Who Wasn’t That Masked Man?

It’s official: wearing a face mask triggers so many sensory and other issues that after having barely avoided an autistic meltdown the other day, today I walked right up to the line and spit over the edge. Earlier this week, I was in convulsions trying to get the mask off my face the moment I walked in the door at home; today I didn’t make it out to the parking lot as I left the grocery store before the same. By the time I got home, I was so on edge that jamming my hand on a cabinet could only have resulted in slamming the cabinet shut and screaming the loudest “MOTHERFUCKER!” this neighborhood has ever heard. The sheer amount of energy it took to head off picking up anything and everything I could find in the kitchen and hurling it across the apartment itself only expended my resources further, adding pressure to the psychic mix because now my skin has thinned even more. I’m not sure where this goes on the list of comparative problems, but I guess I’m now precluded from being able to go grocery shopping. For those keeping score: yes, there also are loud rattling construction sounds coming from next door, from which I have no escape. I’m at a very profound loss.