First page of the fear archive.

I’ve never fought a war, but…

Posted by jessica on Dec 3, 2009 with 16 Comments
in Thoughts and Feelings
as , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

I think I might have post traumatic stress syndrome.

I mean, there are parts of me that have been around forever. Things that I am used to, that I even like now. Like the beauty mark in the middle of my forehead that causes random strangers to accuse me of playing with hindu tattoos. Or at least one random stranger, anyway. In a coffee shop. True story. But I am used to the fact that my eyes are brown, but green too when the sun shines in them just so. Or even that I hear myself referred to as skinny more often than anything else; that I can continue to use my own preference of slender as much as I can, slipping it into casual conversation in a clumsy attempt at subliminal messaging, but that won’t make my friend David stop saying that I am the skinniest person he’s ever met. And it won’t change the fact that I get no compassion when I complain about this to others either. Rather, they tell me that they’d love to be called skinny just once. And again, I am skinny. Not slender, but skinny, subliminal messaging and all.

But now I have a syndrome and I hate it.

Now when my phone rings or I get a text telling me to please call, I have a visceral reaction. My heart starts beating faster and faster, racing to I don’t know where, but it’s getting there way too soon. My breathing becomes shallow and I taste panic. It is not savory, it is not sweet; it is fear and it is pervasive. It starts in my mouth and eventually makes it down to my stomach so that there is no longer any room for food. And I become full and nauseous at once as all I know to do is wait for myself to waste away because nobody can live on fear for too long. Which is a little bit nice in the moment since it means that there is an end.

And an end to a very bad thing is actually a very good thing.

This morning, for instance, my brother called me before 9 am. And to a performer, that is early. Nobody calls me then, not even my mom. But he called and I was scared and if I am going to be honest, too scared to answer. So I didn’t. Whatever it was, I wanted to be blissfully ignorant for just a little bit longer. But then he texted and told me to call him. Shoot. No more sweet naivety. Instead, the panic. Instead, the heart beating hard enough to sustain a few hundred, rather than just one skinny (if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?) female.

And there it was, not even 9 in the morning and I was being reminded of my new syndrome. Nice. Perhaps, along with the simple task of answering a phone call from my brother, the sounds of my spoon against my cereal bowl will be just too much for me today also.

*oh, and on a completely different note, I was inspired by my brother who just added snow to his blog. So not to be outdone, I went out and got some for myself. Because of it being December and all. And because of my competitive nature and all. Hope the snowflakes don’t annoy you guys too much…Unfortunately, mine look more like dandruff while my brother’s look more like the beautiful romanticized snowflakes we all see on the victorian christmas cards we never do quite get around to mailing, but oh well. Merry Christmas anyway.

the thing itself

Posted by jessica on Nov 3, 2009 with No Comments
in I Lift My Eyes Up, Loved Ones, Thoughts and Feelings
as , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Lately sleep has been somewhat of a white rabbit for me. And I’m tired of chasing it. Heck, I’m even tired of laying down in a bed, waiting for that stupid little rabbit to stop it’s incessant running.

Bottom line, I’m just plain tired.
It seems that I am no better at fighting off the demons now than when I was twelve years old.True, these demons have changed drastically over the years. I think I’d almost welcome one of the green, garish looking little fellows I’d imagined to be lurking just under the bed, or if not there than definitely in my closet, instead of what I am battling now. In comparison, the demons of my childhood look almost friendly.
Almost.
And then there’s that other difference.
The one that had everything to do with just running up to my parents’ bedroom, blanket trailing behind me like some kind of hobo’s bridal train, and snuggling as close to my parents’ bed as humanly possible. I’m talking feeling the box spring. Taking in the smell of their bed clothes, the smell of safety.
And if it wasn’t there, it was most certainly ending up in the same room as one of my brother’s, probably Jonathan. I’d let him think that I was the scared one, being the younger of us and the girl, but really, both of us were relieved to have the comfort of each other. The demons faded quickly once we glimpsed the shape of the other one, huddled on the floor of whichever room we’d park ourselves for the long night.
I like the simplicity of that.
The tangibleness of it.
I was alone, now I am not.
I was afraid, now I am not.
And yes, I know that I am not alone now, but Over the Rhine says it so well:
This is lonely, but never alone.
And yes, I know there is God who I can run to, but if he has a bed, I’ve yet to find it and I’ve certainly never mashed myself up against his box spring. I’ve never seen him huddled on the floor beside my bed, inexplicably drawing comfort from my presence while from his, I find the courage to face the night.
I guess sometimes I miss the physicality of running, truly running, away from what I fear and into a safe place. I miss things being as simple as moving away from the window that you’re pretty sure you just glimpsed someone or something glimpsing you.
I love the metaphor, true; and I believe in it. I have to, really.
But I miss the thing itself sometimes.