“Don’t get angry with me! Our meals do not get cold before you arrive home.” The Kardashian lookalike working in the local takeaway, narrowed her eyes with fury, and held out her palm.
I put a twenty dollar note in her taloned hand, my face hot, my anxiety causing my voice to tremble. “I’m saying that if I don’t get my order of fish and chips in separate bags instead of boxes, mine do. Which is why I ask for separate bags.”
“No one has ever said that before,” she said icily, handing back my change, trying to put the dollar notes into my palm and the change on top. Nothing is more likely that the change will slide from the plastic notes when a person does that, and my other hand was occupied by the box of fish and chips. A queue of hushed patrons had lined up behind me to collect their orders. I avoided the note and grabbed the change, giving her no choice other than to pass the note last.
“Don’t you dare snatch from me!” she yelled with unconfined fury. “We don’t need rude customers like you, here. Don’t come back again! You are banned, do you hear me, you are banned!”
I didn’t bother answering, but I couldn’t have gone back anyway. My throat had closed over. I walked out of the shop, my face hot and my heart thudding, having a grade one panic attack. Of course I wouldn’t go back.
As a child I was told I was shy. I never felt shy, but I knew I blushed. Of course, I thought blushing was a sign of shyness and I could say to myself a million times I wasn’t shy, but since I blushed I must have been shy. Anyone who blushes feels the heat on her cheeks and also feels awkward when it happens.
The insensitive say, “You’re blushing,” in a voice of glee, and a lot of people laugh when they say those words. In some situations people tell me to calm down when my cheeks heat. Telling someone to calm down is about the silliest advice I have ever heard. It’s more likely to produce a defensive reaction.
It’s amazing that I should have lived to this age without ever knowing that I have Rosacea. When I am anxious my face flares. It’s a double-edged sword. When it flares I get more anxious because I know how awful it looks, and I know that someone is certain to tell me that my face is red, and make their own deductions as to why.
When D2 was about five, I had an appointment to see her teacher. The teacher told me that D2 had said that she would recognise me because I had a red face. I was quite surprised. I didn’t know. When I look in the mirror, my face isn’t red. It’s only red when I’m anxious, but that isn’t a time when I am looking in the mirror.
I only discovered that I had Rosacea a few years ago, when I was having laser treatment for a large mole.
I had arrived late because I hadn’t been able to find a carpark, and in a high state of anxiety. The skin specialist diagnosed my skin on the spot. I think she assumed I knew, because she didn’t mention that I could do anything about it. I think she said it was unfortunate. She was right.
But, now I had a name for my awkwardness.
I have often been asked to speak at functions but I always decline, not because I don’t think I can make a speech. I know I can. Even if I couldn’t, I could read one, but I have never tried because even in compatible groups, when I speak, I have an anxiety attack because I know my face will turn red, or vice versa.
Then my neighbour asked me why I don’t put something on it. I said I didn’t know I could. Her husband is a doctor and he was dragged into the conversation and ordered to write a prescription for me. I was dubious. If this was so easy, why hadn’t someone told me before?
It’s only a few days later but my skin has completely changed. I’m pretty sure I haven’t blushed in that time. I’m hoping I can’t.
It would be wonderful not to be judged by the redness of my cheeks.
I put a twenty dollar note in her taloned hand, my face hot, my anxiety causing my voice to tremble. “I’m saying that if I don’t get my order of fish and chips in separate bags instead of boxes, mine do. Which is why I ask for separate bags.”
“No one has ever said that before,” she said icily, handing back my change, trying to put the dollar notes into my palm and the change on top. Nothing is more likely that the change will slide from the plastic notes when a person does that, and my other hand was occupied by the box of fish and chips. A queue of hushed patrons had lined up behind me to collect their orders. I avoided the note and grabbed the change, giving her no choice other than to pass the note last.
“Don’t you dare snatch from me!” she yelled with unconfined fury. “We don’t need rude customers like you, here. Don’t come back again! You are banned, do you hear me, you are banned!”
I didn’t bother answering, but I couldn’t have gone back anyway. My throat had closed over. I walked out of the shop, my face hot and my heart thudding, having a grade one panic attack. Of course I wouldn’t go back.
As a child I was told I was shy. I never felt shy, but I knew I blushed. Of course, I thought blushing was a sign of shyness and I could say to myself a million times I wasn’t shy, but since I blushed I must have been shy. Anyone who blushes feels the heat on her cheeks and also feels awkward when it happens.
The insensitive say, “You’re blushing,” in a voice of glee, and a lot of people laugh when they say those words. In some situations people tell me to calm down when my cheeks heat. Telling someone to calm down is about the silliest advice I have ever heard. It’s more likely to produce a defensive reaction.
It’s amazing that I should have lived to this age without ever knowing that I have Rosacea. When I am anxious my face flares. It’s a double-edged sword. When it flares I get more anxious because I know how awful it looks, and I know that someone is certain to tell me that my face is red, and make their own deductions as to why.
When D2 was about five, I had an appointment to see her teacher. The teacher told me that D2 had said that she would recognise me because I had a red face. I was quite surprised. I didn’t know. When I look in the mirror, my face isn’t red. It’s only red when I’m anxious, but that isn’t a time when I am looking in the mirror.
I only discovered that I had Rosacea a few years ago, when I was having laser treatment for a large mole.
I had arrived late because I hadn’t been able to find a carpark, and in a high state of anxiety. The skin specialist diagnosed my skin on the spot. I think she assumed I knew, because she didn’t mention that I could do anything about it. I think she said it was unfortunate. She was right.
But, now I had a name for my awkwardness.
I have often been asked to speak at functions but I always decline, not because I don’t think I can make a speech. I know I can. Even if I couldn’t, I could read one, but I have never tried because even in compatible groups, when I speak, I have an anxiety attack because I know my face will turn red, or vice versa.
Then my neighbour asked me why I don’t put something on it. I said I didn’t know I could. Her husband is a doctor and he was dragged into the conversation and ordered to write a prescription for me. I was dubious. If this was so easy, why hadn’t someone told me before?
It’s only a few days later but my skin has completely changed. I’m pretty sure I haven’t blushed in that time. I’m hoping I can’t.
It would be wonderful not to be judged by the redness of my cheeks.
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