floors,
people selling magazines and nuts on the street,
and I think I am a spoiled brat.
I must have only been in remission
these last few months
because now the anxiety is back.
It made me stay home from work
and spend the day tiptoeing around myself—
not eating too much, or too little,
and drinking liquids, tons of liquids,
until I am hydrated, bloated.
Maybe this is happening
because I have grown tolerant
of my medication.
Maybe too many new things are happening.
Maybe this is just me,
and this is how my whole life will be.
I am scared
that I do not really want to get well,
and that I am the greatest obstacle to my recovery.
Why would I do this to myself?
Why would I inflict this much pain,
turn my life upside down,
twist my stomach in knots,
run from friends, family,
even from entire countries?
Shit, I feel sick.
All this makes me sick.
I am a good person.
I know I am beautiful
and that I love
and that I care.
It’s the world, right?
The world has the problem, not me.
From Spain to the world—
I will not take blame for any of this.
I am in a house with three other people
and none of them can see me—
see what I am going through.
It’s late and I am in bed.
I should be sleeping,
but it feels like my body is on fire.
The longer I stay by myself
the hotter I burn.
I go to my sister’s room,
but she’s not there.
I go past my parents’ room
and quietly down the stairs.
My sister is always up late watching TV.
I know if I tell her
it will make the burn less hot.
I stand there and just look at her.
The corners of my mouth turn down
and I am crying,
shaking my head,
telling her that I am freaking out,
that I can’t sleep.
She makes room for me on the couch.
Her arm is around me and she is touching my hair.
Telling her makes it better.
Knowing that I don’t have to go through it alone
makes it less painful.
We watch TV for a long time
and she scratches my head
and I cry until I am tired
and can go upstairs
to sleep.
Sometimes
when I am walking down the street
I feel like a giraffe,
with my knees pointed backwards.
As soon as the train doors close
I know this is a mistake.
My heart is racing.
I can’t breathe.
And this might be it.
This might be the time
that I cross the line
from outpatient to inpatient.
I can’t sit still.
I can’t be on this train.
I look out the window
and take long, slow breaths.
I wish I had water.
I wish I had something to read.
Long
slow
breaths.
I shouldn’t be on this train.
I should be at home.
I want to get off at the next stop
and have my sister come and get me.
No.
Deep breaths.
I promised Rebecca
I would go to a party with her.
No.
I can’t do this.
I can’t go to a party
and pretend to be normal.
I am bouncing my foot
up and down
because at least that is something.
We are almost to the city,
but it is taking too long.
I am going the wrong way.
I should be going home.
I call my sister,
tell her I am having a panic attack,
tell her I don’t know what to do.
She tells me to calm down.
She tells me she’ll come and get me from the city,
but I want there to be someone with me
here, now.
I don’t want to wait.
I can’t wait
for her in Penn Station,
with all those people going past me
on their way to parties, and plays, and bars.
And what if she drives so fast
that she gets into an accident?
No.
I’ll take the train back.
I call Rebecca,
tell her I’m sorry,
but I can’t do it—
I have to go home.
I don’t even need to change trains.
This train is going back where it came from.
But I have to wait—
wait for everyone to get off
and a new set of people to board,
wait for the conductor to announce the stops.
It is taking forever.
I am rocking back and forth a little
as if I were listening to music,
hoping that my movements
will propel this train into action.
Finally, the bell rings
and the doors shut.
For a second I feel trapped,
but I try to keep quiet inside
and remember this is what I want.
The ride back is better
than the ride there
because I know I am going
people selling magazines and nuts on the street,
and I think I am a spoiled brat.
I must have only been in remission
these last few months
because now the anxiety is back.
It made me stay home from work
and spend the day tiptoeing around myself—
not eating too much, or too little,
and drinking liquids, tons of liquids,
until I am hydrated, bloated.
Maybe this is happening
because I have grown tolerant
of my medication.
Maybe too many new things are happening.
Maybe this is just me,
and this is how my whole life will be.
I am scared
that I do not really want to get well,
and that I am the greatest obstacle to my recovery.
Why would I do this to myself?
Why would I inflict this much pain,
turn my life upside down,
twist my stomach in knots,
run from friends, family,
even from entire countries?
Shit, I feel sick.
All this makes me sick.
I am a good person.
I know I am beautiful
and that I love
and that I care.
It’s the world, right?
The world has the problem, not me.
From Spain to the world—
I will not take blame for any of this.
I am in a house with three other people
and none of them can see me—
see what I am going through.
It’s late and I am in bed.
I should be sleeping,
but it feels like my body is on fire.
The longer I stay by myself
the hotter I burn.
I go to my sister’s room,
but she’s not there.
I go past my parents’ room
and quietly down the stairs.
My sister is always up late watching TV.
I know if I tell her
it will make the burn less hot.
I stand there and just look at her.
The corners of my mouth turn down
and I am crying,
shaking my head,
telling her that I am freaking out,
that I can’t sleep.
She makes room for me on the couch.
Her arm is around me and she is touching my hair.
Telling her makes it better.
Knowing that I don’t have to go through it alone
makes it less painful.
We watch TV for a long time
and she scratches my head
and I cry until I am tired
and can go upstairs
to sleep.
Sometimes
when I am walking down the street
I feel like a giraffe,
with my knees pointed backwards.
As soon as the train doors close
I know this is a mistake.
My heart is racing.
I can’t breathe.
And this might be it.
This might be the time
that I cross the line
from outpatient to inpatient.
I can’t sit still.
I can’t be on this train.
I look out the window
and take long, slow breaths.
I wish I had water.
I wish I had something to read.
Long
slow
breaths.
I shouldn’t be on this train.
I should be at home.
I want to get off at the next stop
and have my sister come and get me.
No.
Deep breaths.
I promised Rebecca
I would go to a party with her.
No.
I can’t do this.
I can’t go to a party
and pretend to be normal.
I am bouncing my foot
up and down
because at least that is something.
We are almost to the city,
but it is taking too long.
I am going the wrong way.
I should be going home.
I call my sister,
tell her I am having a panic attack,
tell her I don’t know what to do.
She tells me to calm down.
She tells me she’ll come and get me from the city,
but I want there to be someone with me
here, now.
I don’t want to wait.
I can’t wait
for her in Penn Station,
with all those people going past me
on their way to parties, and plays, and bars.
And what if she drives so fast
that she gets into an accident?
No.
I’ll take the train back.
I call Rebecca,
tell her I’m sorry,
but I can’t do it—
I have to go home.
I don’t even need to change trains.
This train is going back where it came from.
But I have to wait—
wait for everyone to get off
and a new set of people to board,
wait for the conductor to announce the stops.
It is taking forever.
I am rocking back and forth a little
as if I were listening to music,
hoping that my movements
will propel this train into action.
Finally, the bell rings
and the doors shut.
For a second I feel trapped,
but I try to keep quiet inside
and remember this is what I want.
The ride back is better
than the ride there
because I know I am going
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