Anxiety – Page 2 – Open (Open (Close)

How To Fear This

July 18, 2009 4 Comments

At some point I became afraid of lakes. Not (I hope, obviously) in a general fashion, of their existence, but specifically of entering them. Oceans too. We could blame it on a few too many years of city living, but I like to think it is something more sacred.

This isn’t fear, I tell myself, it’s reverence.

Which isn’t to say I don’t find it a little ridiculous. I give myself the same look that you do. Come on. Just get in there. This is supposed to be fun. Quit ruining the fun! Or Look at Jamie, in her bikini! She is having fun! Why can’t you be fun like Jamie?

And sometimes I close my eyes and I run into the lake and it feels wonderful and we’re all happy and splashing around and that’s great. Somebody ride the rope swing! Yea! Cannonbaaaaall!

But then, inevitably at some point, I’m standing in the water, staring into it, and I’m thinking about all these grains of sand and the crazy shit that happened to make it sand, the soft piles of decomposing mush and the things that feed on soft piles of decomposing mush, the leeches in the shadows and all the different sizes of fishes and the microbes and the snapping turtles and everything that lives here, everything that’s just trying to get by in the unseeable murk and here I am trampling and splashing all up on its grill.

If you’re not at least a little afraid of entering a lake, I think you must just not have thought about it too much.

Anxiety, Boston

Calling Mister Yuk

March 17, 2009 5 Comments

The tricky thing about it was, I felt completely fine — until I left the bathroom. I had been scrubbing the shower for maybe half an hour, going into the grout with Soft Scrub and then bleach, letting it sit while I wiped down the sink and toilet, then scrubbing again. The cats had tried to jump into the tub, so I’d closed the door to lock them out. Everything was becoming sparkling and white. The air smelled like lemon zest and chlorine. I had bright rubber gloves on my hands, the sunlight streamed in, I was unstoppable. “Never use straight bleach,” the bottle read. “Always dilute.” Pssht, I thought, you don’t know my problems, and poured the bottle over the rim of the tub. That’s what I’m talkin’ about.

I don’t remember what I needed outside of the bathroom. Paper towels, Windex? I forgot as soon as I opened the door; it was like being hit by a truck.

There was something about the air.

It smelled like burning . . . something. Wood? It felt thick and prickly, it stabbed into my lungs and eyes and sinuses. “What is happening?” I wondered, stumbling around my apartment. My limbs felt disconnected, rubbery. I flung open a window and inhaled deeply — oh no, it was much worse outside! Something must be on fire, something toxic, I just needed to know where it was coming from so I could go the other way.

But outside, birds were chirping. A couple strolled casually beneath my window, holding hands.

Maybe it was my living room. I ran into the bedroom, same thing. Kitchen, burning, burning, hallway, study — I flung open the door to the bathroom and stepped inside.

Lemon zest and chlorine. Sweet relief. I took a deep breath. Is something . . . wrong with me? It’s . . . crazy out there. Maybe I’m about to get a bloody nose. Why can’t . . . why can’t I think? Is something wrong . . . with me?

Inside the tub, a white-foamed blue pool slowly eked down the drain.

Anxiety, Dear Diary

Paging Doctor Web, Part Two

December 30, 2008 4 Comments

Hilariously — I discovered some time ago — I had developed a severe allergy to band-aids. Specifically the adhesive: medical tape was out, waterproof, sensitive skin, Snoopy decals. I’d wear one for an hour and sport the telltale parallel welts for weeks, waiting impatiently for the sweet fade into a less violent, more subtle chemical burn. This problem has proved to be more inconvenient than you’d think. Holding gauze against one’s skin for a couple of hours, while usually hilariously doable, isn’t always an option.

“Doctor,” I said, “I think I have ringworm.”

“Indeed you do!” he cried. “Sweet Lord!”

“Oh, oh oh oh wait,” I added. “See, I didn’t want my boyfriend to catch it while we slept, so I covered all of the rashes with band-aids — only I’m allergic to band-aids, which I knew, only as I’ve gotten older the allergy has gotten worse I guess, so I’m hideous. Just ignore that, that and that, and this over here, and also that. The things we do for love, right?”

He stared at me in disbelief. “Ringworm isn’t communicable.”

“What!” I cried. “That’s not what the internet said.”

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