without a host, no, it cannot.

The quiet voice reminds me that we have food and water in preparation for short-to-medium term disasters, and because of how Mom and I both regularly shop in bulk, enough toilet paper and paper towels for half the year.  We might run out of laundry detergent in a month, but if we WERE quarantined and had to stay home, we could just go nekkid so no laundry, right?  I have a backstock of some medication and enough of other meds to get me through a month before I really need a refill or rationing.  I am part of a large and widespread community in which we all help and support each other.  We will, together, be ok.

Poor quiet voice, trying so hard.

The cacophony is rising over the whisper, pushing the panic button, pounding on it with hammers, screaming at me to...what?  Act blindly, run this way and that, hoard, isolate, hide, hide, hide!

So easy to give in.  I’m tired, depression has its teeth deep into me, I hurt all the time; giving  in to the paranoia would make for a nice, destructive distraction.  But I can’t.  Kids, cats, Mom, friends, they’d get caught in the periphery.  It’s not right to inflict this on them...and grasping that sense of loverightnesscommunity helps me keep from letting go, dropping off the cliff, and landing with a resounding splat.

My armor in this war is simple - research coupled with faith.  Study, learn, ask, filter, process, repeat often.  Believe - in myself, in my ability to learn and adapt, in the people whom I love and who love me, in the basic decency nestled in every soul, in my immune system and my body’s remarkable ability to overcome and recover, and, yes, in my deities.  It’s flimsy armor, but it has worked in the past and it’s all I have, so I’ll use it.  I will survive.  WE will survive.

I.  Will. Not.  Panic. 

Now, where’s that tin foil?