There is no Tabasco sauce on our table. My usual order — the “Just Bacon” burger with no onions, pickles or garlic aioli, please—will be unsatisfactory without being drenched in Tabasco sauce. The sauce needs to ooze out of my burger patty when I mush the buns together to take a bite. But the Tabasco sauce and I have some “beef” to settle. I do not know how many people the Tabasco sauce has been with today. My heart races as I stare, wide-eyed, at the woman sitting at the table next to us as she sucks her manicured fingers free from the remnants of her burning-hot, burnt-orange wings smothered in the creamy richness of ranch, and I picture her fingers drenched in saliva around the bottle of my precious Tabasco sauce. Tiny stings of fear accumulate in my left temple, behind my eyelid, making my vision blur from the pressure of my overactive thoughts. I grimace when our kind waitress finally places the Tabasco sauce in front of me; it is not her fault that my chest burns as I stare at the daunting streaks of dried sauce on the side of the bottle that I wish she had wiped away. My partner stares at me expectantly. He does not understand how it feels to be at war with reason — of seeing all objects from the outside world as dangerous and contaminated. But I do not like burgers without Tabasco sauce, and the Tabasco sauce waits in front of me. My hometown’s Chili’s is becoming more crowded and my breath quickens as I continue to stare at the bottle.
Author’s Note: This is a short excerpt from a story I wrote for my advanced creative nonfiction class. This story is a depiction of a time in my life when my contamination anxiety was at its height. As a side effect of my dread of catching COVID, I could not touch anything without making sure a) it was sanitized with lysol wipes I would carry around, and b) I could douse my hands with hand sanitizer. Unfortunately for me, this meant that any time I would go out, I would have to ensure that I had my sanitizing toolkit with me, or else I would literally have to stop at the store to get supplies; I was that afraid. I would say no to a lot of things during the pandemic, which was understandable until it wasn’t once vaccine distribution hit its peak and most of the people I knew had the full dose of Pfizer or Moderna, including the booster. Without therapy, I am not sure when I would have unlearned these safety behaviors curated by my anxiety, which reached a level that was irrational on most occasions (I was not going to get COVID from the refrigerator handle of my own house when no one has touched it in hours). I share this piece as a reflection of this time period, but also as a depiction of the psychological effects that this pandemic can induce within a person. If this story is relatable to someone, my key takeaway is that these fears are understandable, but there must come a point where we reclaim our lives. I know this is easier said than done, and I was lucky to be able to be treated through therapy, but recognizing the irrationality of getting sick in scenarios where it is highly unlikely is one step towards recovery. The best we can do is continue to follow health guidelines and make decisions on our health that do not impact our ability to have fun (responsibly). I know there is still uncertainty over what qualifies as safe and if we should even be progressing as if the pandemic is controlled. Do what makes you comfortable, but it should not impede your ability to feel safe in places where it is unlikely to become contaminated, and it should not limit your quality of life. At least, these are the lessons I have learned.