Today’s Covid Thoughts: A is for Anxiety

By and large, I deal with anxiety with avoidance.  Back before I knew I had anxiety, I thought I was just lazy, but I’ve since realized it’s just a mostly-unhealthy coping mechanism.  When it comes to Covid-19, my anxiety has turned into a compulsion to devour any information about the pandemic: stats on mine and surrounding counties, first-hand accounts of those on the frontlines, and even scouring medical journals. I’ve even rekindled my low-key obsession with my “favorite” pandemic, the Influenza of 1918 (which I patently refuse to blame Spain for, especially since they suspect the origin to be a Kentucky chicken farm).

I don’t spend my days cowering fearfully behind my curtains, ranting on Facebook, or cruising the mall for some sweet pandemic desperation sales. As an essential employee, I still go to work. I also do the grocery shopping for my household, since I’m out for work anyway. What terrifies me most is the thought of bringing home the virus to my family, one of whom is severely at-risk.

Being fat and navigating the medical labyrinth is a herculean challenge. Being fat and facing the barrel of a pandemic? It seems impossible. Apparently obesity is now a risk factor for Covid-19 (because science? Maybe they asked a magic 8 ball?). My weight aside, I have two major risk factors. All of this anxiety-fueled pandemic fixation doesn’t drown out the thoughts of what happens if I get sick.

I don’t have health insurance. Like, I don’t even have the crappy insurance my former retail job offered me; I have nothing. And although I am fortunate enough to be working in this time of instability and unknowns, I’m still only working part time. My bills haven’t stopped even though parts of the world has. Getting the regular flu would be a blow; falling ill with covid would be devastating on a financial scale.

That’s assuming I would even get treated. Even under normal circumstances, my body is not always accommodated. Equipment isn’t big enough to be used on me. It’s not rated for my weight. It’s likely that even if I sought treatment, I would be unable to receive it. That’s even before you factor in things like my wishes, if I have a DNR, etc. As a motherless fat woman of questionable attractiveness, I worry about what happens if my life will be forfeit in a triage situation. The idea that a faceless committee could decide my life on paper wasn’t as worthy as saving as someone else’s is petrifying. I don’t want to die alone in a hospital hallway drowning in my own lungs.

I’ve spent the last three years putting real work into regaining my mental health, including roping in my anxiety, but unfortunately my options are limited. The resources I use to balance myself, to put things into perspective, are out of reach. I can’t have a game night with the posse, I can’t take my bestie to the movies, I can’t take a long drive with my sister’s XM radio turned obnoxiously high (90s on 9 for LIFE). I know I’m not without options: I can still journal, I still have a pile of unfinished crochet projects, and I’m still six months behind on Welcome to Night Vale.  I need a human reminder that I’m not the worthless lump my scumbag brain tells me I am.

Today, I just want a hug.