very simply
and with my best accent,
that I am lost,
that I am looking for rue du Cherche-Midi.
They put up their hands
and tell me how sorry they are.
I haven’t managed to memorize
my family’s eight-digit telephone number
so I can’t even call someone to come and get me.
I will not cry on the streets of Paris.
I will not cry.
I will not cry.
I have started to settle into my new routine.
I don’t feel like a tourist.
There is no time.
I am taking classes in French language and culture
and teaching English conversation at a high school.
On Wednesdays I get to be an artist.
I put on ratty jeans and take the metro
to the western edge of the city
for a photography class in the morning
and then go to the eastern edge
for painting in the afternoon.
The metro that connects the two
stays aboveground most of the way
and it is the longest
and most beautiful commute I have ever had.
I have had very little anxiety and panic
because the fear is real.
I feel dumb
because I cannot express myself in words.
I’ve become mute.
If I stop paying attention for even a second,
I lose all understanding.
I am so easily frustrated here—
like when I was little
and my dad tried to help me with math.
All I wanted to do was scream,
jump out of my skin
and away from the kitchen table,
but taking photos
and exploring the city by myself
makes me feel human—
makes me feel calm.
My photos let me show other people how I see.
That’s all I ever wanted.
Painting class is not going well.
I look up at the model,
hold up my paintbrush to get the proportions,
and try to paint her on the page,
but I can’t get my hand to create
what I see in front of me.
My portrait makes this beautiful woman
look orange and lumpy.
On the metro going home,
all I can think about is
how what I create and what I do
is not good enough.
I turn up my CD player loud
for the first time in a long time.
I could never do this before.
The idea of blocking out
all other sounds has always been scary.
It makes my heart race,
makes me feel like I can’t breathe,
but today I crank it up
and want to cry
because this is not easy
and this is the first work
I have done in years.
I have decided that it is time
to do something drastic.
I am going to get a real French haircut.
Sitting in the chair,
the stylist inspects my face.
He checks me out from all angles
and then gestures how short he is going to cut—
at least five inches from the front
and even more from the back.
I’m scared, but I need this
weight off of me.
I miss home
or at least being able to go home.
Looking at photos makes me want to cry.
I sit in my room,
staring at the phone,
not knowing who to call.
I’ve already forgotten the numbers.
I have become an introvert
because I don’t have a large enough vocabulary
to be anything else.
Locked inside my head, my body,
all I do is think
and it is making me well.
I am trying to find myself
in all of the chaos,
find something that I can call me
inside the screams and inside
the you shoulds and you have to bes.
I am grown in so many ways,
but in front of my parents
I am still a child.
I am having a hard time throwing off the skin
that I pick and peel.
I am the only one who can do it,
but I can’t seem to let myself.
I am getting so healthy here.
I can close my eyes on the metro
and let the speed move me—
another thing I could never do before.
I have found my body
and come to terms with the space it takes up.
I am confident enough to know
that even when there is only blackness around me
and voices with no mouths—
that I still remain.
Before, I disappeared.
I have found a comfortable space—
five feet six inches,
one hundred and thirty pounds,
with long fingers and toes,
small breasts,
and I like what I see.
Progress, baby steps.
I feel like I am checking things off a list,
but instead of accomplishing feats
like skydiving or swimming with sharks,
I am listening to my CD player on high in public
and keeping my eyes shut around other people.
It seems crazy to be proud of these things,
but I am.
Living with Laurence and her family
is a lot like living with my parents.
I wake up to the sounds of screaming and fighting.
When Rebecca sleeps over,
she doesn’t understand how I deal with it.
I feel like a member of their family.
I watch cartoons with Augustin
when he gets home from school.
I drink wine and smoke
with Laurence as she cooks dinner.
I go to parties with Phyllis
and her friends.
And then there is Alexis.
He has the maturity of a six-year-old
and is obsessed with James Dean and Elvis Presley.
He has to be told when to eat
and when to shower.
He is anxious around people,
especially women,
and does not realize that when he stares
he makes people nervous.
I have infinite patience with him
as he shows me his collection
of James Dean memorabilia
and asks me to translate Elvis songs.
I spend hours helping him
with his math homework.
Laurence is amazed at the progress we make
and jokes that she is going to fire his tutor.
The city has been wet and gray since I got here.
Finally seeing the sun
and sitting in the Luxembourg Gardens
makes such a big difference.
Being outside is a pleasure.
In the sun I can see myself.
I don’t know when I have felt this calm.
It’s the sun
and the fact that I stayed on the metro
five extra stops
just to hear a man playing the drums.
I get so much smaller when I am in a city.
I remember the first time
I realized that I wasn’t the only person who cried.
I was in the car, pulled up to a red light.
Maybe I was crying, or one of my parents was yelling,
or maybe I was just staring out the window,
but in the backseat of the car next to us
was a little girl crying.
All of a sudden the world opened up
and it’s doing it again now.
In this garden there are so many stories,
so many other problems besides mine.
I am jealous of the little kid
spinning around near the fountain.
What would these people think
if I were to start spinning with my arms spread
wide?
Regardez, elle est complètement folle!
A lunatic on drugs, probably.
My greatest accomplishment here is not caring,
letting go of other people’s opinions.
I am not wound as tight.
I can let go,
just no spinning yet.
Everyone is all smiles
and kisses today in the park.
I am in the corner with my journal and CD player
just loud enough to hear the water
coming from the fountain and a few muffled voices
speaking another language.
I could stay in the Luxembourg Gardens forever
if I had the right person next to me
for conversation.
Even the pigeons are dancing, kissing,
going in circles, mounting each other.
Paris is the city of love,
even for the birds.
iii.
All of the students in our program
go to Provence for the weekend.
After a day of sightseeing
we are at our hotel,
sitting around rough wooden tables,
drinking wine and laughing,
when I feel panic surge through my body.
My breathing gets off track
and when I ask for water,
I know I am in trouble.
That’s the first sign
that this is not going to get better.
My eyes are darting around the room
wondering who can tell that I am freaking out
and just like that, I need to leave.
It doesn’t matter
that they haven’t served dinner yet.
It doesn’t matter
that I was sitting with my friends.
All that matters is that I have to get out
to make this stop.
I tell everyone that I am tired
and go back to my room.
I try getting into bed and falling asleep,
but that doesn’t work.
I am too frantic.
There is no TV, no radio,
nothing to distract me.
I am freezing cold
even though the weather is pleasant.
I take a hot shower
to take away the chill
and calm the creeping feeling
that is going through my chest.
I sit on the shower floor
and let the water pour over me
as I rock back and forth, crying,
staring at the tiles on the wall
and wondering what I did to deserve this.
The steam makes me feel like I am choking
and I am worried that the bathroom door is locked
and if I die in the shower,
no one will be able to get to me.
I cannot do this alone.
I cannot die alone.
I must swallow any pride I have left,
put on clothes and shoes,
and get the one person
I can cry in front of,
the one person who will leave anywhere
on a moment’s notice
because she knows.
I gather myself up
and head out the door.
It’s too dark
and I hate this place.
I hate being here
and there she is,
having fun,
talking, drinking, eating,
having a life—
a normal life.
Rebecca looks beautiful and normal
and I am going to interrupt that.
I lean down and whisper in her ear.
I try not to look at anyone else
in case they get a glimpse
of how insane I am.
She puts down her napkin.
And that is it.
No questions.
She’s done this before
and we both know
she’ll do it again.
I cannot stop crying and shaking.
Rebecca wants to know what to do for me.
I tell her I feel like I can’t breathe,
so we walk outside, down a path
with perfectly manicured hedges.
I feel like I can’t control my limbs
and the sound inside my head is like a tornado.
I want to cover my ears,
but I know the sound is deep inside.
I have a moment of clarity
as we are walking.
For the first time I understand
the concept of suicide.
I can understand the feeling
of wanting it to stop
and being willing to do
whatever it takes
to make sure that happens.
We go back to our room
and Rebecca gets into bed with me.
I ask her to distract me,
so she tells me stories
about people she grew up with.
She even gets me to laugh a little.
Hearing her voice—
hearing something besides the thoughts
ripping through my mind—
is calming.
I just need to put a little space
between me and the panic.
I need a little bit of calm
so I can get a grip
and hold on to something,
to pull myself up
and out.
The next morning,
I am as tired as if I hadn’t slept.
I feel hungover and stiff.
The entire day I am walking a fine line
between normal and crazy.
I drink water constantly
to make sure I won’t pass out.
The day goes reasonably well
until dinner.
Our group is on the bus, pulling up to a restaurant
and stops with a fizzle at my lips.
I cannot go in there.
I cannot sit down
and act normal
over a leisurely dinner.
It is not possible.
Everyone gets off the bus
and I tell Rebecca
I cannot go in there.
I need to walk.
I need to move.
I cannot sit.
I cannot be confined.
We walk down the road a little
and there is nothing
but fields on all sides.
Just the restaurant and our bus and some fields
and I am babbling like a lunatic,
wishing I could take off running
and never come back.
This is it, I think.
I have finally gone completely insane.
After a few minutes of walking
I tell Rebecca she has to go get our coordinator.
I need to go to a hospital
because
I
can
not
do
this.
The only thing that makes me feel better
is the thought of slightly stiff hospital sheets,
the scent of disinfectant,
and a tag on my wrist
with my name and information.
Our coordinator comes out
and wants to know what is going on.
I wonder if he has been trained for this,
if he got a pamphlet
title
d, What to do if one of your students
goes insane on a back road in the middle of nowhere.
He tries to coax me inside,
but I am not ready for that.
He tells me that he used to have panic attacks,
but they went away,
just like that.
One day, he grew out of them.
His anecdote converts some of my panic
into anger.
His story insults me,
makes me feel as if what I am going through
is not significant—
that it’s just a phase.
His wife comes out
and suggests that I have some wine,
that it will help relax me.
She says she has some pills
at the hotel she can give me.
This is what I want to hear.
I want solutions.
The restaurant sets up a table for me and Rebecca
away from the others
because there is no way
I can be around that many people
staring at me and thinking I am insane.
The next day we are supposed to tour Avignon,
but I cannot go with the group.
It is too dangerous.
I need to keep myself safe.
Another girl is sitting out the day too.
From what she says,
it sounds like she has irritable bowel syndrome
and it’s nice to know
that I am in good company.
We stay at a café
while the others walk around.
There is a table with a man and his son.
Over and over the son asks, “C’est quoi ça?”
To be that young
and not know what things are
is enviable.
She and I sit outside in the sun in the town square.
I reassure myself that I have eaten enough,
that I won’t pass out,
but I wonder if I have had enough water.
Always the fear of the uncontrollable
dark times when I am somewhere
in between here and there.
I feel safer being with her,
but my body is still buzzing
and at any moment
I could have another panic attack.
I know I am sick,
I just thought I was better.
It is over
and I am back in Paris and I am tired
as if I have been in a war.
My stomach is still clenched
and I don’t know when it will let go.
I feel like I am back at square one,
at the edge of something,
and I don’t know what will be there when I fall.
Two days ago I was willing to commit myself
and now all is calm,
but the old fears have come back