In the shower the water sounds like an avalanche.
That’s when I realize I am too high
and that there is nothing
I can do about it but wait.
My mind is racing
and I can’t stop thinking
about how I am too high,
and that it’s going to make me crazy,
that it is going to make my heart stop,
and that the water is too hot,
and the sound of the water is deafening.
I try to wash my hair,
but I keep dropping everything.
First the shampoo,
then the conditioner,
then the bar of soap.
I can’t hold on to anything.
Ann’s shower is on the other side of the wall.
She bangs hard on the wall,
yells to see if I am okay.
I say yes,
but I’m not.
My therapist wants to know
how my panic attacks serve me.
I don’t understand.
He wants to know what I gain from them.
Gain?
He thinks they serve a purpose.
I still don’t understand.
Is he saying that I do this to myself
to avoid situations I don’t want to be in?
To myself?
I am crying as I talk
and there must be little threads of spit
connecting my upper and lower jaw.
To myself?
I have never heard anything so awful in my life.
Thanksgiving with my parents
is surprisingly easy.
My parents decided not to make a fuss this year
and take us to Montreal.
We are going to stay in a fancy hotel
and have dinner at a four-star restaurant.
We stay in adjoining rooms
and spend the day walking around the city,
going to galleries, and shopping.
Everyone is happy.
Thanksgiving dinner is sterile.
The atmosphere is nice,
the food is good,
but something is missing.
There shouldn’t only be four of us.
I would rather be at my parents’ house
listening to my father yelling at my mother
to sit down with her guests,
and my mother yelling at my father
to get out of the kitchen,
and my mother’s friend trying to make it seem
like her kids’ accomplishments
are better than mine and my sister’s.
I get back from the bars with my roommates
and get into bed.
I have the spins.
I only had two drinks—
it doesn’t make sense
that I feel like I am on a rocking boat.
I sit up and the spins go away,
but as soon as I lie down again
they come back.
This feeling, the fact that I cannot make it stop,
is making me crazy.
It feels like I am having a panic attack,
like I am not in control of my body.
I go into the bathroom
and sit down in front of the toilet.
I’ve never had to make myself do this.
I almost never let myself drink to this point.
But tonight doesn’t make sense.
I wasn’t even drunk.
Maybe something else is wrong with me?
Maybe I have food poisoning,
or a virus,
or something that doesn’t have a name.
I stare at the tiles.
I stare at the bowl.
I stare at the hair on the floor
that I should have cleaned up.
I stick my finger down my throat,
but it is not enough.
I only gag.
I try again,
stick my finger down farther,
be more brave.
This time everything comes up
and I can’t make it stop.
The spins may be gone,
but now I can’t control
the spasms in my stomach
that keep me retching.
When I am done,
I wash my face, brush my teeth,
and go into Rebecca’s room.
I am twenty years old,
I should be able to handle this on my own,
but I can’t.
I don’t want to.
For work-study
I’ve been helping out an English teacher
with copying and research.
Now he’s planning a presentation
and needs me to act out a scene from a book
by crouching on a table like a monkey.
It’ll be in the largest lecture hall on campus—
one that I’ve had panic attacks in
because it was always crowded and quiet
and I was scared that people were looking at me,
knowing I was freaking out.
I can’t believe I agreed to do this
and put myself in a position
where people will definitely be staring at me
while I do something ridiculous.
I psych myself up for it all week.
I tell myself that it will be a good experience—
that it will help me get over some of my fears
and that maybe
it’s a step to reclaiming spaces
that were once scary to me.
When I am finally standing in the lecture hall
and we are about to start,
my hands are shaking.
I am going to look like such an ass.
But I tell myself, it’s okay.
I am supposed to look like an ass.
People are going to laugh because it’s funny.
No one is going to think that I am crazy,
but all these people’s eyes on me is uncomfortable.
I don’t like being the focus,
but I do it.
Both hands on the table, then a foot,
then the other foot,
and then I am crouching.
That’s it.
It lasts a few seconds
and is over.
It’s not a big deal.
People laugh because it’s funny,
not because something is wrong with me.
When it’s over,
I am energized.
I could do it again.
Fuck this room—it’s
just a bunch of seats
filled with people I don’t know,
people whose opinions of me don’t matter,
people I will never see again.
Winter break is death.
It’s all I can see.
A friend of the family has killed himself.
I am sitting next to my mother
when we get the call—
the kind of call you know isn’t going to be good
before you even pick it up.
I loved Howie.
When I talked about him
I called him my cousin,
but he was more like an uncle.
He’s known me since I was a kid
and has been there for everything—
my bat mitzvah, my high school graduation,
all the holidays, all the dinners.
The morning of the funeral
two of my parents’ friends are at our house.
We are all going to the funeral together.
Everyone has their idea
about why Howie jumped out of his office window.
My mother just read an article
about how antidepressants have been linked to suicide
and she thinks that must be what happened.
My mother’s friend, a lawyer, thinks that his death
must be related to Howie’s law practice—
that Howie got into some sort of trouble
that he couldn’t get out of.
When I try to tell him
that it is not for us to know,
that is not for us to try to understand
what Howie must have felt,
he brushes me off, tells me I am immature,
that people do things for a reason.
Upstairs, my sister comforts me.
She says she hopes that when Howie was falling
he felt like he could fly.
At the funeral
his wife of three months
makes noises that aren’t human.
At the graveside
his mother steps forward,
fills the shovel,
and slowly sifts the dirt over the casket
as his father watches.
ii.
Going to the spring formal
marks another ending,
another thing that my friends and I
will never do again.
I watch everyone move around the banquet hall.
They go from the bar to the buffet
to the bar to the dance floor
and back to the bar.
Everyone is drunk and falling over themselves.
My stomach starts, just like that.
First there are sharp pains in my side
that come and go.
Then I get sweating hot
and goose-bump cold.
I take deep breaths and try to let it pass,
but the pain deepens.
I am going to be sick.
In the bathroom
wiping their mouths after puking
and fixing their makeup.
I pull up my skirt and sit on the toilet,
press my chest against my thighs,
and stare at the tiles
and wait to be sick.
I wait,
but nothing happens.
The pain subsides and I get some water
and go back to the patio where my friends are.
They ask how I am, but it’s old news.
They’ve all seen this happen before.
When the pain comes back
I ask my friends not to leave the patio.
I tell them I’ll be back in a few minutes.
In the bathroom
I take my seat,
put my chest on my thighs,
my chin on my knees,
wrap my arms around my calves,
and get sick.
When I get back to the patio
they are all gone.
I look by the bar.
No one.
I look by the buffet.
No one.
I was only gone a few minutes.
Why wouldn’t they wait?
I look on the dance floor.
No one.
I know they are still here,
but this place is too big.
I am never going to find them.
I go back to where they were last.
No one.
I asked them to stay
because I didn’t want to end up alone,
searching for them.
I can’t believe they would do this.
They knew I was sick.
They couldn’t wait five minutes for me?
It’s loud and crowded
and I am sick
and I want to leave
and I can’t believe them.
When I run into some kids driving back to campus
I ask to go with them.
This is my out
and I am not going to let it pass.
As I am heading for the door
I see Rebecca.
I tell her I’m leaving.
She’s confused about the urgency
and why I am so mad.
I ask her why they left the patio.
She apologizes,
says she didn’t realize everyone was getting up.
But it doesn’t matter.
I am taking my out.
My whole life has changed,
or at least I think it has.
It’s hard to tell what would have been—
what I would have been,
if I never had anxiety disorder.
I never stay out very late.
My friends all understand—
they are with me enough
to see the complete picture,
but when I am out with acquaintances
they sometimes catch on
and see that I am always the first to leave.
It’s like a timer goes off in my head
and I know it’s time to go.
Maybe I am trying to outrun the panic.
I figure if I’ve made it
this long without panicking
then I shouldn’t push my luck.
There are other things that I do.
I always have to be in control.
If I am going out with friends
I like to be the one who chooses where we go.
I have to know what we are doing,
where we are going,
how we are getting there,
and how long we’ll be staying.
I don’t remember being like this
in high school, before I was diagnosed,
and I hate that I don’t know
if all these things are me
becoming me
or me because of the anxiety.
There’s a banner in the student center
that counts down the days until graduation.
Today the banner says thirty-two.
I can’t believe this is it.
This was college.
It’s over.
I am leaving soon.
I try to send out my résumé,
but it’s too soon.
They all tell me to call back
when I get home and can interview.
But waiting is killing me.
Don’t they understand?
Don’t they remember what it feels like?
I want to have things settled.
I can’t stand the idea of not knowing.
I can’t believe that I am doing this again.
Graduation is in a week
and I have to start packing.
I have moved more than ten times
in the last four years—
I just want to sit still.
I just want to be left alone.
Senior Week is about to begin.
I’m not looking forward
to a week of organized drinking.
If I could have my way
I’d stay home with my friends
and watch movies and bake cookies.
The night before graduation
my family and my parents’ friends
go to dinner at a tiny restaurant.
I am exhausted
and this place is too dark and too loud.
How do people expect you to eat in the dark?
I am fading.
My stomach is in knots
and eating is out of the question.
I do not have the strength for this.
I am like a newborn
who cannot even hold up her head.
My father jokes,
puts his elbow on the table
and palm out for me to rest my head on.
I lean against his warm hand,
breathe in his cologne,
and shut my eyes.
Graduation morning is cold.
The ceremony takes too long
and all my friends and I
are freezing in our summer dresses.
There are too many speakers,
too many names called,
and in the end,
we don’t even get our diplomas—
that comes later, in th
e mail.
There is hugging
and pictures,
and introducing my parents to
friends and teachers.
And that’s it.
It is over.
All that’s left to do
is put my stuff in the car.
Part V
i.
All those garbage bags
and plastic bins are back in my room
and instead of being yelled at to pack,
I am being yelled at to unpack.
It doesn’t seem right to be here—
in this house,
in this room
with this stupid flowered wallpaper,
but I have no where else to go.
I have no money.
I have no job.
My parents allow me
one week before I have to start job hunting.
I want more time.
I want to relax
and be with my friends,
but when the week is up,
my dad leaves the classifieds in my room.
I look for a job,
but I don’t know what I want to do.
I don’t know what I can do.
I make phone calls and send out my résumé
for jobs that I’m not sure I want.
No one calls me back.
After two unsuccessful weeks
I take a temp job at a hedge fund.
I’m not interested in finance,
but it pays well.
I make phone calls and copies.
I go to the drugstore
to get my boss’s prescriptions
and look up what they’re for on the Internet.
Weeks pass and all I learn
is to stay out of my boss’s way
when the stock market does badly.
After a few weeks
I get a job at a publishing house.
The pay is terrible, but at least it’s a career—
something I can see myself doing
for more than a few weeks.
The work is still crap.
I still make phone calls and copies,
but at least now
the product is something tangible,
something I can be proud of.
I can deal with all the busywork,
but my boss is awful.
She rubs all my mistakes in my face
like a dog that shit on the rug.
She treats me like an idiot,
like I don’t have the right to a learning curve.
Most days I go home crying
and my dad tells me
welcome to the real world.
Fall is coming
and I feel like I’ve fallen off the map.
It’s the first time in eighteen years
that I am not getting ready to go to school.