I Don't Want to Be Crazy (11 page)

If I have a bad headache,
part of me says, take some aspirin,
have some tea, take a nap.
But there is another part of me,
the part with all those Post-its lined up,
that says, no,
this is not a headache,
this is something larger,
something strange,
something that will kill you.

I try to tell myself,
what are the chances?
I am a healthy girl.
But those Post-its remind me
that things can happen—
that they do happen.

It is so hard to know
this kind of fear—
this level of irrationality—
because it opens all doors.
It finds the spiders in the corners
of every room—
the ones that are there
and the ones that aren’t.
But shouldn’t a limitless possibility of bad
open the spectrum
for a limitless possibility of good?

There are five days
between me and my last attack.
I feel like I am in AA.
I am counting the days,
hoping to get enough space
to feel like a different person,
a normal person.
Being at work has helped
keep me busy, occupied
long enough to forget how bad it was
a week ago,
how bad it was
a year ago.

Even though I am out of the hole,
I can still feel it.
I am a little quieter,
a little more cautious,
a little less made up,
and I wonder when it will hit again.

Each day without fear is a triumph.
The more space I can put between
myself and the last attack,
the stronger I feel.
I am proud of the distance,
but it makes me sick to think about it—
how it is still there,
how it has been there for so long,
how I am affected.

I wonder when I will be free,
when there will be days without pain,
but all this is dependent on me working hard
and telling the truth
and not being scared anymore.

I have moved out of the incredibly sad place
that I’ve been in for months.
It still creeps up on me,
but for the most part
it is gone.
It would seem that losing the sadness
would be a good thing,
but it has been replaced by nothing—
a quiet acceptance of this boring,
everyday life.
I think it’s even worse
than being miserable.
At least miserable is active.

Today is my twenty-second birthday
and things don’t seem so bad.
I just dyed my hair red
and I am having a party
at a bar called Double Happiness.
I feel better
and I wonder if it’s because of the new meds,
or because of the new therapist.
Or maybe this is just another remission.
But I don’t really care why.
All I care about is that things are better.

I take the train into the city
and a touch of anxiety comes over me.
What if no one shows up?
What if I have a panic attack and want to leave?
I take a few deep breaths
and remind myself that tonight is going to be fun
and it calms me.

At the bar it is hard to believe
that all these people are my friends.
Person after person filters in
as I preside at a table in the back.
I’ve never felt like this before.
I am at the center of attention,
and not because I am having a panic attack
or passing out at a concert.
It’s just me
and the people I care about most.
Rebecca, Claire, Robyn, and Rachel are here.
Audrey drove in from Rhode Island.
A bunch of other kids from school came
and some kids I grew up with.
That guy from my poetry class is here,
flirting, vying for my attention,
and it is wonderful.
The only people missing are my sister
who is away on business
and Nate and Jason,
but that’s not new.

It’s after three
A.M.
when the snow starts to fall.
By the time Audrey and I get to her car
the snow is coming down even harder.
As soon as Audrey turns the key in the ignition,
Edith Piaf blares from the stereo.
I laugh at Audrey as we pull away,
and laugh even harder
when the car starts thumping down Mott Street.
We have a flat tire.
It’s late, but it doesn’t matter.
I told my parents not to expect me before 4
A.M.
and for once they didn’t seem to mind.

At a gas station, Audrey and I wait
and watch the snow fall
as an attendant puts on the spare.
I don’t mind the cold—it’s
all part of the adventure.

Audrey and I head home in the blizzard,
going thirty miles an hour on the Long Island Expressway,
laughing and listening to Edith Piaf a little too loud,
and it doesn’t matter
that I don’t understand a word she’s saying.

I went to yoga today.
I moved slowly
and did things carefully
and made sure to breathe.
It feels good to do something
alone, that is just for me.

It’s New Year’s Day.
My resolutions are
to actively work at finding happiness,
to be healthier,
more flexible,
more relaxed in my own skin—
comfortable, soft.

I feel stronger.
I am farther from the panic,
but I am still stuck
in my old patterns.
I wait for the clock
to strike a new hour
so I can leave parties
and do not check my coat
just in case I need to make a quick escape.
I’ve built myself safety nets,
but they bind me in a web.

I am in a house.
I am in one room
and my anxiety is in another.
It’s close.
I can feel it.
I can go to it.
But I won’t.