Hello, My Name is Panic Disorder

            She tried not to look disappointed when he walked into the coffee shop. Naomi wanted to be the type of person who didn’t judge people so automatically; she wanted to wait until they peeled themselves back before she made any decisions about their places in her life. Still, it was apparent that the picture he used on his profile was the best picture he had ever taken. Naomi swallowed and glanced down at the table. They hadn’t made eye contact yet. There was still time for her to slip out.

            But . . . What if that picture had captured something about him that he only let out in front of friends? What if this was the persona he pulled on when first meeting someone, if only to keep his guard up. Naomi could understand that. Maybe it wasn’t his physical features that she had been attracted to. Maybe he chose that picture for his profile because his true nature showed up in it, and she had recognized it. Maybe this was the moment that would change her life forever; that she could tell her children about years from now. She looked back up.

            She knew instinctively that his smile was more confident than hers. “Hi,” he said. “Are you Naomi?”

            She fixed the strap of her dress. “Yeah, hi, I am,” she said. She extended her hand, but then regretted it. Dates don’t shake hands. “Are you Tony?” He nodded and took her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

            He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. This drew Naomi’s eye and made her wonder if he had run a comb through the tangled locks before heading out. It didn’t seem like it. Then she kicked herself again for being judgmental.

            “Shall we?” she said, gesturing to the counter. He smiled and nodded and they walked the few feet to the register.

            They stood as if they had known each other for longer than thirty seconds; as if they had met up here on purpose. No, that was silly; of course they had met up here on purpose. Naomi scratched an itch on her face.

            “You’re getting coffee?” she said. “I’m not sure if I am. It’s kind of late.”

            “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t drink coffee.”

            Naomi paused. “So . . . why did you suggest we meet up for coffee?”

            He shrugged, a rough and nervous gesture. “I don’t know. It seemed like the thing people do.”

            She nodded, although she didn’t admire his lack of creativity. He ordered a blueberry muffin and she got hot chocolate. What had felt like an extremely grown-up coffee date suddenly fell back into the eighth grade. Their order came out and they went to sit down at the nearest table. An awkward silence grew and shuddered between them.

            “So,” he said, grasping for anything, “tell me about your writing process.”

            “I, um, what?” she said. Naomi knew he was only asking because they had chatted about it online, but it wasn’t an easy question to answer. In fact, it was probably the most startling and conversation-stunting question he could have asked.

            “Your writing process or, you know, what you like to write about,” he smiled and shrugged reassuringly.

            “Um, well, you know, it’s like how I tried to explain it before. And if I can’t explain it via written words, then I don’t think I’m going to do much better with speaking.” Tony pulled off a piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth. “But, um, I don’t know, I guess you could say I write contemporary fiction.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which sounds super pretentious, I know, but it’s kind of the easiest blanket term I can use. Um, I don’t know . . . I like to write about people and . . . how they got to be how they are?”

            He did not look impressed, and Naomi didn’t blame him. She let the end of her sentence sit on the air for a moment. Then he said, “So like . . . what’s the last thing you wrote about?”

            “The last thing . . .?” she said. It occurred to her that he must be thinking she was very stupid.

            “Yeah, like the last thing you’re proud of yourself for writing. What was the plot?”

            Naomi could see her fingers shake as she reached for her hot chocolate. “Well, the last big thing I worked on was a novel.”

            His eyes finally lit up. “A novel!” he said. “That’s so cool! What was it about?”

            She looked away and watched the two girls sitting at the table next to them. They were staring intently at their computers, but their faces were set in relaxed concentration. Naomi felt the overwhelming desire to switch places with them run through her. Then she snapped back. “It was about rape culture,” she said. “I wrote a novel about rape culture.”

            He blinked. “I’m sorry, what culture did you say?” he said.

            “Um, rape,” she said. “You know, when victims are blamed for their own assault and rapists are rarely punished what they’ve done. And when aspects of rape are woven into the everyday media we consume” She nodded as though enthusiasm might help her out.

            “Um, that’s really cool,” he said, although his face had gone pale. “You know, that you wrote a novel, not . . . rape culture.”

            “Yep,” she said, and nodded some more.

            “So . . . are you really involved in . . . thinking about things like that?” Tony said.

            “I read a lot of feminist blogs,” she said. “So probably more than the normal person, but not like . . . an abnormal amount.”

            “Well, you wrote a novel about it, though,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair again. This nervous gesture made Naomi feel a little better. Maybe he was worrying more about what he was saying than the fact that she had mentioned rape and feminism within fifteen minutes of meeting him. “So if you read a lot of feminist blogs . . . what did you think about Emma Watson’s ‘He for She’ speech?”

            It was a good question, and he was clearly reaching for a subject that he thought she would be interested in. The problem was, she had never gotten around to actually watching the speech. “I, um, I think it was good,” she said, wanting to die. “I think it was super necessary, for, you know . . .” This was not the best time to find out how bad she was at bullshitting her way through a conversation.

            He looked at her. Then he looked at the empty muffin wrapper in front of him. “Look . . .” he said, “do you want to maybe go on a walk around the area. You can lead the way, since you know it better. I just think . . . it might be more comfortable for both of us.”

            Relief flooded through Naomi. “Yes,” she said, “I really, really want to do that.”

            They got outside and Naomi pulled her sweater on. She pointed down the sidewalk and they fell into a comfortable walking pace. Naomi started to relax for the first time that night. They began chatting about school and what he had been up to post-graduation.

            Then he interrupted himself. “So . . . I have to ask: why online dating?”

            She shrugged. “I don’t know, why are you online dating?”

            Tony smiled. “I asked you first.”

            Her shoulder raised ever-so-slightly and she said, “I don’t know. It’s hard to meet people in person these days.”

            He nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t know how people find each other without dating websites.”

            “Yeah,” she said, and felt the gap in the conversation opening up in front of her. All she had to do was fall into it. So she did. “And meeting people is especially difficult when you have panic disorder.”

            Naomi didn’t know if this was the right way to say it. The casual tone of her voice said there was nothing unusual about the sentence she had just uttered, but they both knew that wasn’t true. She felt stressed and scared and . . . somewhat freed by having told a complete stranger about her mental illness.

            “Panic disorder . . .” he said. “Like you have panic attacks when you see, like, train tracks or something?”

            “Um, yeah, I mean, not train tracks. But yeah, occasionally I’ll be triggered by something random like that and have a panic attack. It’s not a big deal, though,” she added, although it really, really was.

            Another silent moment passed between them. “One of my friends has panic attacks when she sees train tracks,” he said.

            “Oh really?” she said, unsure how she was supposed to respond.

            “Yeah,” he said. “Because, um, one of our friends . . . killed herself by throwing herself in front of a train.”

            “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

            He nodded absently. “We all went on college tours together before she died.”

            “Oh, that’s so horrible,” she said.

            He nodded again. They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Anyways,” he said, “I know this isn’t really first date conversation, but . . .”

            “It’s okay,” she said. “We grew up in the same area. I’m pretty sure everyone is connected to the train suicides in some way at this point.”

            The implications of her statement hung in the air between them. Then the conversation rolled on. Never one for small talk, Naomi chatted on and on about the gentrification of the area, the faulty school policies that let victims of assault down, and how hard it was to explore the city beyond her side of town. For his part, Tony listened and passionately contributed until Naomi stopped feeling embarrassed about the way she was expressing herself. Although she knew she would have trouble conveying the tone of the date when she retold it to her roommates, Naomi reveled in the strange, dark, and stimulating turn the night had taken.

            When it got late, they started walking back towards his car. Naomi lived nearby and could easily walk home. She would have to skirt a few of the darker sidewalks and keep her eyes open, but it was doable. Besides, she knew all the security guards who were working in the area. So when Tony offered to walk with her, Naomi was quick to respond that, thanks, but she could take care of herself. She didn’t add that she wasn’t comfortable with someone who was still basically an internet stranger knowing where she lived.

            They got to his silver car, and he stepped towards it. This sudden distance between them rebuilt the tension that had dissipated when they had left the coffee shop. Tony looked at her, and Naomi suddenly realized how much she had shared with him, this person she barely knew. She felt stripped naked in a way she did not like and, more than anything, she wanted to get away.

            “Well, this is me,” he said, gesturing to his car.

            “Okay,” she said, “well, it was nice meeting you.”

            He nodded. “Yes, uh, you, too.”

            They stood there, staring at each other. Both wanted to say something about the conversation they had had, or acknowledge how weird the night had been. Did they want to do this again? Suddenly the words were too difficult to slip out.

            “Well, goodnight,” Naomi said. “Have a safe drive back.”

            “You, too,” he said. “Um, have a safe walk back.”

            “Alright,” she said, and turned away. She made it down the street and around the corner before she thought about this last interaction. It was clumsier than she had wanted, but then that was kind of appropriate for the date they had had. Naomi’s thoughts rested on the possibility of dating someone that knew about her panic disorder from the start. What a relief it would be to escape the dread of having to tell him about it later, of having to betray him by telling a lie by omission.

            Her last relationship had been irreparably damaged by this sin. Naomi had committed the fatal error of waiting past the point of when she realized she really liked the guy. She had waited until she was standing in line with him. He took off his sunglasses and looked at her and she realized, Oh shit, I really do like you. I am in some serious trouble. The impact of this thought coupled with a morning’s worth of poor self-care led her spiraling into a panic attack. Before they had gotten halfway through their food, Naomi’s throat started to close and she said she needed to leave. On the way out of the restaurant, she had haltingly explained the reality of her situation. He had taken it all as a matter of course and took her home, but this moment existed between them for the rest of their relationship. It existed when they drove home together on their next date, and it existed when, out of nowhere, he asked her if he had done anything to set off the panic. She had left out such a vital part of herself when they first met and explained who they were to each other, and this was a mistake from which it was had been too difficult to recover.

            So what if she could avoid that now? What if she had put her hands on her own narrative and shoved it in the direction she wanted? And if he wanted to see her again, that would mean something else. It would mean she was attractive beyond her illness, an idea that she had never before considered.

            But the end of their date still lingered in her mind. A gust of wind pierced through her sweater as she darted around a corner past a sketchy deli. Naomi tucked her hands into her armpits and put her head down. No matter how easily conversation eventually came between them, Tony would have that final discomfort rattling through his mind all the way home; he would have the knowledge that she now knew things about him that she shouldn’t know after a first date. The boundary of intimacy had been crossed too many times, and Naomi felt instinctually that she would never see him again.

            This fact rested on the back of her eyes and the back of her tongue. She wanted to spit it out or swallow and digest it, but it seemed too important for either of those responses. This person, this interaction, they weren’t what she wanted, but they were much closer than she had ever gotten before. Naomi wanted what everybody else did: the closeness of another human being that saw and understood her, and still wanted to be with her anyway.

            Naomi crossed the street and hopped up onto the curb. Despite having had an alternately horrible, confusing, and dark evening, she felt like things were starting to get better.