Anxiety I
It's one in the morning on a Monday, and I'm at my friend's apartment in east Charlotte; well, her mother's apartment. We're eighteen and leaving for college in a few weeks, so it's not like she'll be living here for long. It's a nice place; clean, not yet lived-in, and still fresh with that high end, hotel-like scent for which new apartments are known. It's been a long day, full of ups, downs and minor inconveniences, and I'm ready to take a shower and hit the pull out couch bed.
When I turn on the tap, I realize I'm probably the first to do so. With the expected rush of water, dried, dark blue specks of cleaning product hit the floor of the tub and I stare at them, altogether unconcerned. Yet, a hook turns my stomach, and there's a sour taste in my mouth. I call for my friend; she sees the negligible specks, and grabs the removable shower head with the intention of spraying them down the drain. In the midst of her chatter about something that I don't register, I disappear quietly from the bathroom, remove my shirt, socks and headband, and find a dark, quiet corner to fold myself into.
My breathing is uneven, and the tears are silent. It isn't a huge one, but it's a panic attack. Zero days without an incident, I think when it's over.
I vaguely remember suggesting that my friend shower first in the middle of it all, but when she comes into the room in a towel, it takes a second to register why. I stand in a daze, donned in only my gray sports bra and pink jeans, and my hair is surely a hot ass mess; she tells me I look like I've just come off of a four-day drug bender. I probably do.
There is a speck or two when I turn the spout on again, but I ignore them and get in with the water as hot as I can stand it. It hurts and it's so, so good.
I stare at the tiled wall after washing up, letting the scalding water sluice down the front of my body and absently feeling up my damp hair, poofy and sticking out at least half a foot on either side of my head on account of the humidity.
When I get out, my friend asks if I'm good, and I say, "yes," which isn't a lie.
We watch Skin Wars, talk about everything and nothing, and go to bed.
When I turn on the tap, I realize I'm probably the first to do so. With the expected rush of water, dried, dark blue specks of cleaning product hit the floor of the tub and I stare at them, altogether unconcerned. Yet, a hook turns my stomach, and there's a sour taste in my mouth. I call for my friend; she sees the negligible specks, and grabs the removable shower head with the intention of spraying them down the drain. In the midst of her chatter about something that I don't register, I disappear quietly from the bathroom, remove my shirt, socks and headband, and find a dark, quiet corner to fold myself into.
My breathing is uneven, and the tears are silent. It isn't a huge one, but it's a panic attack. Zero days without an incident, I think when it's over.
I vaguely remember suggesting that my friend shower first in the middle of it all, but when she comes into the room in a towel, it takes a second to register why. I stand in a daze, donned in only my gray sports bra and pink jeans, and my hair is surely a hot ass mess; she tells me I look like I've just come off of a four-day drug bender. I probably do.
There is a speck or two when I turn the spout on again, but I ignore them and get in with the water as hot as I can stand it. It hurts and it's so, so good.
I stare at the tiled wall after washing up, letting the scalding water sluice down the front of my body and absently feeling up my damp hair, poofy and sticking out at least half a foot on either side of my head on account of the humidity.
When I get out, my friend asks if I'm good, and I say, "yes," which isn't a lie.
We watch Skin Wars, talk about everything and nothing, and go to bed.
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