I Don't Want to Be Crazy by Samantha Schutz

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