you, force your mind to go blank. Turn out all the lights. Try to tell yourself not to think about anything. Your brain hates total darkness and silence—it won’t let this go on for more than a second or two before it starts rummaging around in the closet and throws the first thing it gets its hands on at you.
Try it now. You’ll see.
When I first developed this, the thing it threw at me was the theme song to
Friends
, which I happen to hate for its relentless cheerfulness and organized hand-clapping. But that’s what I got. And when you get this random offering from your brain, accept it. It is your mantra now.
So, something horrible happens, like when I have to get my blood drawn, I take my mind to the quiet, darkplace and play the
Friends
theme at top volume. I give it all my concentration. I crank it up if I start becoming aware of the rubber tourniquet that they tie at the top of your arm or the nurse poking around my antecubital space. (This is the technical name for the underside of your elbow, where they usually get the blood from; knowledge is also a great defense against illogical fear.) I’m surprised they can’t hear it. Sometimes, I think I even mouth the words, and one time, I know for certain I tapped out the claps with my free hand.
I dont’t remember getting on the T. I just kept walking until I must have come to a station, found a token, and gotten on. Before I knew it, I was stumbling out at the Harvard Square stop, into a mass of people and a hard and kicking fall wind.
I felt what seemed to be a twelve-inch split open up in the middle of my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself and pushed through the crowd, who were behaving as consistently as the blowing leaves—oblivious to everything because they were talking on their phones and their scarves were whipping up over their eyes. They were wandering into traffic at the wrong times, even though they give you about fifteen minutes to cross the street in Boston and have a countdown timer to guide you. There was just general confusion in the air, and I was cutting through it, forcing control into my every step. I had thick Frye boots on, and they crunched hard on the leaves and struck solidly on the brick.
“Think,” I told myself out loud. “Think.”
The bracing wind cleared my mind a bit and took away some of the nervous burning in my skin and stomach—a bit. Harvard was a good place to make yourself think. The heavy iron gates and the brickety-brickness of it all … it reassured me that world was solid and stable, and Ally was just ill, and there were cures for illness. I would just tell someone, and they would get her the right pills.
I turned sharply into one of the Harvard courtyards, where space is a bit more free and people usually run into you while jogging, or their dogs leap into you Superman style as they try to catch Frisbees. The square was almost empty. Behind me, I heard the faint tickity-tickity-tickity noise of a bike.
I stopped cold and turned on the heel of my boot.
There, in front of me at about twenty paces, was Owen. He was leading his bike and coming in my direction. He looked blown by the wind. His pale, high-boned cheeks were worn red. He rolled the bike closer and came up to me. I set my lips and looked up at him, and he seemed to understand that this time, it was not okay. This face-off continued in silence for a good minute while the one dog on the common made a beeline for us.
I was about to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but he spoke first.
“Is Allison talking about demons?” he said.
A few minutes later, we were sitting in one of Harvard’s countless coffee shops. I don’t remember which one. Myfreshman stalker and I had two hot chocolates in front of us. I watched a mountain of whipped cream melt and sink into a chocolate sea, then I turned my attention out the window, to the rush of Harvard students blowing past.
“How did you know?” I finally asked.
“I know lots of things,” he
Try it now. You’ll see.
When I first developed this, the thing it threw at me was the theme song to
Friends
, which I happen to hate for its relentless cheerfulness and organized hand-clapping. But that’s what I got. And when you get this random offering from your brain, accept it. It is your mantra now.
So, something horrible happens, like when I have to get my blood drawn, I take my mind to the quiet, darkplace and play the
Friends
theme at top volume. I give it all my concentration. I crank it up if I start becoming aware of the rubber tourniquet that they tie at the top of your arm or the nurse poking around my antecubital space. (This is the technical name for the underside of your elbow, where they usually get the blood from; knowledge is also a great defense against illogical fear.) I’m surprised they can’t hear it. Sometimes, I think I even mouth the words, and one time, I know for certain I tapped out the claps with my free hand.
I dont’t remember getting on the T. I just kept walking until I must have come to a station, found a token, and gotten on. Before I knew it, I was stumbling out at the Harvard Square stop, into a mass of people and a hard and kicking fall wind.
I felt what seemed to be a twelve-inch split open up in the middle of my chest. I wrapped my arms around myself and pushed through the crowd, who were behaving as consistently as the blowing leaves—oblivious to everything because they were talking on their phones and their scarves were whipping up over their eyes. They were wandering into traffic at the wrong times, even though they give you about fifteen minutes to cross the street in Boston and have a countdown timer to guide you. There was just general confusion in the air, and I was cutting through it, forcing control into my every step. I had thick Frye boots on, and they crunched hard on the leaves and struck solidly on the brick.
“Think,” I told myself out loud. “Think.”
The bracing wind cleared my mind a bit and took away some of the nervous burning in my skin and stomach—a bit. Harvard was a good place to make yourself think. The heavy iron gates and the brickety-brickness of it all … it reassured me that world was solid and stable, and Ally was just ill, and there were cures for illness. I would just tell someone, and they would get her the right pills.
I turned sharply into one of the Harvard courtyards, where space is a bit more free and people usually run into you while jogging, or their dogs leap into you Superman style as they try to catch Frisbees. The square was almost empty. Behind me, I heard the faint tickity-tickity-tickity noise of a bike.
I stopped cold and turned on the heel of my boot.
There, in front of me at about twenty paces, was Owen. He was leading his bike and coming in my direction. He looked blown by the wind. His pale, high-boned cheeks were worn red. He rolled the bike closer and came up to me. I set my lips and looked up at him, and he seemed to understand that this time, it was not okay. This face-off continued in silence for a good minute while the one dog on the common made a beeline for us.
I was about to shout at him, to tell him to go away, but he spoke first.
“Is Allison talking about demons?” he said.
A few minutes later, we were sitting in one of Harvard’s countless coffee shops. I don’t remember which one. Myfreshman stalker and I had two hot chocolates in front of us. I watched a mountain of whipped cream melt and sink into a chocolate sea, then I turned my attention out the window, to the rush of Harvard students blowing past.
“How did you know?” I finally asked.
“I know lots of things,” he
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