Soft-shelled Crab

Kafka wrote about a man who woke up to find that he had become a cockroach. Lately, I’ve gone through a transformation of my own: I’m half-human, half soft-shelled crab.

I feel like an exposed bundle of nerves. Irritability, mild panic, and anxiety visit frequently. Things that used to mildly annoy now inspire dread. The ability to stuff emotions has atrophied significantly. I find myself blurting out my thoughts and reactions at odd moments like a man suffering from Tourette’s. I’ve never mastered the John Wayne/Robert Mitchum model for taciturn, emotionless men. But recently, I’ve lost the ability to fake it.

Therapy may have allowed me to break out of a safe but constricting exoskeleton. Now, I can move more freely through a sea of emotions (whether I want to or not). The waters, however, are stormy.

A friend of mine once described his deteriorating relationship with his ex-wife. They had amicably separated and divided possessions. But during post-divorce therapy, she began to fully experience formerly repressed emotions. My friend told me, “She’s gotten in touch with her anger.”

I apparently have begun to do the same, though none of my ire is directed at my wife. I’ve noticed that I’ve lost all toleration for folks who treat me with a lack of respect or even contempt. I used to be able to consider the source and dismiss put downs and slights as minor nuisances. Now, I go from 0 to 60 in milliseconds. Then I struggle to regain self-control. The aftermath can be embarrassing and draining. 

Two options present themselves: I could regrow my exoskeleton by immersing myself in 1940s war movies; I could watch myself carefully during stressful encounters, monitor my second-by-second responses, and withdraw when I sense an outburst building up inside.

The second approach seems like an iffy project for a soft-shelled crab.

I’ve discussed my situation with my therapist. She assures me that my reactions are part of a natural healing process. When someone stops repressing emotions, outbursts will occur. But just as a person can be forced to stuff anger and outrage until the practice becomes an accustomed habit, they can also learn how respond in a controlled way when feelings are allowed to be what they are.

3 Bags Full

I sat in the hall outside my therapist’s office waiting for a session to begin. A middle-aged woman and a masseuse stood nearby talking. The woman whinged, “We had a Viking cruise to the Mediterranean. We were supposed to stop in Israel, but now that won’t happen! Couldn’t Hamas have waited a couple of weeks before they attacked? Now the cruise line is going to reset the itinerary, but I don’t know if I’ll get a refund for that portion of the trip.” I gave silent thanks when the woman took her complaints behind a closed door.

The next day, I vaguely heard a rumbling garbage truck pull up in front followed by the muffled thumps of yard waste cans being emptied. An ear infection made me dizzy and tired, so I didn’t run out to haul the cans away from the road. When I retrieved them that evening, I found three bright blue bags of dog crap dumped in one of the cans. I tipped it up and deposited the crap bags at the curb. I didn’t want the contents fermenting at the bottom of a can meant to hold leaves, trimmed branches, and magnolia seed pods.

As I stood glaring down at the blue bags bulging at the seams, I plotted acts of revenge against dogwalkers who decide that others are responsible for dealing with their messes. None of the plans seemed practical. Most would have led to unpleasant confrontations.

Later that evening, I rounded up the kitchen and household garbage, took the bag to the curb, and put the dog crap into it. I dropped the bag into my regular garbage can. Now the doggie deposits could grow rudely aromatic among chicken bones, vegetable peelings, and a container full of yogurt gone bad.

My earache subsided over the next few days, but my throat started to feel scratchy. I spent a night coughing and choking in my sleep and couldn’t talk above a hoarse croak the next morning. I took a Covid test on Sunday and Monday to make sure that my recent infection hadn’t returned. They came up negative.

When I taught class on Monday, I sipped from a huge coffee-filled thermos to keep my throat clear. I managed to cover proportions and anatomy for portrait drawing but noticed that I had to work hard to remain kind and polite. I got brusque and blunt on a few occasions and shout-whispered a general apology at the end of class.

As I drove home, I realized that human decency, on my part at least, requires energy, patience, and persistence. When I run short, my attitude festers like three bright blue bags steaming at the bottom of a trash can.