A Slap in the Face
Over the summer, I was slapped in the face by a stranger while walking to a morning workout class.
My initial reaction was to think, “Which one of my friends tried to say, ‘Hi!’ to me that I must’ve inadvertently dissed by having my head down and my headphones in?”
I realized, then, that I had been hit hard, my forehead was throbbing, and this wasn’t the usual way my friends greeted me — even if I happened to slight them accidentally.
Tears began to soak my eye-sockets as I pieced it together. I did not know the person who was now sauntering away with her hand held out perpendicular to the concrete. A few others who were walking nearby me on the sidewalk saw it happen, and as I mouthed to myself, “What the f**k…” I turned back to the initial direction I had been facing, and I kept walking.
I cancelled the class, confronted police officers around the corner about the situation, saw the same woman throw a full coffee cup at the storefront window of the restaurant we were in, listened as the cops explained that there was nothing they could do, but I should call 911 if I encountered her again, and filed an official police report.
The woman working at the police precinct looked at me in a kind of muted bewilderment responding,
“So this person’s just going around hitting people…you’re the second one to report this today.”
It was morbidly comforting to know that I wasn’t alone.
Adrenaline flooded through my essential arteries. I retreated to my apartment initially but did go back outside a little later. I had to get back to the normalcy of walking around my neighborhood — returning to my routine was required in the effort of not becoming paralyzed by fear.
The next day was a challenge. My brain felt foggy and I couldn’t concentrate. Cut to one urgent care visit, an MRI test and a few calls to reassure me that my brain wasn’t damaged later — I was informed that only my sense of security had been bruised.
Whenever I think about what happened, my forehead and the bride of my nose start to hurt.
To put it plainly, I was assaulted. There are many worse instances of assault with more dire outcomes, so I hold on to a feeling of gratitude.
At urgent care, when I was convinced that I was concussed, the doctor evaluating me did a texture test on my ankles with a Q-tip to tell if I could distinguish between soft and hard. I could.
During these past two weeks of self-quarantine, my senses feel extremely prominent. Oddly, my feet are especially sensitive to the shower floor. It feels like they are almost itchy in a way, like I’m dragging my feet across a carpet. I have no idea if this at all relates to the stress my brain is going through right now, as I repeatedly ponder my existence while rinsing some shampoo out of my hair, but the feeling reminds me of that texture test and the brain.
The manifestation of how we respond traumatic situations, and the lasting impact of a circumstance or a singular event on our minds, cannot be understated.
Today, I am reminded of some of the historic tragedies of the past. I think of survivors and acts of heroism. It feels almost outlandish to write, but I have been drawing some perspective and strength from the hideousness of history.
Glimmers of hope can be found in even the dimmest stretches of darkness.
This experience feels like living in a big bubble of trauma. My stressors are flaring, my survivalist tendencies are kicking in and my rationing and preparation activities have all been activated. I am doing what I can to support my mental health, to revive my physical energy and to keep semblances of my inner-self sustained.
As I write, I’ve been listening to Mac Miller’s album, Circles, in an attempt to tune things out and tune myself back in.
I live inside the small solace of being someone who imagines, who dreams, who has an internal universe as magical as the outside world once was, and will be, once again.
