Me, So Phony? Yeah? Not Quite.

A happy Monday to you today.  We’re in week 3 of 2019, and I feel it necessary to publish a new issue of my continuing series of Behavioural Issues.

It’s been awhile since I’ve blogged about anything on here.  Whether the absence has been noticed or not, I feel it necessary to catch you up on what’s been going on.

My position as a Data Entry Specialist ended just before the holidays were about to begin.  A lot was happening, not just with the recent move into my new place, the holidays kicking off, and the recent addition of my fur-son, David Meowie (pictured below), but also the job itself lent a helping hand to my ongoing anxiety.

This is where the main topic comes into play.  It’s been an issue I’ve had to deal with for at least the past two decades, but I was not aware there was an official diagnosis, nor even a name for it.

Misophonia. Please…save the “me so horny” jokes for another time. I’ve got a flow going.

misophonia

 (mis-ō-fō’nē-ă),

Dislike of sound.
See also: decreased sound tolerance, phonophobia, hyperacusis.

A “dislike of sound”.  Correct, yet an understatement of the severity of the condition.

So let’s rewind a little, yes?  Take stock of exactly what we’re dealing with here.

From as far back as I can remember, I have had some level of noise sensitivity issues.  As I’ve gotten older, the sensitivity has progressed; the issue grew larger and harder to ignore.  Fire trucks, police cars, ambulances, all of them driving by with their sirens blaring weren’t greeted with just a cupping of the ears, but also the additional wincing and the anxiety levels rising.  Boxes and pallets dropping at a work site, or in a grocery store, would have me jump so high, there was a good couple of inches between my feet and the ground.  Fireworks?  Forget it.  My noise-canceling headphones get their full use on New Years’ and Independence Day.

I have had to work as a security guard for a lot of concerts and sporting events.  Not an ideal situation for someone with noise sensitivity issues.  It frequently got to the point where I was posted at spots of the arenas that were nowhere near the event we were there for.  I would end up guarding backstage areas that only heard a humming of the action, a peep of audience members (read: loud fans) so that I wouldn’t get myself in trouble, and the people could enjoy their evenings without an incident of a cranky guard.

In New York City, things got even more heightened.

I lived in a 2nd Floor walk-up in Brooklyn, where the tenants below me were a bunch of guys who wore their CAT boots indoors.  I could hear them walking through their apartment, and it felt like Hulk was walking through in a bad mood, thus putting me in a bad mood.  I used to live in that apartment, and there was a couple who lived above me, and they drove me nuts with their pounding and chaos as well. 

When the landlord finally got rid of them, he invited me and my flatmate at the time to move upstairs, thinking he had solved a problem.  We all thought the problem would be solved with this switch.  The flight of stairs was a warm welcome compared to the situation at the time.  We happily took the offer, accepted the fact we’d have to pay a little more, and shifted things upwards and onwards.

Months later, said flatmate had left to move in with her fiance`.  I couldn’t afford the apartment on my own, though I badly wanted to have it to myself.  I interviewed prospective tenants, and found a new one, who took the weekends off from the apartment to stay with her boyfriend in Massachusetts.  Everybody won with this arrangement.  She was quiet, unobtrusive, and most of all, didn’t walk through the apartment with shoes on.  Salvation!

Then she decided to move out, and it was a series of nightmares after that.  Conversations with boyfriends or girlfriends at ridiculous hours, clunking and clomping through the apartment with heels on.  I finally got another good flatmate, but then the boys of a Monty Python skit came into the picture, and forget it!  My blue heaven became a living hell.

Jobs I had to work had similar issues of noise.  Again, there was the pounding of shoes on hardwood floors, heels clacking, mindless chatter in the adjacent kitchenette.  All of these were things I could not control, nor was I in any position to try and ask them to keep it down.  I was a temp; they were (mostly) permanent staff.  The restraint to say what was irking me took a lot of strength, energy and emotion.  I was crying in the bathrooms on more than one occasion.  My walks home from work involved a lot of pit stops to liquour stores and Trader Joe’s, buying wine, Jack Daniels and/or beer.

Coming back to present day, and the issue persists.  I cannot handle the uncontrollable, ongoing chatter of people around me at work.  Especially when I know their conversations have nothing to do with the job.  I have had to deal with a manager calling out loudly to her staff about non-work-related topics.  The manager’s staff would (and probably still are) talking loudly and cackling, behaving like over-caffeinated children at a Build-a-Bear Factory.

I don’t believe in making my issues – because I’m self-aware enough to know they’re only mine in the immediate environment I’m in – other peoples’ problems.  I had approached the manager about maybe relocating me to another area of the office that was a safe distance from the noise, explaining my “noise sensitivity issues”.  It was a no-go from him, so I had to find an alternative resolution.

So I brought my noise-canceling headphones to work.  I could still hear them.

I brought in cotton balls, to stuff into the headphones.  I could still hear them.

I brought in earphones that could plug into the computer, that rested on top of the cotton balls, that were tucked into the headphones.  I could still.  Fucking.  Hear them!!

During the hours of 12 -2 pm, I would take my lunch hour, and then relieve the receptionist so that she could take her lunch hour.  The front desk is across from the door that gets used fairly frequently.  It also slams.  Frequently.  Loudly.  Shaking the frame.  The same cackling, Happy-Hour-All-Day-Bitches-Yeah! people, they were the door slammers as well.  I could not get away from them.  I smiled through tightened lips, tried my best to ignore them, and left the unspoken argument about sound alone. 

One day, when I had to relieve the receptionist for a larger chunk of the day, I put up what I thought was a friendly, well-meaning sign, requesting that people please close the door quietly behind them.

I said “please”.  I even omitted my favourite colourful adjectives.

Later that day, the sign went missing, never to be seen again.  Someone call Robert Stack!  Oh wait…..shit.

These two issues – separate that they were – coupled with the fact that I had a sabotaging supervisor, made the position a painful one to endure.  The pay was great, but the problems were greater.  I handled the aggravations as best I could.

The assignment ended the Friday before Christmas.  I’ve been in search of a job ever since.

I’ve been labeled as “odd”, “weird”, “difficult”, “bitchy” and a myriad of other terms much more denigrating than that.  I take it with a pinch of salt, knowing what I know.

Why can’t I control this?  I don’t know.  I’ve tried.  I truly have.  It’s like an invisible bully.  It keeps pushing you, pushing your triggers.  You can only ignore it for so long.  It’s similar to when kids flick rubber bands at you.  You want to get away from it, you’d do damn near anything to get away from it, but the danger stalks you.

How did this start in the first place?  What was the initial incident that sent all this rolling?  Again, I don’t know the exact thing or day, but it started in high school, and it’s grown like a sea monkey ever since.  I would go to the library on lunch break.  I was the only kid I knew who cut lunch, and it had nothing to do with any diet.  This has been nearly 30 years now.

I’ve been through multiple temp assignments, some more successful than others.Looking for jobs that will accept someone such as myself is not easy.  I’ve been on the hunt for literally a month now.  Almost every ad is “high-paced, fun environment!  Fun activities after work!”  Why can’t I get a job that promotes “Quiet!  Low-stress!  We all mind our own business and work quietly!  Introverts UNITE!”  I’m at the point now where I have to take whatever I can get, regardless of the noise level, if I don’t want to end up homeless, sending David Meowie back to the shelter.  An idea I cannot bear to consider.

While I wait for that Golden Ticket  job to peek out from under a candy bar, I’m just coming up with other ideas to try and get some income.

I have a Teespring store, where new designs are being produced on a somewhat regular basis.

https://teespring.com/stores/4-eyes-2-c

In the meantime, I’m also looking for writing and blogging gigs, while working on this one.  I’ll also be pursuing dog-walking, pet-sitting and cat-company gigs as well.

If you like what you’ve read, and you want to read more from me, some monetary encouragement would go a long way.

https://paypal.me/seecouzens

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The Wheels on the “8” Bounce Back and Back

“Bounce back.”

We’ve heard this little nugget of advice numerous times over the years, haven’t we?  It’s in the family of “don’t let a bad hour ruin a good day”.  A not-so-distant cousin of “it’s going to be okay, just relax.”  The twin brother/sister of “shake it off”.  And this family gets through the rainy days under the umbrella of “this too shall pass”.

 

With a new year starting, such as 2018, now is as good a time as any to address a new type of resolution that can ball up a lot of the old ones into one big, shiny, new ball that can bounce back to the frontal cortex of your brain.

Bounce back.

Yes, I know, it is a vague and abstract idea that could do with some elaboration.  Like any piece of art you could find in a museum or a Google Images search, it’s interpretive.  It has different connotations for different people, going through any myriad of life experiences that can distort how they see things.

Personally, the concept of “bounce back” means “Carrie, you went through something rough just now, but it doesn’t have to ride you for the rest of the day.  Tomorrow, it will only be a memory.  Get through this now, and it’ll be okay.  Shake it off.”

Working as a cashier at a major store in California, I get to deal with customers for hours at a time.  When the cliche “it takes all kinds” was created, I have to wonder if it wasn’t first opined by someone in the retail industry.

For those reading this who are unaware, California has exercised a law recently where people are charged ten cents per bag, if they choose to buy a bag from the store, as opposed to bringing in their own to use.

It frustrates people.  It frustrates A LOT of people.  Especially those who feel they’re already paying a lot in this state.  Then there are the people who have bags in their car and simply forgot to bring them in when they were parking.  It is also said that there are conspiracies about what the state is really doing with that money.  One dime on its own can feel like a drop in the bucket to some, and the difference between affording a dozen eggs, or going without.  A dime (or two) for some people can be the breaker between a good day to a bad day.

How does this tie into what I was discussing earlier?  Simple.

When the customer(s) come to the register to unload all their loot, I greet them, and then ask, “do you have your own bags, or do you need some of ours?”

Their bodies sink into themselves, their shiny eyes lose that glimmer, their inner Eeyore comes out to show itself.

“Shit, I forgot to bring bags.”  They stall, look over what they have in the cart, try to do the math as to whether the bag purchase is really worth it, or do they want to run to the car and come back, or can all the stuff be put back into the cart, and they’ll just travel the cart all the way to their vehicle.

Who knew “do you want a bag?”, would become such an existential question?

When the customer begrudgingly concedes to the purchase of a bag, this is where I insert my own “bounce back” initiative.  Call it an affirmation, call it perspective, call it cheesy, whatever.

“Not a big deal”, I say.

“If this is the worst thing to happen all day, you’re having a good day.”  Sometimes, this actually cheers the customers up.

I honestly don’t remember where I first heard this.  I’d love to credit it to my grandfather (He was a smart man, and my personality seems to have reflected his over the years).  Looking back, though, I don’t think he gave me that gem.  It may have been from a book.  Lord-of-the-Rings, we all know I’ve read plenty of those.

Wherever it came from, once it was spoken to me, my ears reached for it, gripped it tightly, and tucked it somewhere along the front right side of my brain, for safe-keeping.

A shorter way of saying it is…

Yep.

Bounce back.

Back to the store:

I’ve been a cashier for about 6 months already, and felt ready to explore other areas to work in.  They’ve been giving me little bubbles of time in the Guest Services area, where customers come to return items (Sweet baby cheeses, people!  Try the clothes on in the fitting rooms first!  Commit to the item when you’re here!)

Every time I’ve come into the store, from the outside looking in, it didn’t seem like it was too big of a stretch from doing the cashier work.  The area to work in is slightly bigger – and yes, it gets cluttered with all sorts of paraphernalia – but it seems like nothing out of the ordinary when you’re just walking by.

But then you actually get around to the other side of the counter.  Shit changes fast, at least for me.  And the whole concept of “bounce back” gets lost in the melee of multiple balls bouncing at me.  That isn’t just metaphorical either.  I’ve seen actual bouncy balls being returned.

That’s right, Paw Patrol, ya furry bastard!  I’m talking to you!

There’s a lot happening.  Returns, more returns, sorting what items were returned to said items’ respective carts, picking up items for guests who ordered online and had it delivered here.  The phone ringing on occasion.  Guests coming up to complain about the restrooms.  On my second day in that area, I was left alone.  Everything that I could do well at when there were people around, now felt next-to-impossible, when I was alone.

Not to mention the walkie-talkies.

Holy shitballs, Batman!  Those things are LOUD!

When I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m doing, and those radios go off, it’s disruptive and entirely off-putting.  I’m in a sea of overwhelmingly obnoxious sharks.  They don’t necessarily bite.  They just show their teeth in a threatening way.  Hence the “obnoxious”-ness.  It doesn’t help that I’m working alone in that area.

Anxiety crawls through my body, taps me on the shoulder, and tells me that I’m naturally going to suck at everything, no matter how hard I try not to.  That everyone can see my “Loser” cape peeking out from my work outfit, and I should run away now before I turn back into a werewolf.  (A werewolf who wears a cape with a big “L” on it.  You now have that image in your head for the rest of the day.  You’re welcome.)

 

The tears well, my shoulders cover my ears, and a look of abject fear covers my face.  Like that last punch on any fighter video game, my energy is completely depleted, and I only want to escape to a safe space.  A quiet corner of my apartment, for instance.

After that initial experience of independent guest servicing, I found my boss a little later and voiced my concern about whether I really belonged there.  I didn’t feel right there, and my anxiety had me at a highly sensitive level, mood-wise.  My manager, a woman I look up to and have great respect for, was surprised when I mentioned my condition of anxiety.

She came back to me a little later in the same day and told me she hadn’t even considered me as an anxious person because I generally handle myself very well when it comes to dealing with customers.

I explained, “when I’m at the cash register, and the people are only coming from one direction, absolutely I’m on my game.  I can do that with no problem.  It’s when there’s activity from five different directions at once, I get anxious.”

I don’t mention the fact that I’m Asperger’s without a diagnosis, because in all seriousness, without official diagnoses, it’s just conjecture.  It’s considered “uneducated guessing”.  I don’t have a doctor’s degree, I only have the history.  And quite frankly, even those specialised doctors STILL don’t have all the answers to what makes someone fit into the role of Asperger’s.  So I keep that part to myself.  I came out as gay much easier than I ever could as an Aspie.

New Year’s Eve, I had taken on a shift that would have me in that department yet again.  My entire body groaned.  My spirit lost some of its height, and I could feel that anxiety demon knocking to get in through my shins.

Not this again.

Bounce back, Carrie.  I’m telling myself this as my legs bring me closer to that dreaded area.  Bounce back, you can do this, you’re the only one who thinks you can’t.  Put on your lady-balls, and bounce the fuck back!

Later in the evening, the same manager came by to check on the progress of sorting out the returned items.  My immediate workspace was fully cluttered with miscellaneous items of all the departments.  Not to mention the items being held, a co-worker who was frustrated with me being frustrated with my current responsibilities, and a blaring walkie-talkie.

Now, I can put on a poker face from time to time.  Not often, granted, but it has come to show up in my mental toolbox from time to time.  When I can zone out into any one responsibility, it’s on.  It looks like the identical sister to Resting Bitch Face (neither of them put on any make-up), but so long as nobody talks to me, and lets me do the one responsibility without talking myself, I’m good.

Then the reality that I can’t be there wordlessly sets in, and my manager asks me how I’m doing, I’m forced to look around me once again, and take it all in.

Bye Poker-Face!  Toodles, motherfucker.  It was nice while it lasted.  Here comes good ol’ Anxiety to stand, spread-eagle, across my cheeks and eyes.

“Why do you have that face?” she asked.

“Huh?” I respond.

“You look anxious.”

“I am.  It’s just…so much!”

“You don’t have to be anxious, Carrie.  You can do this.  Just keep going.”

I don’t have to be anxious?  Really?  Just that easy?

Let’s be clear, for those of you who were lucky enough to never have the condition of anxiety;

On the computer of life, “Anxiety” is not a special feature.  It’s default.  When you inadvertently reset, boom! There it is.  That little hourglass, turning, that tells you “hang on, Sweet Cheeks!  We’re working on finding the programs that help you get along in this world.”

I don’t have the money to buy an advanced Apple, with the Confidence program version 40.1.  It’s just not in my budget.  I have a Dell. (I named it Adele, because fuck it, I love a good pun.)  I’ve only had the “Bounce Back” feature for a few years, and even that program doesn’t always run when I need it to.

So I come to the present day, where my Bounce Back feature seems to be running fairly smoothly.

I work tonight, and the full shift is as Cashier.

It’s Eureka, California, so not every customer is going to be a winner.

But it’s 2018 now, and hey, I can still bounce back.