Content Warning: Description of a panic attack

I can’t go to the grocery store anymore. I’m hiding in the car, crying without a tissue to wipe my snot and swiping away my feelings on my phone because I couldn’t survive shopping in a damn supermarket.

My whole life I’ve lived with OCD and anxiety, but THIS, this was new.

A gush of cool air, heavy with an artificial scent, hit me as we stepped inside just an hour ago. The automated doors clapped shut behind us, leaving the sticky summer heat lingering in the parking lot. ShopRite was marinated in disinfectant but still felt unclean. After wiping it down, my husband pushed the cart. I threw everything in. I picked some nectarines and plums, chose my favorite sushi, and grabbed hummus and pita chips. I did this as quickly as possible. The avocados were mushy. I’d live without them.

We drew deeper into the store, into the sea of masked faces, following the trail of red arrows taped on the tiles. I didn’t want to follow the arrows— other people weren’t—but my husband insisted. I dug my fingernails into my palms, sensing only pressure since I’d bitten them to the skin. We rolled down the cereal aisle, up the snacks aisle, across the meat section. He asked if I wanted chicken breasts or thighs for dinner. I grabbed whatever was closer, sidestepping to avoid a mother wrangling her two sons.

In the next aisle, the carts were at a standstill, but we couldn’t get to the pasta without that detour. I bounced up and down on my toes. I tugged at the zipper on my jacket pocket. I considered pulling out my phone to check the time but reminded myself I wasn’t allowed to touch it. I unzipped my pocket. I zipped my pocket. Eventually, we reached our prize: lasagna noodles.

It was when we turned into the freezer aisle that everything went to shit. I made it a few steps before stopping abruptly beside the pizza bagels.

The two boys whining and pulling their mother’s arms were still trailing us.  Except  I  couldn’t  ignore  them  now.  Every  scream  from  the  kids,  every freezer door slamming, every notification ding from someone’s phone was a physical assault on my body. The customer talking on speaker in the next aisle was intentionally tormenting me. Even our shopping cart with the click, click, click of its wheels was an attack.

It all hit me at once.

I was being stabbed over and over. Every sound was another jab of a needle through my eardrum, radiating hot waves of pain across my body.

My knees were weak, and my legs wouldn’t move. I maintained eye contact with a box of Bagel Bites. Made with real cheese. Breathe in. No artificial flavors. Breathe out. No high fructose corn syrup. Someone slid their hand in the door and snatched the box off the shelf. It crashed into their cart.

My chest tightened.

I was going to faint. I needed to rip my mask off. I couldn’t breathe.

The pain made me want to curl into a ball, disappearing my body from that place. It made me want to yell at all the people and all their noise and all their inconsideration to just shut up. SHUT UP. Because didn’t they know what they were doing to me?

Here in the parking lot, this car is my haven from the harsh world outside the yellow lines of its designated space. The familiar rhythm of my heart is returning. The heaviness in my chest dissipates. My lungs are no longer constricted. My thoughts have space to breathe again. My mind untangles. I am back in control.

I hate to say it, but sometimes I wish quarantine would never end. That’s a lie.

It’s not sometimes. It’s all the time.

If quarantine lasted forever, then I wouldn’t have to leave home again. I wouldn’t have to smile when I’m not happy. I wouldn’t have to touch elevator buttons. I wouldn’t have to use public bathrooms. I wouldn’t have to shake hands. I wouldn’t have to hug. I wouldn’t have to hug! I wouldn’t have to go to loud parties with so many people I can’t think. I wouldn’t have to deal with weird looks when I go to the movies in my noise-canceling headphones. I wouldn’t have to risk dying in a horrible car accident. I wouldn’t have to worry. Every minute. Every day.

I would be safe.

And next time, my groceries would be delivered.

Marisa Russello  promises  she  doesn’t  like  pandemics  ( just  quarantining). She writes fiction and nonfiction from her home in upstate New York with her loving husband and the cutest Chihuahua ever. Marisa is currently at least six feet away from you and working on a memoir entitled Everything You  Can’t  Control.  A  former  middle  school  teacher,  she  now  works  as  a recovery specialist at a local not-for-profit where she supports individuals in improving their mental health and wellness. You can find her on Instagram @marisarussellowrites or on Twitter @russellowrites. Her groceries are delivered.

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