Free Fall

            It starts with a thought. That thought is: what would happen right now if I had a panic attack? You’re not anywhere special, or maybe you are, but that’s not the point. The point is the inconvenience, the humiliation, and the fear that you would suffer if anyone knew what was going on in your head. And because you thought that you might have one, you do, or you almost do. Shortness of breath, ringing in the ears, that sharp clarity that you know only you can feel. Everyone around you carries on as if nothing is happening, and your world is coming to an end. Your lungs are collapsing and you have to be dying, there’s no other explanation. Your hand tentatively grasps for a phone. Should you call 911? This has happened before, this dying, and yet you’re still alive. Maybe it’s real this time. It feels so damn real.

            The air inside the post office feels dead, and the ceilings are disconcertingly high. It’s one of those nineteenth century buildings that now mainly functions as an angle in the city skyline, longing for the days when visiting it was more than just an irritating chore people have to do once in a while. The floors have been carelessly swept recently, with the hard-to-reach areas abandoned to their dusty fate.

The only life is a line of people, waiting for their turn in front of the tiny window. The frustration and impatience are palpable, although no one says a word.  The woman with the bleached-blonde bob in front of me raps the counter with her fingernails and sighs every few minutes. Her fitted black pants and flowing red top make her seem fashionable and sophisticated, unworthy of such a common task. There is a wad of pink bubblegum stuck to the bottom of her shoe, a glaring flaw that she must be unaware of.

I accidentally turned around and made eye contact with the man in line behind me when he arrived, and now I can feel his body language shift as he works up the nerve to talk to me. This trip was supposed to be quick, but it’s never quick. Why is there a perpetual line at the post office? The man being helped at the window steps away. His right hand runs through his hair and he steps lightly out of the building. Lucky.

            Everyone takes a step forward as the man at the front of the line moves into place, a box tucked under his left arm. The woman in front of me sighs again. I wonder where she has to be, or if anywhere would be a better option than here right now. I get that. The post office has a way of making you feel like your time is more important than everyone else’s.

            It’s the worst when there’s nothing else to do but think. My brain does well with activity, not with moments idling by, asking for trouble. As the minutes stretch on, the trigger inevitably arises and I’m back to fighting my own mind again. What if you had a panic attack right now? And the shift is immediate.

            The telltale shiver runs down my spine and I involuntarily reach out with my left hand to support myself against the counter. Stop, this isn’t happening. I just want to mail my package and get out of here. Deep breath. I place my box on the counter and stretch my arms up over my head. If I can convince my body that I’m relaxed, maybe my brain will follow. The woman in front of me turns around and gives me a dirty look. I shrug in answer. She can’t know what’s going on with me, but it feels like a judgment of my mental instability anyway.

            The man at the window steps away. That was too quick. I can hear him muttering to himself as he walks to the exit, box still in hand. That’s fine. The blonde woman flips her hair out of her eyes and steps forward. This is good, I can make it one more. I flex my fingers and take a deep breath. But it’s a shallow breath. I can’t manage a deep breath. Don’t panic, your body isn’t breaking down. Don’t think about it.

            I desperately search the walls for something, any inane thing to distract me from the alarms going off in my brain. Shipping costs. Fine. How many e’s are in this line about international shipping? One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five. Five e’s. It helps a little, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough. Oh God, what if it’s not enough? I need to lie down, but I can’t imagine doing that here.

            “Man, what is this line, right?” I turn around. The guy standing behind me finally made his move. This was the line he’s been working on for the last ten minutes. Normally, I would mess with him a little, but in these circumstances I can only manage a weak smile. I force myself to study his appearance. Average height, small brown eyes set in a round face. His expression reads both eager and nervous. He wears a loose green t-shirt, maybe to hide the fact that his body is so skinny. I wonder if he’s self-conscious about this. If it’s something he has tried to casually hide since the boys around him started bulking up. A drop of sweat gleams on his forehead before slowly rolling down his cheek and dripping off his chin. His arms are covered light brown hair, and it glints ever so slightly when he moves. I study the effect, then I look up. Our eyes meet, and I realize staring at him might be weird, but it’s the details that make me feel calm. I rap my fingers on the counter again and nod, as though in acknowledgment of his question.

            I turn back around, and see the woman at the counter is gathering her things. The fear that I might not make it these final seconds is overwhelming. I waited here all this time, for what? I focus my eyes straight ahead. The man behind me sighs and I see him shift uncomfortably out of the corner of my eye. This small distraction is enough to break the building panic. I watch the woman collect herself and leave, her bob bouncing ever so slightly as she walks. The worker behind the glass looks up at me, her mouth set in a bored line.

            “Next,” she says, and I step forward.

~

            It’s these moments when nothing is happening, that everything happens to me. Walking home, speaking to my family, doing some small task to keep myself occupied, these things I can handle. It’s the moments when I have space to think that I think myself into a hole.

            It takes me about twenty minutes to walk home from the post office, and I enjoy it. It’s a little too hot outside, but I enjoy the healthy alive feeling of sweat dripping down my back. The breeze pushes at my face gently, keeping the hair out of my eyes. I walk quickly to keep my heart rate up and I appreciate how easily regular breathing comes.

            I reach home and, although I’m tired from the eminent attack earlier, I feel all right. My home is my parent’s house, a small purple building, agapanthus planted nearby by a lazy landscaper. When I get inside, the sweat that felt so normal before suddenly feels oppressive and dirty. Pieces of my hair stick to my face, and I desperately work to move them back. My mother is sitting at the kitchen table across the room, and looks up when I walk in.

            “Hey,” she says tentatively.

            “Hey,” I respond. “I sent that package to Margaret.”

            “Good,” she says, nodding slightly. “Good for you.” She must think that the expression on her face reads simple enthusiasm, but I see the concerned squint of her eyes and I know that she’s looking for signs of something else. I recognize this. I saw it the first time we met after I dropped out of school.

~

            My shaky hand opens the car door, and I try to get out. My legs feel the strain of the move, of the blind panic that drove me here. I stand up and push the door closed as hard as I can. It makes an unsatisfying click. I straighten the straps of my shirt and look around. The parking garage is strangely comforting in its fullness. I fix my eyes on the exit and make my way towards it.

            I see her small figure emerge from baggage claim and relief floods through me. She searches the crowd, spotting me after a few moments.  Her lips curl up into a tiny smile and I want to cry. As I get closer, I see that she looks at me with different eyes. She squints ever so slightly, as if trying to get a clear view of what’s wrong with me. I am a different person from the one she left behind, and this information is jarring to me. I put my arms around her and try to summon my original enthusiasm. Still, my brain screams, still, you’re technically sick now. Of course things will be different.

            The searching look remains in my mom’s smile. She’s waiting for a glimpse of the old me, when the old me seems like a relative I used to know when I was younger.

            “You remember that we have Elle’s graduation party tonight, right?” she says, and I snap back to the present.

            I do not. “Of course,” I reply. “What time is that again?”
            “It’s at five, so we should leave here at 4:45.”
            “Sounds good,” I say, and go to my room.

~

            Coming back to live in your old room after you’ve moved out and tried to be an adult is odd and vaguely sickening. My walls are covered with old movie posters, sixteen-year-old me thinking that references to Rear Window and Casablanca would make me look more interesting to the casual observer. Pictures of my teenage self with my high school friends are tacked at random intervals, portraying a night as much wilder than it actually was. These things feel hollow now. Now that I know what I’m capable of, what my brain’s capable of, they feel like another part of the disguise. They scream, “I’m still normal!” while I struggle to go to sleep without being overtaken by panic.

            The turquoise dress I wear is from before I went away to school, and as such it’s loose around my waist. I did the best I could with my makeup, but my face still looks tired and sad and without direction. I emerge from my room at 4:47.

            My mother sighs. It’s these moments that show me the similarities people always seem to find between us. Her curly black hair is a grey-streaked echo of mine, her tanned skin a weathered version of what’s pulled tight over my body. She hates being late more than anything, and even though this is a casual party and there’s no reason for us to get there at 5, my slight lateness makes her feel stressed. She doesn’t say anything about it. Instead she says, “Ready?” Tired smile, squinty eyes, and I nod in response.

            Elle is my cousin, and she graduated from high school two weeks ago. We arrive at her crooked yellow house just as a couple is being let inside. Elle sees me from the doorway and I see her expression change ever so slightly. Then a pained smile takes over her face, and she waves eagerly.

            “Hi, thanks for coming!” she says, but we are still too far away so it’s awkward.

            Several moments pass and my mom and I finally reach the doorway. “Of course, congratulations!” my mother says, and I smile as if in agreement.

            “Yes, high school,” I say, grasping for something sweet and intelligent to say, “um, big, um, achievement.”

            I don’t look particularly welcoming, but Elle pulls me in for a hug anyway. Elle is one of those people that always seems pulled together, no matter what. Her brown hair is pulled back into a tight bun, with a few strands scattered around her face to suggest that actually she’s pretty carefree. The shade of her green dress perfectly matches her eyes, which beam brightly and give you the feeling that you’re always being observed. “How are you doing?” she asks loudly in what I’m assuming was supposed to be a whisper. Everyone has known the fact of my panic disorder for years, but my dropping out of school seems to have suggested that it’s suddenly something they need to be very concerned about.

            “I’m fine,” I say, and shift my weight so she knows it’s time for this hug to be over. She pulls back.

            The living room has been covered with all the trappings of the humble family party. Pink streamers decorate the large windows that look out onto the backyard, twisted a few times so that they seem festive. Clusters of balloons are placed around the room, saying cheerful things like, “Congrats Grad!” and “You did it!” A fold up table covered in a tacky paper tablecloth sits against the wall. Bowls filled with pretzels and chips of various kinds sit on top of it, as well as a photo album featuring pictures of Elle growing up. I make my way towards the table, careful not to make eye contact with anyone already in the room.

            I manage to grab a handful of pretzels before I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn around and see my uncle Matt standing behind me. A large man with the face of a child, Uncle Matt doesn’t attempt to hide the look of pity that greets me.

            “Hi kiddo,” he says, and he too wraps his arms around me. “How’re you doing?”

            “I’m fine,” I say, and slowly raise my arms so that the embrace will feel mutual.

            “I’ve been meaning to call you,” he says. Everyone means to call me, and yet it is only at events like these that I hear about it. “What do you have going on?”

            “Oh, you know,” I shrug, “a little of this, a little of that. Hanging out, working on recovery. Not a lot, but it’s fine.”

            He nods as though I’ve just said something profound. “Do you know what you’re going to do about school yet?”

            This question punches me in the stomach, and I wish people would stop asking it. “Not just yet, I’m trying to figure everything out before I make a big decision like that.”

            He reaches out and grabs my right arm. I guess it’s supposed to be a comforting gesture, but instead it feels like he’s holding onto me for balance. “As you should be,” he says. “As you should be.”

            He’s looking me in the eye and I know I’m supposed to make some sort of response, but I can’t seem to find it. I do my best to form a small smile and say a lame, “Yep.” He blinks. I rap my fingers on the table. I nod as though I don’t realize it won’t fill the silence.

            “Well I should . . .” I say, and point at some random point across the room.

            “Yeah, catch up with you in a little bit?” he asks.

            “Sure, sounds good,” I say and I turn and walk across the room. It’s been six months and I still don’t know how to handle these kinds of conversations. For some reason being asked about my future plans makes me freeze and want to curl up in a tiny ball.

            My mom has been cornered by two other women and is excitedly talking and nodding her head. The door to the backyard is open so I choose to exit the room rather than try to mingle with someone else. It is still pretty early in the party and the backyard is completely empty. I walk over to a chair and sit down, attempting to recline and appear at ease with the situation.

            It would be so much easier to deal with groups like this if everyone didn’t know what was going on with me. Everyone wants to help, and family feels especially obligated to do something, but all they can do is make sympathetic faces and ask what I need.

            Seven months ago I was dreaming of this place, of being away from school, outside of all the distractions and triggers I was facing. Here I am, and I can’t function in a group of people that I’ve known my whole life. It’s disappointing.

            I can’t shake this restless feeling, so I stand back up and walk to the edge of the yard and back again. But it’s harder not to panic when I’m alone. I feel the telltale tingling in my arms. I have to be around people. I head back inside.

            The amount of people in the house has tripled since I came in, and they seem to be forming a loose circle around Elle’s dad. I join the back of the crowd.

            “Thank you all for coming to celebrate our little girl’s achievement,” he says. “As you all know, Elle graduated from high school two weeks ago, and we wanted to take some time to acknowledge how proud we are of her.” He gestures to Elle and she appropriately blushes and makes an embarrassed wave. “Before you leave, make sure to write a message in the scrapbook we’ve set up on the table over there. We need to give Elle as much love as we can before she leaves us for Washington.” Her dad contorts his face into a false grimace of pain and sticks out his bottom lip. Elle laughs and runs forward to give him a side hug. Everyone smiles at this display of familial affection, and the group disperses a little as people return to their conversations.

            I think of my own graduation party and feel sick. I have the urge to turn around and rip the streamers off the windows, but Elle doesn’t deserve that. Just because my college experience ended in a total meltdown and me leaving college, doesn’t mean that will happen to her. It probably won’t. She’ll probably go away and have one of those magical experiences that can only be captured through a series of photo albums on Facebook. Successfully balancing studying and partying with figuring out how to be a real adult so far from home. That should have been mine, too.

~

            The first few months of college were everything I’d hoped they would be. Finally, I was being challenged academically, finally I had the independence that I always craved. No one around me knew about my panic disorder, nobody had the experience of sitting in a class that I ran out of in tears. A true fresh start.

            Except, fresh starts don’t really exist. Little did I know, I was still dragging around my baggage and collecting more. So when I started to feel that sinking feeling of fear and disconnection, I was less prepared than I should have been.

            It was my last class of the week, one that I enjoyed. Contemporary American Literature? I think that’s what it was. In any case, I was sitting in my usual spot, comfortably in the middle of the room, waiting for class to start. Students filed in a few at a time. Suddenly, my professor burst through the door. He carried a stack of paper and slapped it down on the desk at the front of the room. My stomach dropped. I understood what this meant.

            “Pop quiz, put everything away,” he announced with pleasure.

            It was odd, because I was caught up on all the reading. I had been fairly successful in that class, and had no reason to be worried. I’d always tested well, and there was nothing significant about this event to draw special concern. And yet I felt it. That dropping feeling in my stomach morphed into something else. Ringing in my ears, constriction in my chest. The class groaned and put their stuff away. I gripped the desk with both hands and tried to focus on what the professor was saying, but it was so hollow.

            I tried to focus on my breathing, and not what was going on in my brain. Inhale, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . 4 . . . 5 . . . 6 . . . 7. Exhale, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3 . . . Inhale, no, damn it, that wasn’t right. I should have practiced 7-11 breathing more, but I had been doing so well. I was hoping I wouldn’t need it anymore.

            The guy in front of me passed back the pile of quizzes, and I took it with shaking fingers. I grabbed one and turned to pass the pile to the girl behind me. I looked her in the eyes to see if she was feeling what I was, but all I saw was bored irritation. Inhale, exhale, I turned back around and looked down at the paper on my desk.

            I tried to focus on what the words said, but all I could think about was how difficult it was getting to breathe. The sentences blurred together, and I closed my eyes. That made the dizziness worse, so I opened them again. And then it was too late.

            You’re dying, my brain screamed, and that was it. I grabbed both sides of the desk again and rested my forehead on it. Gasping for air, I tried to tell myself that this was my brain pulling the fire alarm when everything was all right, but it wasn’t enough. Small convulsions started running through my body and I attempted to stifle them. Somewhere far outside of the place I was in, I felt someone tap on my shoulder.

            “Are you okay?” It was my professor. He said it in a loud whisper, and when I looked up I read concern in the furrow of his brow. I stared at the way his glasses rested on the bridge of his nose, how up close you could tell that he used product to style his crunchy brown hair. I tried to say something reassuring, but instead another tremor ran through my body. “It’s just a quiz, there’s no reason to be worried about it.” My mouth fell open, another wave of panic was growing inside of me. It was going to crush me, and I needed to get out.

            I took a ragged breath, reached down for my bag and said, “Sorry,” in a soft voice. Then I fixed my eyes on the floor as I ran out of the room. There was no space to be embarrassed. My vision narrowed as I hurried down the hall. Then, out in the bright sun, I winced and felt dizzy again. No, need to keep going. I pushed forward in the direction of my dorm as the world around me felt like it was rocking back and forth. Focus on planting your feet on the ground and you can make it. As I walked, the panic died down a little. My breathing started to become regular again. And instead of the crushing fear, what I mostly felt was an all-absorbing exhaustion. The sun was beating down on me, but I felt a chill run through me and I shivered.

            As I made my way back to my dorm, I passed Mark, a friend I had known in high school. I did my best to put on a normal face as though I weren’t in the middle of a personal crisis. “Hey Mark,” I said. “How are you doing?”
            Apparently I didn’t do a great job of playing off the strain I was feeling, because he ignored my attempt at nonchalance and said, “Are you okay?”

            All I could do was nod vacantly and try to focus on the way his hair moved in the wind. He had always been a wide kid in high school, but his broad shoulders were starting to look good on him. “I’m just heading back to my dorm room,” I said. I turned and started to walk again, only to feel the strain break. I burst into tears.

            Within a matter of months, I was forced to take a medical leave of absence. However, it only took me a few weeks to realize things were going this way.  Whenever I felt trapped, whenever I couldn’t think of the right thing to say or a friend changed our plans at the last minute, I was triggered. I would spend the next two days huddled in a ball, alternately crying and forcing the last piece of toast in my cabinet down my dry throat. When panic attacks come few and far between, it’s easy to convince yourself that you can push forward and recover. It’s less easy to do this when basic functioning becomes a challenge.

~

            Elle is surrounded by a group of adults, ostensibly congratulating her again on getting into a good school. I try to slip away across the room to where my mother is talking to her sister. She glances up, meets my eyes and frowns. She knows I want to go, but she wants to spend this time with our extended family. I get that. Well, I might get it more if I had siblings, but I understand the basic sentiment. I shrug and walk towards a corner of the room.

            Leaning against the wall, I observe the way my family interacts with one another. Uncle Matt has apparently gotten into something alcoholic. He has gotten louder as the night has gone on, and is now swaying back and forth haphazardly. I keep hearing his bellowing laughter from across the room, and finally a family friend approaches him and seems to say something serious. Matt just laughs even louder, puts a hand on either shoulder, and appears to be blowing in his face. In spite of myself, I give a low laugh.

            Distracted, I don’t see Elle approach me. By the time I catch her, she’s too close for me to slip away.

            “Hey girllllll!” Elle says.

            Her enthusiasm throws me off, but it also amuses me and makes me feel like I can handle her. “Hey . . . sweetie,” I say back, and Elle’s smile flickers ever so slightly as she notes my hesitation, but it doesn’t make her pause for long.

            “Listen,” she says, “I was really sorry to hear about what happened.” Maybe something in my face reads confusion, because she adds, “You know . . . with school.”

            What she thought was confusion was probably an expression of mildly surprised annoyance. I’m never really confused when someone wants to talk to me about what happened with school. People always confront me about that, as though it will be a new topic of discussion for me. Or maybe they don’t know what else to say.

            “Thanks Elle, I appreciate it.”

            Elle nods absently and then says, “It’s just . . .”
            “What? What do you want to talk about?”

            She looks at me, as though she’s considering something. Then she asks, “Do you really not mind talking about it?”
            “Talking about what?” But of course, I know.

            “It’s just that . . . I’m kind of worried about going away to school, especially after, you know, what happened to you,” she sees me wince when she mentions this, but continues. “I just wanted to ask you . . . is there something you could have done differently? Is there something you would change if you could do it again?”
            “Change something . . . ? I don’t really understand what you mean,” But I have the sinking feeling that I understand exactly what she is getting at.

            “I mean, there must have been something you could do. People don’t just drop out of college.”

            I narrow my eyes and widen them, searching for something to say. My mouth drops open and I avoid looking directly at Elle.

            “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Elle adds quickly. “I’m just . . . curious, I guess.”

            “Elle . . . there’s nothing I could have done differently, other than be born with a different brain. Sometimes things just happen to you.”

            In spite of her assertion that she’s not trying to be rude, Elle makes a face like she doesn’t believe that’s true. Her mouth twists as she chokes down the words she thinks would hurt my feelings. “I mean, but things don’t just happen . . .”

            “Sometimes they do. I don’t know what you’re looking for me to say to you. If there was something I could have done, I would have done it. But sometimes things just happen to you, and you react to them. That’s life. Welcome to young adulthood.”

            Elle swallows hard, and I feel a little guilty that I’m telling her this at her graduation party. Then she says, “I don’t know if I really believe that, I don’t know if I really think there was nothing you could do,” and I stop feeling guilty.

            “Do you really think that I prefer living here?” I say, and I hear the edge in my voice. I ignore it. “Do you think I wanted to move back home after moving away?”

            Elle starts back at the sudden change in my demeanor. “No of course not, I was just trying to say that—“

            “That, what? That I could have just tried harder and everything would have been okay? That’s not how it fucking works, okay?” I can feel people look at me as I get louder, and as I swear at the guest of honor.
            Elle nervously pats her bun and looks away. She says, “Alright, calm down, you don’t have to be dramatic, I was just trying to make a point.”

            “It’s not your point to make, Elle. I hope to God that what happened to me doesn’t happen to you. I hope you don’t end up living back at home, trying to explain to idiots why you can’t just get better.”

            The words fly out of my mouth, and I barely comprehend them before I can’t take them back. I shift back and forth on my feet and try to find something to say that will diffuse the situation. That will make me feel better, and that will explain to Elle, and everyone else that is now observing, why I would ever say such a thing. I can’t, and I know it.

            Elle stares at her feet, her face completely red. She looks as though she still wants to say something but I shake my head. We stare at each other in disbelief. I turn and walk towards the front door. Without checking to see if my mother is watching and seeing where I’m going, I walk through the door and out into the night.

            This is the kind of experience that would normally set me off into panic. And yet, I don’t feel what I said weighing down on me in that way. I’ve been thinking these things for months, and part of me is glad that they finally found their way out. Maybe not in this particular way, but it happened.

            I walk down the sidewalk randomly, not paying attention to where I’m going. I know this neighborhood too well to get lost in it, and my thoughts are elsewhere. My thoughts are back at the day I left school.

~

            I walked slowly to my dorm room. I had just spoken to an adviser, and was officially on a leave of absence. I had twenty-four hours to leave the premises, but I was prepared for that. My car was packed. I was going straight to the airport to pick up my mother. We would make the long trek back together.

            I got to my room, and looked around at it for the last time. If I ever came back, things would be different. I would be different, the people in my life would have moved on. All of my stuff was gone, and it made the cracks in the wall and the ceiling look much more obvious. I grabbed my last bag, made eye contact with Margaret, my roommate. Wordlessly, we walked out together.

            We got to the car and I loaded my bag into the passenger seat. I barely turned before Margaret threw her arms around me and hugged me. We stood there for a second and she said, “Figure out whatever you need to, and then come back. There are plenty of people here who love you, and will be waiting.”

            And at that moment, I couldn’t say anything, because I had no idea when things would start to be okay again. So I just nodded and she hugged me harder. Then we separated and I walked around to the driver’s side of my car.

            “Text me when you get home,” she said, and I nodded. Then I opened the car door and climbed in.

            I sat there for a moment. I no longer felt like I was in free fall, like I was still accelerating towards the ground. I put my hands on the steering wheel and gripped it hard. I took a deep breath, turned the car on, and drove away.