As my body went clammy and nausea took over, of course my first thought was HolyHell, NOOOO, not the Covid. I quickly counted back three, five, ten days. Reviewed every time I’d left the house, even though my KN95 is practically surgically attached to my face at this point. Especially since my corner of the world still reads as Highest Risk and I watch a good portion of my septo-octo-and-beyond&below age neighbors wander hither&thither, faces bare as babies, at which point I’m always stunned with anger and incredulity. But back to me. As it turned out, I was felled by gone-bad almond milk (I know. I just reread that sentence. who am I? not a bad batch of bourbon, but almond milk. ah, maturity.). After copious googling, where I learned that while, yes, GI issues can be a covid indicator, they usually accompany the fever, shortness-of-breath companions. And I could still smell and taste. But really, who the hell knows with this thing anymore. Once Dennis and I had discussed that yes, that milk had a kinda funky consistency and, true, my symptoms lined up pretty straight with food poisoning, I stepped away from the covid-test scheduling site, took all my blankets and pillows back into the bedroom and slept for many hours. I feel fine today, thanks.

But ultimately, what lingered, other than an actual avoidance of the almond variety of non-dairy products, was the realization of how much white-hot fear this last year+ has threaded throughout my psyche. All of us, right? Isn’t it true that you don’t have to dig too deep to find a gushing waterfall of fear that’s been pounding away for a solid year now. Not just of an invisible virus that flies through the air and is now taking on superpowers via variants, but also of what might and did happen before, during, and after an election barely held together by a democratic process, one that left carnage and division in its trail and that just today ended with a majority of senators recognizing that the narcio-path who held office was guilty (sure I was sad for no conviction, but seven Republicans crossing over to make a majority’s not nothin’). Then there was the murder caught live of a Black man being slowly choked dead by a police officer kneeling on his neck, setting off a rage and recognition of the hundreds of underserved and underseen LGBTQ people who are brutalized regularly by police and everyday living. From my white-privileged shelter-in-place comfort I finally felt the fury. Shamefully late, but yet. So, this year+ of fear. What does it do to a person?

I know if it’s not dug up and chatted with, called out, and just plain seen, that it can paralyze, sicken, distort. It’s not like I didn’t already carry a healthy amount of fear into this past year of awful. A standard-issue range: of anger, of abandonment, of feeling too much. Sure, all of that talked about in therapy and beyond. All of it acknowledged as having to be looked at again and again so it doesn’t fester and freeze up my whole self. But this year+ of fear was a vivid reminder of how so much can lurk under the surface and ripple up like some monster from the deep, like a B movie (or Jaws. cue the music.). I do definitely know that to deny its existence is noBueno. It’s just not going anywhere until there’s acknowledgment. The cautionary tale of someone I know who, having lived through an extraordinarily difficult youth, refuses to meet the inner darkside. Who can only handle light, new-age, no-negativity, but whose bitter anger agitates toward an overwhelming rejection of people because they tend to disappoint. Strange unexplained illnesses spring up that can’t quite be explained. And that makes sense since the feelings have to go somewhere. It’s so easy to see it in someone else, but I recognize those tendencies in me. The desire to just move on because the pain of exploring where all that damned fear and anger comes from and then figuring out how to work with it seems inconceivably frightening. I mean, what if I never come back from the experience? I may just melt. self-destruct. disappear like a Spinal Tap drummer. I’ve been scribbling things about these thoughts forever. I think it works. I’ve pretended the fear monster is something outside of me and I’ve tried to discuss the situation. Sometimes out loud like I’m Jimmy Stewart in Harvey. I’ve tried giving it a name and letting it roam a bit. And, honestly, it’s a true thing: those emotions always sound scarier, bigger, more hungry for destruction when they’re locked in a closet. I’m not saying it’s pretty, but when Bruno (or Brunella depending on mood) starts to howl, well, sometimes I hide, sometimes I crack open the door, mostly I do both one way or another. And I do actually feel better after. Maybe a bit tired, but proud I listened.

The last concert I went to almost a year ago was Patti Smith at the Disney Concert Hall in LA with my friend Judy and her husband, Ian (hi, Judy). After the finale, Patti said something to the effect of Be safe and do what you can to avoid stress, cuz it can kill. As hundreds of us filed out, the air crackled with a high from the show and a weird disjointed sense of what’s around the corner? She and the band ended up playing San Francisco next, then cancelling the rest of the tour. We all ended up going home and going inside where, for the most part, we still sit a year later. A corner of hope is definitely peeling back ever so slowly. Vaccines (my dad got his second dose. YAYAYAYAY!), a new administration, pressure continuing to be focused and voices still raised for racial equity. Once I’d gotten through 24-hours of food poisoning, I marveled at how the body knows just what to do to move things along and get the bad gone. It just kicks into action like SuperGirl. I thought how great it would be if fear would be like that too. Just be gone. Work itself out. But, no, that’s a bit trickier. Takes a little more emotional involvement. I had a think about how much I’ve (we all) have been carrying in the way of extra fear these last many months. It’s worth noting. Worth celebrating when layers are lifted and also worth paying attention to when it knocks on the door. It’s got something to say. And better to listen than to just let it shout.