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.

The Exodus

            Her fingers tapped lightly against the side of her wine glass. Rachel took a deep breath and tried to focus on the words coming out of his mouth. He was telling her all about his new startup, the intricacies of which she could have sworn she had heard before. His eyes were filled with that familiar fever, his gaze was intent and sincere. Rachel kept her mouth in a pleasant smile. She was painfully aware of the chair digging into her thighs. They were in one of those bars that she usually tried to avoid. The wall decorations were ostentatiously trendy and the lighting ever-so-slightly flickered. She had wanted to come here with an open mind, but the sour red liquid on the back of her tongue pushed her to consider the surroundings with a harsher eye.

Rachel was listening for an opening to politely change the subject. Then she heard him utter the words, “. . . it’s going to change the world,” and she let out an involuntary snicker.

            “What?” he said, his lips folding into a startled frown.

            Her hand found her mouth and she shook her head quickly. “Nothing,” she said. “It’s nothing.”

            His brown eyes seemed to grow darker. “No, really,” he said, “did I say something funny?”

            Rachel tilted her head to the side. “Seriously, it’s not important.”

            He sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t care. Let’s hear it.”

            “It’s just . . . I’ve heard that phrase before.”

            He blinked. “What phrase?”

            “’It’s going to change the world,’” she said. “I’ve heard it a lot.”

            His frown deepened. “So, what are you saying? I don’t know what I’m talking about?      “No, that’s not—“

            “Because I think, of the two of us, I probably know more about this industry than you do.”

            She leaned back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “It means I’m the one with the engineering degree.”

            She sighed. “Yeah?” she said, draining the rest of her glass.

            He took her response as a sign she was backing off. “Yeah,” he said, a satisfied expression growing around the corners of his eyes.

            “Look, I’m not denying what you studied or that you worked hard in school,” she said, lowering her eyes to the grooves in the table, “I just think there’re some things you have to live here for a few years to figure out.”

            “How would you know? How old are you? Twenty-four?”

            She shrugged. “I just said I’ve heard it before.”

            “Oh, you have? In all your numerous life experiences?”

            Rachel reached up and itched the side of her neck. “I’m sorry I laughed and offended you,” she said, “but there’s no need to get nasty.”

            He rolled his eyes. “Okay.”

            They stared at each other. She stood up. “I think I’m going to take off,” she said, curling her fingers around her empty glass. “See you around.”

            “That’s it?” he said.

            The confused expression on his face made her smile. “Yeah. What did you think was going to happen?”

            “I don’t know . . . I thought, you know, maybe we’d end up going back to my place . . .”

            She laughed. “Sorry, bro, I’m no longer interested in sleeping with you.”

            “Bitch,” Rachel heard him mutter under his breath as she walked away. She kicked one of the legs of his stool.

            In her rush to leave, Rachel pulled her jacket on over the strap of her bag. She tucked her hands in her armpits and walked out onto the street. Growing up in the center of the tech industry wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; on the contrary, it had provided her with a number of opportunities that she knew she wouldn’t have had anywhere else. The dating scene, though, that was something different. 20+ years of watching her father move from startup to startup had made her cynical, and it was hard to hide. But in the multitude of hopeful ladder climbers she had dated, not one had welcomed her input on the subject. If it wasn’t a code monkey, it was a corporate guy who swore he was five years out from becoming a major player, or a graduate student who would save the world just as soon as he finished his ivy league degree. Every one of them insisted they knew better than her, and wouldn’t waste any time telling her so. It was a problem she had grown up with, but had never grown out of.

            Maybe the issue was with her, but she didn’t know how to help that.

            She waited until the walk sign flashed before stepping out into the road. Five steps in, a Prius came to a sudden stop inches from her left leg. Rachel slapped the hood of it and raised her hands in mock anger. The driver shrugged and shrunk back into his seat. She kept walking and pulled the sides of her jacket close, keeping herself warm against the temperate weather.

            She was walking quickly towards the train station. When Rachel crossed the pedestrian bridge to her side of the tracks, she watched the early train pull in. Just in time. Rachel took a jog step towards it.

            She forgot about the slight heel on the back of her shoe and tripped over it. Her other foot came down to support her, but her ankle was too weak. Rachel fell to her knees, catching herself with her hands. She felt a jarring sting on her palms, but jumped right back up. Carefully running towards the open doors on the balls of her feet, Rachel made it onto the train. She teetered back and forth and took a deep breath. Then she looked down and realized there was a small stream of blood flowing freely from a scrape on her knee. Perfect.

~

            The blood had formed a sticky pool in her shoe by the time she reached the house. It was a small three-bedroom in a suspiciously swanky part of town. She and her roommates had snatched it up as soon as they had heard the landlord was offering cheap rent to tenants for the months leading up to the house’s demolition. Two of its window frames were starting to fall off and its outer roof tiles formed uneven patterns, but Rachel like the house for its character. She pushed open the unlocked front door.

            “Rachel?” a voice called from within. “What happened? Why are you back so early?” She closed the door behind her. Her roommate, Carla, appeared from around the corner, clutching a mug of peppermint tea. “Oh shit,” she said, “what happened to your knee?”

            “Girl,” Rachel said, “the date was a bust. Same old, same old. ‘I have the idea of the future and what would you know about it?’ I left early and fell running to the train.” She took off her jacket and threw it on one of the side tables by the door.

            “Yikes, I’m sorry,” Carla said.

            “It’s okay,” Rachel said. She stretched her arms up.

            Carla smirked. “Did you have to hide in the bathroom again?”

            Rachel threw her hands out to her sides. “I actually didn’t have time to buy a ticket, okay?” Then she laughed. “This night . . .” she said.

            “It’ll be fine,” Carla said. “We’ll open a bottle of red wine and forget all about it.” Rachel stared at the tea in her friend’s hands. “What?” Carla said. “I can drink both.”

            Rachel laughed again. “Whatever,” she said.

            They walked into their living room. Emma, their other roommate, was huddled on the couch with a blanket thrown around her shoulders.

            “Hey girl,” Rachel said, “how are you doing?”

            Emma shrugged and tucked her chin into her arms. Rachel glanced at Carla, who rolled her eyes. Rachel set her lips in a line.

            “Do you want to talk about it any more?” Rachel asked, knowing what the answer would be.

            Emma sighed loudly. “I don’t know how I can,” she said.

            “Okay,” Rachel said, “well in that case—“

            “It’s just that I’m so sick of the disappointment,” Emma said. “I’m sick of getting my hopes up and having them crushed in the mud.”

            “Yeah,” Rachel said. “That’s hard.” She heard the pop of a wine cork. Carla wasn’t wasting any time. “But, you know, there will be other competitions.”

            “I know, but I’m so sick of it!” Emma said. “When will it be my turn? I submitted my best story and nothing.”

            “That happens, though,” Rachel said. “You know that happens.”

            “Why does it have to keep happening to me, though?” Emma said, and leaned her head on the side of the couch.

            Carla pushed a wine glass into Rachel’s hand. “Why don’t you show them by working through it?” Carla said. “You should be using this rejection to push your writing even further.”

            Emma’s expression soured. “You act like I haven’t been working.”

            Carla put her hands up in front of her. “I didn’t say that—“
            Emma threw the blanket back onto the couch and marched off to her room. “I’m doing the best I can, goddamnit!” she yelled over her shoulder. Carla and Rachel looked at each other. Then they both started laughing.

            “Stop it!” Rachel said through giggles. “She’ll hear you!”

            Carla drained her wine glass. “So what? She’s being ridiculous. She’ll figure that out.”

            Rachel rolled her eyes. She flopped on the couch and pulled her knees to her chest. She cradled her wine against her legs and took out her phone. She automatically loaded the dating app and started swiping through guys. Carla saw what she was doing and snickered. “Looking for a repeat of tonight?” she asked.

            Rachel looked up. “It’s a numbers game,” she said, and looked back down.

            Carla sat down on the couch across from Rachel and turned the TV on. A few peaceful moments passed. Then they heard Emma scream. Rachel shot Carla a look that said, “This is a real thing, right?” and Carla shrugged. Rachel got up and ran to Emma’s room.

            “What is it?” Rachel asked. “What’s going on?”

            Emma was gripping her hair at the roots with one hand and clutching her phone with the other. Her mouth formed words again and again. “There was another one,” she said. “Someone we went to high school with.”

            Rachel felt her body go numb as the information seeped into her brain. She grabbed the doorframe at her side and rested her forehead against it. “Who?” she said.

            “This girl,” Emma said, “Jasmine. I had a math class with her sophomore year. I can’t . . .” Her head tipped forward into her hands.

            Rachel felt the pressure build behind her face. She pressed at it gently and tried to take a deep breath, but it came out ragged. She sank to the floor. “Why does this keep happening?” she asked.

            Emma shook her head. “She was about to graduate from college,” she said. “I don’t . . . what the fuck is wrong with this area?”

            Rachel stared at the carpet and swallowed. She heard Carla’s steps come up behind her and looked. When Carla saw her sturdy roommate sitting on the ground, she took a deep breath. “Is it bad?” she asked.

            “Another train suicide,” Rachel said. “This makes it three in the last month.”

            Carla closed her eyes and nodded. Then she turned around and walked back to the living room.

            “What the hell?” Emma said, gesturing at the hallway.

            “What?” Rachel said.

            “What was that reaction?” she looked at Rachel and her eyes filled with tears. “How can she just accept it like that?” A tear streamed down each cheek.

            Rachel sighed. “We all have our ways of dealing with things,” she said. “Carla’s isn’t as . . . vocal as yours.”

            Emma stared at her. “I’m sorry I care that someone’s dead! Think about her family!” she yelled.

            “We all care, Emma. Truly, we do,” Rachel tried to think through what she was going to say, but the words stumbled out wrong anyway. “There have been so many, though, and nothing about the situation has changed.”

            “That’s heartless, Rachel,” Emma said, wiping the tears from her face.

            “I’m sorry, I don’t mean it to be,” she crossed her legs in front of her. “I’m sorry that Jasmine . . . I’m sorry for her and I’m sorry for her family. But I’m tired of everyone caring the day after it happens and then putting it away as though nothing . . .” Rachel was starting to get a headache. She massaged her forehead as Emma waited for her to continue. “This whole town is fucked. Our attitude towards mental illness, all this ‘academic perfection’ bullshit. We’ve set up an environment where kids do their best and still fail repeatedly. It needs to change, but . . . I don’t know how it will.”

            She looked up. Emma was crying again. Rachel wanted to go sit on her bed and put her arms around her. Instead, she sat there on the floor and watched the devastation run through her friend. Rachel felt the rumbling of the train beneath her, she heard the whine of its horns as it tore through the night. The assault of the cold air rushed over her as she left the warm train compartment, as she unwittingly walked away from the end of another girl’s existence.

~

            Five nights later, she sat in a bar again. Across from her was a guy she had met online, his brown hair sticking up in the back. She wanted to reach across and push it down, then beg him for something, anything more authentic then what she had been getting. But his eyes burned with the fever of the newly initiated and his hands twitched on the table as he talked. She was filled with the urge to tell him to leave, to get out before this place changed him. Everyone was hiding from each other, and didn’t realize it until their loved ones disappeared. And then they all went through a collective amnesia, putting away death as if it didn’t directly impact them. It happened, again and again. It was toxic in a way she couldn’t explain, and yet she had to. She leaned forward.

            And then she heard it. His five year plan, his ideas that would put him on top of the tech industry. His empty promises of success, and the outlook he had collected from the long lines of white men before him. He was here, and he wasn’t. He was covered by the dream that filled them all up and broke their hearts. And Rachel didn’t know what to say about that anymore.

            Her fingers tapped against her wine glass, empty this time.