I've whittled it down to a fine art of which symptoms to talk about when someone asks me what happens when I smell perfumes or colognes. It's a nice pat answer, doesn't make people's eyes glaze over. Though I wonder if by not saying everything outright if I'm doing myself a misservice and keeping them from truly understanding the impact it has on me.
I also must get a handle of the flood of emotions and scattered thoughts that come from exposure. I need to find a way that through it all I can somehow politely tell someone to get away from me with their scent trail, how dare they violate my space, don't you know this hurts me??? Right now, I don't say anything. I can't. If I lose control of myself, it's going to come out as a sobbing mess or with an anger that rivals that of stereotypical red-headed Irish sailors. Both of which can affect far more in my life.
How do I describe this, the emotional roller coaster that I go through? I suppose people who have been assaulted would understand this best. As far as I know, no one's ever been charged with assault for wearing perfume around someone who has sensitivities to that. Never mind that a brick to the back of my head may hurt less sometimes, and at least it's something a doctor can stitch back together.
It's not a matter of the fact that I can smell it. It's the fact that these irritants are being brought into my body. I have no choice in breathing. If it's got a smell it just lets me know what is happening instead of having my body go into revolt on me without my knowing why.
There's initial panic when I smell something. Is this going to hurt me? What's going to happen? A sigh of relief that it was just the alcohol only hand sanitizer and a stern reminder to my head for reacting. Or no, it was perfume/cologne/air freshener. Oh no. Swearing begins in my head. My spirit falls. Responses honed over hundreds of exposures over the years kick in.
So many thoughts start scrambling in my brain, all within a split second. I force control back and take status of what I've breathed in. I force myself to hold my last breath in for as long as I can. Maybe I can get away or they will leave before I have to draw breath again. It's become second nature to me. I assess my surroundings. Can I flee, right now, get the hell away from that, reduce my exposure?
Whether it helps or not is not the question. I have to try. Every time. Regardless that it rarely seems to help if I can. If I'm in the middle of something, I have to keep working on it until I can leave it at a spot I can pick it back up from.
If I'm just chatting with someone, especially if they understand, I can generally make a quick apology and escape. But if I'm having a serious conversation, whether on the phone or in person, I have to stay.
I have to lock down an iron grip on my body. Stay put. Keep a hold of itself, suck it up, buttercup. Keep decent eye contact. Make sure that some secondary system ensures that I'm still listening to what they are saying, somehow. The mouth is giving appropriate responses. At least, I trust this is happening. I cannot spare enough concentration to make sure; I certainly will only remember snippits of this later. Cue despair. Push it roughly aside. If I can, if it's not rude, take a step back. Maybe putting some distance will help. Not likely. Most times I can't take enough steps away without seeming rude, or even worse, the unconcious nature of human bodies, their body steps forward to bridge the gap. I can't keep that up without us finding ourselves in some strange dance. A strange dance where they unwittingly chase me as I try to flee in circles.
Do not let tears well up, certainly not fall. Shallow breathing kicks in. Not too deep and it might help reduce the exposure. I've learned I can't keep that up for long or the reduced oxygen wrecks it's own havoc in my battered body. Don't cough. If one cough escapes, more will follow, and keep following until it finally calms down. Can I grab a sip of water or a hard candy without being obvious? Sometimes it helps keep my throat soothed enough. I can feel the scent clinging to my throat, it tickles, I need to get it out of me, my throat is constricting ready to cough it out. Iron grip. A hand hidden from their sight grips tightly, fingernails digging in, in an effort to continue to keep control over my body.
I can't run away from a coworker or boss that is speaking to me. If I leave a meeting or a training session I will miss that information. I can't run away from a cashier before I've made my payment. I can't pull up my pants and run out of the bathroom when I'm in the middle of my business there.
Before and as symptoms kick in, I wonder what will happen from exposure from this particular cocktail. Can I just have a couple of coughs and then maybe a slight headache at the end of the day? Or even if I start a huge coughing fit and my throat is sore and hoarse for the rest of the day, will the headache wait until later, if it even comes? Or should I be remembering everything I wanted to do today, and while I have the mental capacity left to me, should I start reorganizing my calendar so that when I go home to take some hard-hitting pain meds and fall asleep that I won't be owing an appointment cancellation fee somewhere or be a lousy friend and cancel plans with someone? Oh, and let's make space for tomorrow as well. Too many migraines just seems to become an invitation to weekly or even daily ones.
There's despair, depression, confusion, anger, resignation. This is happening again. Despite the precautions I set up. Despite that I know this person has been told. Despite the fact that I've talked to them and told them how much this hurts me. Are they doing this to me on purpose? Do they really hate me this much? How am I ever supposed to work again? To go out shopping? To eat out? How can I ever take public transportation? Go out to a bar? Go to the gym? Travel? Planes? Trains? Cruise? See other countries? Attend college or university? Take a photography course or french lessons or any other thing I may want to try that involves leaving my apartment? Should I just give up? Maybe there are strong enough meds that I can take that will let me live in a fog when I leave my home. Nevermind that it's not really living. I'm never going to find a guy. Even if I could go out in public enough to meet and date someone, who really wants to marry this? I wouldn't choose this life for anyone. How can I expect anyone to choose to live it with me? Or children? How cruel is it of me to ask them to maintain this dilligence of keeping scents out? Or let them have friends over?
Maybe I should live with a mask on. I hate people staring at me, pointing at me, laughing at how geeky it looks, or crossing the street to avoid whatever it is I must have to require such a heavy duty thing. Obviously I'm the one who's endangering others if I'm wearing the mask, not the other way around. Let's not even talk about completely covering myself in a Tyvek suit to ensure their scents don't seep into my clothes and I take it home and contaminate my home.
And when I wake up the next morning, a sense of dread comes out. Am I going to be hurt again today? Most days I can swallow that thought back down and get up and going. Repeat the lie to myself: I'll be ok today; just because it happened before does not mean it will happen again.
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