Get Back on the Bike

Get Back on the Bike

        When I was a kid, I practically lived on my bike. I rode it everywhere. Down hills, up hills, to friends houses, to the ice cream shop where I would ride home licking the dripping cone the whole way back. No hands!  I had my accidents too.  I flipped over the handle bars, broke my arm, got a groovy cast, and got back on the bike the next day. I was fearless and invincible. 

       Somewhere along my teenage years, I ditched the bike. It grew cold and rusty as I pursued other "hobbies".  I may have become too cool for the bike, I'm not sure. But after so many years of being cool and inactive, after lounging around and smoking cigarettes became my number one hobby, it was time to get back on the bike. 

        My whole family was down the shore for a good old fashioned summer vacation and everyone was headed to the boardwalk to ride.  Everyone looked shiny and happy and I wanted to be shiny and happy too. So I put out my cigarette and walked over to the bike I was meant to ride. I swung my leg over it and sat down. I wobbled, the bike wobbled. It felt foreign and I was scared. My palms were sweaty on the handlebars and my legs were shaking. "What happened to that fearless girl I once was?" I thought.  I left her back with my old bike, locked up in the dark. I had forgotten about her. 

         I rode shakily behind my family to the boardwalk. "Okay," I told myself, "the boardwalk is totally flat. I can just cruise at a comfortable pace and my lungs need not fear any steep inclines. I can do this."  I smiled nervously at my family, my 65 year old mother hauling ass right past me, not a care in the world. 

         As I rode the bike, something strange was happening. My equilibrium was off. I gravitated towards everything I looked at: seagulls, light posts, the ocean. I rode in a diagonal, becoming dangerously close to other bikers. They shot me surprised and appalled glances as I became too close for comfort. I was a strange, sweaty girl with a smokers cough and I was suddenly there by their side, rubbing elbows.  I couldn't help it. I was like a moth to a flame. 

       When they sped forward to avoid me side swiping their tires, and I was once again a lone rider, something else happened. The lines of the boards beneath my tires were drawing my gaze down like an optical illusion. Now I was gravitating towards the hard, unforgiving ground. What the hell? Had I ruined my eyes spending too much time trying to see the hidden pictures emerge from those magic eye posters in the 90's?  I had bike vertigo, and I wanted to go home. 

       But it wasn't vertigo, it was fear. I realized that I had stopped doing a lot of the things that I once loved and my life had become stagnant. I lived so far inside my own head that the outside world became scary and threatening. I started to think that the world was for everyone else; that I wasn't worthy of the good things that life had to offer. I'm not sure how or why this happened, but now, almost ten years later, after I was lying on the boardwalk pinned beneath my rental bike, shiny happy people cycling around me, it's time to lose the fear. 

          I turned 32 a few weeks ago, and at a party my family threw for me, they presented me with a gift--a brand spanking new, shiny pink bike, equipped with a basket, a cup holder, and a bottle opener (in case I need to crack a cold one for some liquid courage).  But when I looked at my new bike, I felt the fearless girl in me squeal with excitement. The world is for me too. I am worthy too. It's time to get back on the bike, and I'm ready. 

Cheers!

    I haven't written a new post in a while, and I think it's because I've been mostly happy lately.  And when you're mostly happy, you tend to be more active.  You do things like wake up in the morning as opposed to the afternoon when you've slept through the most annoying part of the day.  You make that satisfied Ahhh... sound after you sip your coffee, and you piss people off with your optimism.  When you're happy, you cheers people even when you're drinking something stupid, like milk.  And just because you're holding a glass, not because you're celebrating anything. "Cheers! I'm drinking milk!" Or, "Cheers! I showered today!"
     So why am I writing now?  Because underneath my mountain of joy hides a creepy little animal that tells me it's not okay to be flitting around with such an obnoxious twinkle in my eye.  It is that negative voice that most of us hear when things start to go right.  It stands in your peripheral waving a red flag, making you question and doubt yourself.  It offers to tuck you back inside your little box with a glass of whiskey and a ratty old blanket.  "Come back," it says, "turn out the light. Who do you think you are to be shining so brightly?  People don't like that."  And the truth is, some people don't.  But it doesn't much matter one way or the other.  Happiness can be fleeting.  Hold it gently. Cherish it.  Silence the voice that tells you that you are undeserving of it by shining even brighter, and eventually, the only voice you'll hear is your own, pushing you forward with compassion and encouragement.  Happiness.  I'll cheers to that!

A Poem

Till Death do us Part

Our love is that cliché boat lost at sea,

the sun beating down on us mercilessly.

Abashed are our dreams that we held in youth,

But our mouths are too dry to speak that truth.

So we bob and we sway under circling gulls,

too listless to jump or to patch up the holes.

What fools were we to see a way out,

Leaving behind all denial and doubt.

This boat will not hold us. The sea is aloof,

And you and I are living proof,

That it’s easier to sink than swim.

I'm Kind of a Jerk

      When you're in a relationship with someone for a long time, strange things can start to happen to your brain. However, I can not speak for everyone--strange things may just happen to my brain (but I doubt it).  Anyway, here is an example: Every now and again, I would lie beside my beloved and watch him in his blissful slumber. It was not a loving stare as you would expect, but more of a squinty, hissing snake like stare. I would lie awake and fantasize about rolling him off the side of the bed and spreading out like a star fish, sending my fingers out in search of the cool, delicious recesses beneath the pillows.  I imagined scissoring my arms and legs back and forth in the same way you would to make a snow angel.  Yes.  I would make a lovely cotton sheet angel if I could and it would be bliss.  If a toe innocently found its way over to my side, I would resent that toe for all of eternity.
      Well, now I sleep alone.  And surprisingly, I am not a star fish and I don't make sheet angels. I lie perfectly still on my side of the bed as if the other side was still occupied.  And because I have no one to bounce my crazy off of anymore, I am forced to learn how to be alone again, to keep myself company. And one thing that I have learned about myself is that I am kind of a jerk and I can be really annoying.  I learned this through quiet contemplation and sentimental reminiscing.
      It's a strange feeling when you first start sleeping alone again.  I would say things to myself like, "Oh, I really miss going to bed together and sharing stories about what our day was like."  Then I would realize that it never actually happened like that.  It was more like me crawling into bed hours after him, slap his face a little bit to wake him out of a sound sleep when he had to be up for work very early in the morning and say, "Holy shit!  Do I have a story for you!"  Jerk like and annoying.  Also, I would read in bed all night, leaving the light on, and wake him if something I just read was so touching it just couldn't wait till morning.  Also jerk like and annoying. You know what?  Lets throw creepy in there too, cause who squints and hisses at a sleeping person like a snake because they want to be a star fish.  This creep does.
      But although these things are surfacing about who I was and I'm not particularly pleased with myself or my behavior, I have come to recognize these realizations as gifts.  And little by little each night, I learn to be alone, and I stretch out a little bit more.

Annalise

Whenever I start to feel agoraphobic, like I can't even open my front door for fear of the sun like a vampire, I am reminded of our old family dog, Annalise (may she rest in peace).  Annalise was a dachshund but she was not your typical slender "hot dog".  Her belly was full and wide, and it dusted the floors on which she shuffled, her long toenails endlessly clicking against the hardwood.  Her expression was always that of guilt and shame--for whatever reason was not aparent.  She was also an agoraphobe.

  Annalise and I were quite indifferent towards each other.  For instance, if we were in the same room together, I would see her looking at me through her peripheral vision and I would say, "I know you're looking at me."  And then we would stare at each other in an awkward silence until I would eventually reach down to pet her.  But only slightly and very reluctantly.  It was more like a couple quick pats to the top of her head.  Then we would walk away in opposite directions like nothing happened and I would vigorously wash my hands because she was always covered in a greasy sheen and she was extremely odorous.  

This makes it sound like I had no love for the poor dog, but I did.  On one occasion, after she had eaten some moldy trash and was foaming at the mouth and having seizures in the drive way, I rushed her to the emergency vet and I wailed and sobbed thinking she was going to die and that I should've been nicer to her--I should have pet her for real.  But when the veterinarian told me that she was going to live and that she had just eaten some trash and I could take her home, I was furious with her for wasting my Saturday like that.  It was a love/hate relationship, I guess.

As to why the dog was agoraphobic, one will never know.  Why do these things happen to any of us?  But if anyone got it in their mind to take her for a walk, it was a sight to behold.  She would sit in the doorway and look out into the world with fear and loathing in her eyes; just as I do sometimes.  If you pulled at her collar to get her outside of the house, she would resist with all of her might and extra belly fat.  She would have dug her toenails into the cement if she could.  If you managed to get her onto the side walk, she would scurry as quickly as she could to find shelter from the cruel world under the safety of a parked car.  All of the sweet, "Come on, girl."s were useless.  So you were left there on the sidewalk, red in the face and seemingly alone (because an onlooker could not see the stubborn beast under the car), your good intentions manifesting into irritability and swear words.  In the end, it was always the dog walker who was dragging their own nails across the cement to fish her out.

Maybe the reason for my indifference towards her was because she mirrored me in a way.  I saw the same qualities in her that I loathed in myself.  So one day I decided to make an effort in changing our relationship.  I looked her in her shifty eyes and I said, "Look at me, Annalise.  I am in my pajamas and I am going to the store like this.  You are a dog, and you're supposed to like car rides.  You're coming with me."  I jingled the keys.  She shook.  I hoisted her dead weight up into my arms and carried her like a baby out to the car, her body seized in sheer terror.  I drove to the convenient store with Annalise sitting beside me in the passengers seat, looking like a lamb being brought to slaughter.  I encouraged her to look out the window at the beautiful day, but it was in fact a very dreary day, with dark clouds looming above us like a bad omen. And it was.

I went into the store, filled a cup with coffee, paid for it and walked back out to the car, where I could see Annalise looking frantically for me through a rain soaked windshield.  Thunder boomed, the rain fell from the sky in whips and lashes.  I quickly got in the car, looked at her and said with a smile, "See? That wasn't so bad, huh?"  I imagine if she could talk, she would have had some choice words for me, or maybe she would have just said, "You're right. I quite enjoyed that car ride. Thanks for being decent." Who knows.  I'm no Caesar Milan.  So we drove out of the parking lot and down the street, through the underpass--except we never made it THROUGH the underpass.  My car died in a large puddle right under the underpass.  Cars lined up behind us and beeped, as if beeping would help start a dead car.  I looked at Annalise, suddenly regretting bringing her for the ride, but at the same time relieved that I wasn't alone.  Finally, a man walked up and helped me push the car out and on to the side of the road, Annalise still inside, shaking and having a near death experience.  I stood outside with this man, in my pajamas, in the rain and he offered to give us a ride home.  When I opened the passenger door, Annalise stared straight ahead, her toenails threatening to puncture the cars upholstery.  I pleaded with her to jump down.  "PLEASE, Annalise!" She shot me a glare that didn't take a dog whisperer to figure out what it meant.  It was a look that said, "I am a lady, and I do not get in strange cars with strange men.  And neither do you."  And I knew that trying to get her into his car would be like trying to stick a cat in a tub full of water.  So I sent the nice man on his way.

I once again lifted this dead weight of a dog and tucked her under my armpit like a football.  And as we walked home in the pouring rain down a busy street, her tongue dangled from the side of her mouth and her stubby little legs jutted out in front of her, her hind legs stiff and straight behind her, as if she were superman, flying home to her safe haven, away from all the cryptonite that is this world. I loved and hated her so much that day. But I know that she felt courageous in this moment--maybe for the first time in her life.  So it was worth it:)

Face Your Fears, or Whatever

           Every once in a while, I try to face some of my fears.  For instance, I’m afraid of bees.  So I will sit Indian style in the grass and try to become one with nature.  If a bee comes near me and starts buzzing dangerously close to my ear canal, I will try to sit perfectly still.  This is extremely difficult for me because normally, if I even spot a bee in the distance, I start screaming at the top of my lungs and running around in circles like I’m on fire.  And sometimes I cry.  I am also afraid of heights.  So I will practice becoming comfortable with heights by standing on a curb and looking down.  When my dizziness gets to be too much, I walk away and tell myself I’ll try again tomorrow.  But one of my top ten fears of all time is going to the dentist.  I would rather be tossed out of an airplane than sit in a dentist’s chair.

            People sometimes say to me, “You have such nice teeth!” and I say, “Thank you! I do absolutely nothing to maintain them!  Sometimes I even fall asleep with candy bars in my mouth!”  Well, they may look okay but lately they’ve been poking their roots into my business, entering my dreams and whispering, “Floss me!  Take me to the dentist!  Don’t you care about us?”  If ever I find myself jogging (which is very rare) I can feel the teeth on the top rattling and threatening to come loose.  If I floss, they will fall out for sure.  I chew everything with my front teeth, like a rabbit—except chocolate; chocolate I just let melt on my tongue because chewing it is not an option.  Well, the jig is up.  I can no longer live in tooth denial. 

A few weeks ago, I was eating a piece of cheese and my tooth fell out.  I gasped and my seven yr. old daughter asked me what was wrong.  I showed her my tooth and she said, “Well at least it will grow back!  And the tooth fairy will come!”  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that neither of these things would happen.  So I just looked at her and smiled—a big toothless smile.  It was time to face my fear and call the dentist.

At my appointment, I was so embarrassed that I started rattling off so many excuses as to why my teeth were so jacked up.  Well, my tooth genetics are very bad. I mean, neither of my parents even have teeth.  This half of a tooth I’m pretty sure is just a baby tooth that never fell out.  Oh and I was pregnant twice and my babies totally drained all of my calcium from me.   None of my excuses included the fact that I hadn’t been to a dentist since I was fourteen. 

It didn’t help that the dentist I randomly choose based on nothing scared the crap out of me.  He was a big Russian man who had zero tolerance for sissies like me.  He said, “Vhat?  You scared?  Don vorry, I von’t feel a thing!  Muahahahahaha!”  And then, as he was coming towards my face with the needle, he did the strangest thing.  He started making robot noises like, Beep-Bop-Boop-Bop-Beep.  A Russian robot was about to stick a needle in my face.  He knew I was scared so he was treating me like a baby.  I am not a baby! I shouted inside my head.  I wish I were a baby because then it would be acceptable to poop my pants right now!  But then I calmed down…kind of.

I told myself that I could do this, that I could be strong, like bear-- like Russian bear.  And I thought my throat was closing and that I was having a heart attack but the dentist told me, “Don be ridiculous.” So I prayed for death. It sucked.  Every single second of it was the worst ever.  But I did it anyway because I don’t want to look like a pirate. 

But the moral of this story is, facing your fears doesn’t always make them go away.  Bees sting, heights are scary, and going to the dentist sucks.  I have to go back to the dentist for a root canal, and I’m still afraid.  Next time I think I will beg them to knock me out because it is a fear I don’t feel like facing without drugs.  The end.

Because I'm Awesome

Every once in a while, I wake up and my morning feels like a Folger's commercial.  There's a smile on my face, the sun is shining, my back doesn't hurt that much, and I really feel like I am ready to conquer the day.  I tell myself that I'm going to be a good person today, I'm going to clean my house, take my kids to the food store where they will stay in the same isle as me, on their feet, rather than on their backs kicking and screaming and going coo coo for coco puffs.  I'm going to make a big healthy salad when I get home, I'm going to eat it, and I'm going to LIKE it! It's going to be a good day--I can feel it.

And then...I walk out of my bedroom, slip on a banana peel, catch a violent stomach flu on the way down, land on a pile of Leggos, and crawl back into bed where I swim back down into the dark abyss in my ocean of self loathing.  A bit dramatic, I know, but you get the gist.  Life has a funny way of knocking you down as you're getting back up.  

Well, today was one of those days.  But instead of drowning in my dark abyss, I felt it was more of a bottomless well; where if someone wished upon a coin and cheerily tossed it in, it would fall with such velocity that it would crack my skull and slip through my brain, killing me on impact. 

And then I received a gift.  A text message from a friend.  I miss you so much it hurts.  And then another.  I know we don't see each other very often, but I love you daily.  These gifts are our ladders--to climb yourself up and out of whatever dark place you find yourself in.  And when you reach the top and squint into the sun, you can tell yourself, "somebody misses me, somebody loves me. And it's because I'm awesome." 

The Day I Was a Dancing Guitar

           One day, about five years ago, while I was lying about listlessly with no money, no purpose, and a complete lack of ambition, I decided to bite the bullet and look for a job.  I browsed the internet, looking for anything that would allow me to put my skills to good use.  This proved to be very taxing on my self-esteem because I lacked every type of skill required for each position listed.  Not only was I completely computer illiterate, I couldn’t even confidently say that I had “good people skills”. 

After some time, I came across a listing for a music store that was: looking to hire an enthusiastic individual to promote the business. Must be able to play guitar at beginning level.  Well, my enthusiasm matched that of a wet blanket, but I could fake it, and I could play Pink Floyd’s, “Wish You Were Here” and Metallica’s, “Nothing Else Matters” on the guitar.  It was perfect. 

On the day of the interview I felt nervous and eager at the same time.  I would get the job, start making some money, and start living like a person, rather than some slimy creature who lives under a rock.  The owner of the store was a tall, gruff, older man with a white, scraggly beard and unforgiving eyes.  I stood before him wearing my best enthusiastic face while he scanned me up and down, silently, for what felt like an eternity.  When he finally opened his mouth to speak, I half expected him to say, “No one has ever loved me and I eat rusty nails for dinner.” Instead, he said, “You’re perfect.  Follow me.”

I scurried fearfully behind him down a long driveway and into a cold, empty warehouse.  The rain was coming down in diagonal slants, pelting the windows and the aluminum siding.  Is this man going to kill me?  No.  No, he wasn’t.  But he was going to strip me of whatever dignity I had left.  I wasn’t sure which was worse.  Without warning, he held up a giant foam guitar and started to pull it down over my head, the fake enthusiasm draining out of my face.  Something most people don’t ever think about, ever, in their whole entire lives, is how hard it would be to pull a thick foam guitar costume over a thick wooly sweater.  I spun in circles trying to force my arms through the sides. I hopped up and down and I wriggled like a worm on the sidewalk.  It was like a foam straight jacket.  Together, this old man and I wrestled with the costume until my arms fell limply over the sides and my red, sweaty face was perfectly framed inside the sound hole. 

“How does it feel?” he asked.  “Okay, I guess.”  For the first time that day, his face lit up a little.  “This is my creation.  It took me years to make.  As soon as I saw you I knew you would fit perfectly inside.  Can you dance?”  My eyes met his, mine woeful and pleading, his hopeful and expecting.  The neck of the guitar bobbed back and forth as I nodded my shameful reply.  “Yes, I can.” 

He instructed me to go out into the rain, and walk up to the busy intersection and dance.  This would bring him more customers.  I took a few steps outside, paused, and turned to him, fear and desperation pulsing through my veins.  “I can play “Wish You Were Here”.”  This did nothing.  I marched up the hill towards the street, the guitar costume absorbing the rain like a sponge.  My legs weakened under the weight of this man’s cumbersome “work of art”.  Half way up the hill, I turned my whole body around (turning just my head was not an option) to see if he was still watching me, and he was.  He shooed me forward.  I stood at the top of the hill, cars whizzing by, and waited for cheeseburgers to come hurtling towards my head. 

This was my time to shine.  I tried to muster up some charisma, but all I could do was sway to the side whenever a stiff breeze blew by.  I was a sad, sad guitar—a classical guitar, I thought.  So I descended back down the hill, the neck of the guitar slumped forward, not looking up as cars honked at me.  I gave the man his costume back and told him I’d be back in the morning.  I drove away and watched him get smaller in the rear view mirror, both of us knowing I wouldn’t be back.  But neither of us would ever forget that day—the day he finally got to present his masterpiece and the day I was a dancing guitar.

What do you want to be AFTER you grow up?

Most kids are asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” and to a child, there is no dream too big.  When we’re children, we don’t put limits on ourselves, which is why you often hear: I want to be an astronaut, the President, a magical unicorn pony.  Why not?  When I was a kid, my expectations for myself weren’t quite so high.  I wanted to be wild and foot loose and fancy free.  And I was.

I rode that dream well into my twenties.  Not to say that my dreams as a child included alcohol abuse (they didn’t) but I drank way too much anyway.  I dropped out of school and I continued to make really poor decisions.  I had a serious disdain for all types of authority and I burned a lot of bridges.  I lived that “dream” until it eventually became a nightmare and I finally decided to pinch myself awake.  The world looked different then.  What was my dream now? 

I had babies.  Although I had (and still have) moments of pure profound joy with my children every single day, I did suffer from post-partum depression and OCD.  My hormones went berserk and my brain was overrun with overwhelming thoughts that something horrible was going to happen to my children; the most common of them being: they are going to stop breathing in their sleep, they’re going to slip from my arms as I walk down the steps. In a moment of pure exhaustion, I am going to run a red light with them in the back seat of the car, I am going to get plowed and they are going to die and I will be left to live the rest of my miserable life locked inside a padded cell in a mental institution.  I didn’t sleep, I didn’t eat, I cried in a lot of corners, and I climbed a lot of walls.  My life started to feel like one big bad acid trip.  I went to the doctor and he told me to take a chill pill—a real one, like Valium, not a figurative one.

In a moment of drug induced calm, when I was finally able to stop my mind from strategizing about how to fight a bear if ever one tried to threaten my children’s lives (this is how unreasonable I had become) I made a decision to just stop—stop the freaking madness.  It wasn’t easy and it still isn’t easy.

But who I am today is someone who knows that it’s okay to start over; to revisit yourself as a child and ask a new question: “What do you want to be AFTER you grow up?”   When I took the time to reconnect with my authentic self, I looked little me in those big sad eyes, hugged her like she was my own daughter and a small voice inside me said, “I just want to be me.  I want to be courageous and strong, and I want to write about it.”  No limits.  Our dreams are ever evolving, just like we are, and it’s okay to start over.

For Lovers, Gay and Straight Alike

       I'm not going to go on a spiel about gay marriage because, to me, it's pretty cut and dry.  I'm all for it.  Love is love-- you're blessed if you find it.  It's what keeps us going, and it should be celebrated.

Here is a poem I wrote for lovers, gay and straight alike:

Promise

Let’s promise,

That when we’re old,

And our skin has turned to bark, yet we no longer bend like branches under snow,

That we will remember our limbs

Entwined in twisted sheets, my face pressed against the pulse in your neck.

That when our mouths have turned to caves,

Housing sharp tongues in sleeves of sandpaper,

We will remember the taste of each other—when our lips held pulp like fruit,

When our sweat was sweet like nectar.

Let’s promise, my love,

When our youth lies only inside old footprints, blown over

By the very dirt that will one day lie heavy upon our bones,

That we will love, just as we do now,

Each other.

Put On Some Clothes

Put On Some Clothes

...and brush your teeth.  Definitely brush your teeth. I don't have my P.H.D. in Psychology--in fact, I never even graduated from college.  Maybe someday...when I eventually rid myself of the unreasonable fear of losing control of my limbs and involuntarily slapping myself in the face in public. We'll see.  But although I lack academic success and know how, I do find that when your life starts to feel like a commercial for abilify, it helps to put on some freaking clothes.  And shoes.  They have this magical way of telling your feet to move forward--and if you're lucky, they may even tell them to dance.  But let's not get ahead of ourselves.  If this doesn't motivate you to hop in the car and go tackle those annoying errands, like picking up milk, it will at least allow you to walk confidently to the mailbox without feeling like you need the super power of invisibility.  Every day, put on some clothes.  And don't forget the shoes.  They are magic.  And so are you.

Don't Panic

      Bravery comes in all different shapes and sizes, whether it’s standing up to your overbearing mother-in-law, becoming a fire fighter, or just letting people know that you pee in the shower and that you secretly delight in singing Celine Dion’s, My Heart Will Go On at the top of your lungs while driving to your therapist’s office.  Basically, just being real—being yourself, and letting people see you, warts and all.


         I think that this is something that we all strive towards in one area of our lives or another.  Nobody wants to be a coward.  And while I’m probably not brave enough to rescue a cat from a burning building (I’m definitely not, and would probably die of anaphylactic shock from cat dander before I would from smoke inhalation or engulfing flames), I am brave enough to put it all out there—to be real.  I consider this bravery because I am well aware that in either circumstance I am likely to get burned.  Also, because I am a lot like Bill Murray’s character in “What About Bob?”…I’m afraid of everything.

         So this is my blog, my stories; it is me showing you my skeletons whether or not you show me yours.  Hopefully it will make you self-proclaimed crazies feel less alone, have a hearty little chuckle, or at the very least feel sorry for me:)  Let’s get real!  My first entry is on anxiety.  Thanks for reading!

DON'T PANIC

          At around three o’ clock in the morning, a woman with long, shiny, lustrous waves of hair and perfect gleaming white teeth comes on the television screen. At first, I’m not sure if it’s a commercial for shampoo or toothpaste but it doesn’t really matter. She makes me instantly aware of the popcorn kernels protruding from my gums and the overall feeling of dirt and butter on my face, suffocating my pores. And for that, I immediately hate her beautiful guts. But she is not a model or a paid actor. She is a woman who knows what it is like to suffer from depression and anxiety. She’s been there, she understands, and with three easy payments of $19.95, she can help.

        I thought back on some of the moments when either I or some of the people I know were in the throws of severe anxiety and panic attacks--all of which ended in the comforts of the emergency room. Then I imagined this woman being there, calm and collected in freshly pressed slacks saying, “I know. It’s okay. I’ve been through this; trust me.” Somehow I doubted it.

         My memory took me to the most recent attack which happened at my mother’s house. I was standing in her kitchen, coughing. It was the kind of cough that rattles in your chest like a caged monkey and is accompanied by excessive green phlegm. And, although I was covering my mouth, this angered my mother deeply. She did not get flooded with worry or concern over seeing her youngest daughter ill; she only saw germs, and was therefore flooded with anxiety. She said, “Jesus Christ, Almighty.” and looked wide-eyed around the room as if she had microscopic vision and could see the germs floating through the air, landing on every surface of the room, taking nose dives into the toaster, canoodling with the apples, and playing Ring-Around-the-Rosie on the stove top. In her mind, her kitchen had suddenly become an amusement park for my germs. She shuffled over to the cabinet and frantically searched for something I could take. She found a bottle of antibiotics and threw it at me. “But mom, these expired three years ago. And what are they, anyway?”

“The expiration date doesn’t matter. They’ll work, trust me. I never took them because I’m allergic. You’ll be fine! Here. Let me smell them.” My mother is allergic to every single medication on the market--especially if it’s holistic; most especially if it’s a placebo.

I took the pills home with me, swallowed one with a cup of coffee, and laid down for a nap. An hour later, I had a bunch of messages on my phone from my mother; it was an emergency. I entered the house to find her dragging her butt across the floor like a dog with worms and scratching furiously at her hands and neck. It must’ve been a reaction from the powder she sniffed in that bottle of penicillin. We drove to the emergency with her head hanging out of the window, taking in gulps of air to expand her closing throat. When the nurse offered her a Valium, she objected, insisting she was allergic.

          Anxiety and panic disorder runs rampant in my family. My older brother used to work for the trash company. After I picked him up from the hospital, he retold his horror story as best as any heavily sedated person could. He was standing on the back of the truck, one arm outstretched, holding on like Gene Kelley holds on to a lamp post, when the scent of soiled diapers mixed with the meatball sub he had for lunch, mixed with his self-loathing over being a trash man started to get to him and he felt a tightening in his chest. He became short of breath and the sudden tingling and numbness in his arms made it nearly impossible to hold on. When the truck pulled into a neighborhood and stopped, he jumped into the passenger’s seat and told the driver he was having a heart attack. “But, Mike, who’s gonna empty the trash? Fuck. Shit. Okay, let’s get you to a hospital, man.” I imagined the woman from the commercial having an anxiety attack over her full, stinky garbage can still sitting at the curb in front of her house.

           I tried comforting my brother by telling him about my own psychosomatic episode. I went on a date with a guy I met online. I took him to a party where I knew all my friends were so that I could avoid the whole one-on-one, getting to know you awkwardness and so that my friends could judge him mercilessly for me--which is exactly what they did. They each pulled me aside privately and said, “This is not the guy for you.” and, “I don’t know. There’s something about him I just can’t put my finger on…” and, “You know what? He reminds me of a date rapist.” So naturally, due to my apparent curiosity of the affect of roofies, I agreed to go out with him again. On our second date, we went out to eat at a fancy restaurant where they serve sorbet as their first course to cleanse the palate. Somewhere along our excruciatingly long meal, I excused myself and went to the ladies room. While squatting over the toilette, my friends comments started to pop into my head. I returned to the table and took a huge gulp of my red wine to calm my nerves and suddenly felt as if someone had just placed a lamp shade over my head. “Did it just get darker in here?”

“Ugh, no…I don’t think so. Are you alright? Your face just turned pure white.” That was it for me. How could I be so stupid to go to the bathroom and leave my drink here with him to be tampered with? I started screaming for the check and pounding my fist on the table, upsetting the cheerful centerpiece, the gold plated utensils jumping and falling to the floor like they were trying to commit suicide. “No, I am NOT okay. And should I be? Huh? Should I?! You bastard!” My brother shook his head feeling sorry for the poor guy. “Man,” he said, “and I thought I was crazy.”

         Then I wondered if this woman’s anxiety and depression ever escalated to the point my best friends’ had. A few years ago, she was sitting in traffic, the summer heat hissing loudly in her ears, the smell of exhaust nauseating her, when it dawned on her that she had completely forgotten which pedal was the gas and which was the brake. This was almost as dangerous as Russian roulette. Forgetting something like this must be some kind of serious brain malfunction; perhaps a tumor. By some sort of miracle, she managed to pull the car into the parking lot of a lawyer’s office. Convinced that these were her last moments on earth, she flung the car door open and fell out of her seat onto the scorching black asphalt. Getting on all fours, she started to crawl towards the doors of the office, the heat rising from the ground creating a cruel mirage of the building ahead. She swung the door open and drug her body over to the water cooler in the corner. “I’m having a stroke! Someone! Call an ambulance!” When she arrived at the hospital, the doctor asked her why, at 22 years old, did she think she was experiencing a stroke. It was because she was a smoker and on birth control pills; a very lethal combination.

         Now, I really hate to be such a harsh critic of three a.m. infomercials, and I’d like to believe that this woman had suffered miserably, because then, maybe I’d feel a little less alone in this world. But I do have my friends and family, and after all, that’s what friends are for.