A poem on social anxiety.
Someone says "hey what do you have to say about it?"
Suddenly dopamine surfs the veins that are running through my arms I'm sweating thick droplets of salty fear
and my esophagus has become sewn shut by the tears that have fallen backwards from my eyes.
I choke.
What to say?
Where to go?
God oh why can't I run?
I see the door, it's right there, take the chance, just run.
"Did you hear me?"
Everyone's looking at me.
I'm standing here stuck as my shoes have molded with the hardware floor.
I am frozen still and as my hands run through my hair all I can think of is-
Speak
Speak
Speak
You idiot just say something! Something.
Why can't you think of something? An idiot clouded by the disillusionment of thinking I could actually make it through a day without being seized by a fog of panic surrounding me.
"Hey, Sarah?"
Their gentle eyes latch on to me from all four corners of the room, the north and south poles of the metals connected to their curiosity and my lips are repelling but yet they still continue to stare in hopes to stick together.
Stick to an answer.
Stick to something- just a word to speak.
Speak.
Speak.
Speak.
"Sarah, did you hear me? I just wanted to know your thoughts on the election?"
I could answer the question right now-
"Fuck yeah I agree with you, I mean the answer is clear. With them in office maybe I can at least attempt to have some pride in America again. I think they're the obvious nominee."
The words were roaming around like alphabet spaghetti o's in my brain but my tongue was dry and my lips were stuck like wedding bands to a newlyweds finger and all I wanted to do was say a goddamn word.
The palm of my boyfriends hand rubbing my back and the clockwork instinct I had to grab my inhaler were making the perspiration of my anxiety click to double time.
Breathe, I tell my self.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Just relax,
Take a second and relax.
Relax.
Relax.
Speak,
Speak,
Speak!
God why aren't you speaking?
Why can't you say something?
What's wrong with you?
"Dude are you okay?"
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Speak.
"Yeah. I'm voting for them too."
I can feel the pupils that have been sticky tacked onto my sundress, slowly scan the room.
And yet the only place I can manage to look is down at the swirling foam of my nearly full plastic cup of cheap beer.
I wasn't going to drink it but I mean that's what people do at these things right?
Maybe with a drink in my hand I'm less approachable.
Maybe with beer on my breathe I'm less of an outcast.
Maybe, just maybe, if I tried to get something in my system I could be less of an anxious moron.
Maybe I could learn to speak normally, speak on time, speak like a human being, speak.
"No other thoughts? Are you sure you're okay?"
While my lips cannot manage to muster up enough courage and will to open, the nerves on my neck work up just the right amount of force to slowly nod.
And as threads of my chocolate tendrils run into my thickly mascara coated eyelashes, I set down the red solo cup unsipped from as if giving a Scarlett letter to God, stood up, and spoke.
"I need some air."
Breathe.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Relax.
Turn the knob,
Open the door,
Repeat.
Speak this time.
Drink your drink.
You are capable.
You are normal.
You can do this.
You can speak.
Speak.
"So how bout this weather?"
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Tuesday, June 2, 2015
Bill Jamison.
In loving memory of Bill Jamison.
For: Bronwyn Neale and her family.
I remember the way that you went from family to a friend,
From a foreign old man to the person sitting next to me on every plane ride.
You'd make a faucet's sip a salt water paradise- turtles and coconuts as pieces of our Hawaiian adventure.
Those were the days I could let my fourth grade worries of spelling tests and locker buddies behind. That I could breathe in the sodium of the atmosphere and immerse myself in the way that the waves collided with your laugh.
Well that was then and now I can't even pick up a phone and say "Aloha, Crunchy Beard. How ya doing?"
It's amazing how one day you can be taking me on tour buses circling the Eiffel tower and then suddenly it's grasped you up into the sky, it's metal exterior is swallowing you and your thin white beard sheds with it's darkness and your eyes become hollow and I question the pace of your voice.
My mind is only semi-developed yet I am insightful enough to understand that this is not coincidence or chance.
This is the side effects of a hell, of a deep entangled force that longs to take one more smile away from the earth, of a chance curse that traded your daily glass of wine for a bi-weekly dose of chemo.
This hell that made my reality and dearest friend a being that can only live on I'm my faintest memories.
But you grandpa, oh how you made my Sunday mornings.
You made my insides twist with giggles when I dug up quarters from couch cushions while you'd spent a whole episode of Power Puff girls trying to convince me you were an alien.
You would strike my whole being with terror that my teeth would end up just as shaded as yours were-
The difference is strawberry smoothies can't wear and tare teeth the same way wine could.
The difference is my life can't move on and play out day to day the way it could when you were just a phone call away.
The difference is jet lag from Paris can't break you down the way that leukemia and esophageal cancer can.
Double whammy-
That was always your style right?
Big and bold and exciting.
What an exciting five months it was.
One day a text "Call ASAP- it's about your grandpa"
Next week a text "Call ASAP- they found something else."
Next month a text " Call ASAP- thing's don't look good."
Five months "Call ASAP- he's passed."
What?
But no, I say, no that doesn't make sense. My alien, my crunchy beard, my grandpa, my best friend- he was the one who inspired me, who's presence illuminated the room, who when things looked low always gave me a reason to look up- to him.
The words on my script start to blur together, I stand up and the classroom walls begin to haze over by the glare of my tears, I call even though I already read the fate and although I haven't wanted to admit to myself I can not say that I'm surprised.
I saw the way that you weakened.
It was just like those movies we'd all huddle on the hotel couch to watch-
some villain pricked you with something you can't begin to understand and it normalized the feeling of weakness and introduced the meek desire for death into your world.
You fell into a trance where hospital gowns were superior to your cargo shorts and safari hats and the smell of cleaning spray became your personal auroma that drowned out the scent of firewood.
And you lay there, for five simple little months, waiting for what?
True loves kiss? No, that didn't work.
A fairy godmother, good karma, a twist in plot?
And now I see this is not Europe pay per view, this is an episode of the American Medical System and you have fallen victim to something we still can't wrap our heads around and I can thank cancer for taking you from me,
for dimming the world a notch, and making my heart sink every time I see a man with a long white crunchy looking beard or smell a campfire.
But I can still sit here,
And be thankful that I still got sixteen amazing years with you.
That I got to travel the world so young.
That I got to share blood with my greatest role model and know that I truly was lucky enough to meet a man stronger than I could ever hope to be.
So here's to you.
Here's to the million of times we'd watch Peter Pan while eating cookies made from pixie dust.
Here's to every smores we made with extra chocolate because you always said chocolate was the closest thing to love.
Here's to every backyard safari,
Every London tourist trivia fact,
Every great Bill laugh,
Every Kodak moment from the first time I was in a hospital bed to the last time you were.
Here's to the owner of the second straw in my Milkshakes,
My tour guide,
My third grade relationship therapist,
And my greatest role model.
Here's to you.
For: Bronwyn Neale and her family.
I remember the way that you went from family to a friend,
From a foreign old man to the person sitting next to me on every plane ride.
You'd make a faucet's sip a salt water paradise- turtles and coconuts as pieces of our Hawaiian adventure.
Those were the days I could let my fourth grade worries of spelling tests and locker buddies behind. That I could breathe in the sodium of the atmosphere and immerse myself in the way that the waves collided with your laugh.
Well that was then and now I can't even pick up a phone and say "Aloha, Crunchy Beard. How ya doing?"
It's amazing how one day you can be taking me on tour buses circling the Eiffel tower and then suddenly it's grasped you up into the sky, it's metal exterior is swallowing you and your thin white beard sheds with it's darkness and your eyes become hollow and I question the pace of your voice.
My mind is only semi-developed yet I am insightful enough to understand that this is not coincidence or chance.
This is the side effects of a hell, of a deep entangled force that longs to take one more smile away from the earth, of a chance curse that traded your daily glass of wine for a bi-weekly dose of chemo.
This hell that made my reality and dearest friend a being that can only live on I'm my faintest memories.
But you grandpa, oh how you made my Sunday mornings.
You made my insides twist with giggles when I dug up quarters from couch cushions while you'd spent a whole episode of Power Puff girls trying to convince me you were an alien.
You would strike my whole being with terror that my teeth would end up just as shaded as yours were-
The difference is strawberry smoothies can't wear and tare teeth the same way wine could.
The difference is my life can't move on and play out day to day the way it could when you were just a phone call away.
The difference is jet lag from Paris can't break you down the way that leukemia and esophageal cancer can.
Double whammy-
That was always your style right?
Big and bold and exciting.
What an exciting five months it was.
One day a text "Call ASAP- it's about your grandpa"
Next week a text "Call ASAP- they found something else."
Next month a text " Call ASAP- thing's don't look good."
Five months "Call ASAP- he's passed."
What?
But no, I say, no that doesn't make sense. My alien, my crunchy beard, my grandpa, my best friend- he was the one who inspired me, who's presence illuminated the room, who when things looked low always gave me a reason to look up- to him.
The words on my script start to blur together, I stand up and the classroom walls begin to haze over by the glare of my tears, I call even though I already read the fate and although I haven't wanted to admit to myself I can not say that I'm surprised.
I saw the way that you weakened.
It was just like those movies we'd all huddle on the hotel couch to watch-
some villain pricked you with something you can't begin to understand and it normalized the feeling of weakness and introduced the meek desire for death into your world.
You fell into a trance where hospital gowns were superior to your cargo shorts and safari hats and the smell of cleaning spray became your personal auroma that drowned out the scent of firewood.
And you lay there, for five simple little months, waiting for what?
True loves kiss? No, that didn't work.
A fairy godmother, good karma, a twist in plot?
And now I see this is not Europe pay per view, this is an episode of the American Medical System and you have fallen victim to something we still can't wrap our heads around and I can thank cancer for taking you from me,
for dimming the world a notch, and making my heart sink every time I see a man with a long white crunchy looking beard or smell a campfire.
But I can still sit here,
And be thankful that I still got sixteen amazing years with you.
That I got to travel the world so young.
That I got to share blood with my greatest role model and know that I truly was lucky enough to meet a man stronger than I could ever hope to be.
So here's to you.
Here's to the million of times we'd watch Peter Pan while eating cookies made from pixie dust.
Here's to every smores we made with extra chocolate because you always said chocolate was the closest thing to love.
Here's to every backyard safari,
Every London tourist trivia fact,
Every great Bill laugh,
Every Kodak moment from the first time I was in a hospital bed to the last time you were.
Here's to the owner of the second straw in my Milkshakes,
My tour guide,
My third grade relationship therapist,
And my greatest role model.
Here's to you.
Monday, June 1, 2015
I love you.
It was hard the first time.
The constant question of do I really? Is this right? Am I lying to myself?
Are they really meant to be my first love?
But eventually your questions produce answers.
Answers upon answers of all ends of the spectrum are offspringed by your doubts.
Then it is simply up to you to decide what answer you can be most contended by.
And I chose you.
I chose to answer no to fear, yes to love, and absolutely to you.
You were the balls of fire that illuminated my world's sky,
The consistent better side of myself filling my brain with
"You're worthy"
"Don't worry so much about what people think"
"Take care of yourself"
"Try new things",
I love you.
Your arms wrapped around my small confused body as if you were a life jacket.
Your lips kissed mine as bees kiss the sugar of nature.
Your tears you'd shed out of frustration and pain nourished my will to fight for your smile.
I can not say my years spent with you as my lightning have not filled my body with loud atrocious bombs of thunder,
that I have not mumbled fatal questions,
that I have not spent many a night buried in a tomb of sheets-
But nothing and no one could make me feel as capable of overcoming a broken home and a broken heart cracked by my own critical thinking.
I love you.
Your insight, your constant guidance and intelligent murmurs have provided me constant admiration towards all that you have to teach me,
But your capability to listen- to understand and share in my own personal opinions and truths make me able to teach you,
Nothing is more beautiful then two beings interwined in connection like you and I.
Your strength in weakness inspires me and with you I am whole.
I love you.
It's so silly how something so young and innocent can be filled with such maturity- a compatibility and emotion of such magnitude far beyond our years.
Our brains are three years young of full development- a journey that will pose much struggle just as the past eighteen have- but a beautiful struggle for comprehensive maturity with you by my side.
The jagged lines in your palm are roads to childhood stories of riding bikes with your father and awkward chlorine kisses.
The edges of worry outstretched across your face are ways to decode just exactly how quickly the pinwheels in your head are turning.
The thin spindles of hair my fingers know their way through far too easily.
All the little parts of you that make me completely infatuated by your aroma and presence.
I love you.
I can not wait to spend many more days staring into your eyes and holding your heart.
To discover ourselves and each other in a complicated excruciatingly rewarding manner.
To learn the patterns and puzzles that comes with adulthood and romance.
I love you.
Forever and always.
I love you.
The constant question of do I really? Is this right? Am I lying to myself?
Are they really meant to be my first love?
But eventually your questions produce answers.
Answers upon answers of all ends of the spectrum are offspringed by your doubts.
Then it is simply up to you to decide what answer you can be most contended by.
And I chose you.
I chose to answer no to fear, yes to love, and absolutely to you.
You were the balls of fire that illuminated my world's sky,
The consistent better side of myself filling my brain with
"You're worthy"
"Don't worry so much about what people think"
"Take care of yourself"
"Try new things",
I love you.
Your arms wrapped around my small confused body as if you were a life jacket.
Your lips kissed mine as bees kiss the sugar of nature.
Your tears you'd shed out of frustration and pain nourished my will to fight for your smile.
I can not say my years spent with you as my lightning have not filled my body with loud atrocious bombs of thunder,
that I have not mumbled fatal questions,
that I have not spent many a night buried in a tomb of sheets-
But nothing and no one could make me feel as capable of overcoming a broken home and a broken heart cracked by my own critical thinking.
I love you.
Your insight, your constant guidance and intelligent murmurs have provided me constant admiration towards all that you have to teach me,
But your capability to listen- to understand and share in my own personal opinions and truths make me able to teach you,
Nothing is more beautiful then two beings interwined in connection like you and I.
Your strength in weakness inspires me and with you I am whole.
I love you.
It's so silly how something so young and innocent can be filled with such maturity- a compatibility and emotion of such magnitude far beyond our years.
Our brains are three years young of full development- a journey that will pose much struggle just as the past eighteen have- but a beautiful struggle for comprehensive maturity with you by my side.
The jagged lines in your palm are roads to childhood stories of riding bikes with your father and awkward chlorine kisses.
The edges of worry outstretched across your face are ways to decode just exactly how quickly the pinwheels in your head are turning.
The thin spindles of hair my fingers know their way through far too easily.
All the little parts of you that make me completely infatuated by your aroma and presence.
I love you.
I can not wait to spend many more days staring into your eyes and holding your heart.
To discover ourselves and each other in a complicated excruciatingly rewarding manner.
To learn the patterns and puzzles that comes with adulthood and romance.
I love you.
Forever and always.
I love you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)