Panic

When I am having an anxiety attack, I walk as if I am drunk.
I see things, and then I don't. Until I decide that I didn't see them after all and step forwards.
And then bam! There they are, directly in my path.
Today I stumbled out in front of a blue jeep.
They swerved but didn't beep. I wouldn't have blamed them if they'd blasted their car horn. Or stopped the car to shout.
I caught sight of the drivers face for a moment.
She looked confused, and then concerned, and then disgusted.
I could hear her in my head "That young lady, with her holey jeans and her clumping boots and her raggedy cardigan. Gone. And it's not even noon. Probably drugs. This used to be a nice neighborhood."
No ma'am, I mean yes ma'am I am, on drugs. But this kind, not that kind. And I'm not drunk, I don't even really drink. It's my body, it's my body, it's my body, it's my body, it's my body, it's my body-
And oh shit, I'm stuck. If you have to do that, repeat something constructive-
I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay-
My mind I can quiet, mute with some effort, my body is a different story.
Still stumbling, I think I might fall soon. I hope I don't fall.
And now. Electric shocks running from my chest to my middle finger.
I'm a live wire. I could believe, in this moment, that if I reached out and pushed up a palm, a building across the street would collapse. Under a beam of pure energy.
Or if I pointed my finger. Like that Roald Dahl story.
Or I could believe that I was about to succumb to a fit.
I don't have epilepsy. They tested me when I was small.
It's just my body. It's just my mind.
I'm okay.
I hope I don't fall

I am thinking tonight, as I often think, that it would be much nicer to be a cat.
I could lead a happy life as one of those small hedonistic creatures.
I would refer to myself in speech as "The Cat".
Example; "You are sitting in The Cat's chair, kindly remove yourself."

Miss Scarlett in the kitchen, with the candlestick I think.
Because yellow wax had settled in mysterious splotches, in far flung places.
And blood that should have by rights belonged in Colonel Mustard's head was pooled by the fridge.
And in the sink. And on the step.
It had congealed by morning, and when I stepped in it, heaving my everything-I-own-suitcase through the doorway, it coated my sole thickly.
I tried not to think about it as I balanced over the bath, one foot in, one foot out.
And now I need to find a flat.
Oh the melodrama.
And oh the conceit of this convoluted conceit.

It's pretty strange being a grown up. Not so much the rent and the bills and the putting myself to bed by a reasonable time, I've been doing those things for a while now.
I can navigate a supermarket and rarely miss a bus. Not more than twice a week. I planted a herb garden in pots on the porch and it isn't dead yet.
My knickers are on a makeshift line above the heater. They look rather festive, like bunting, in red and white and fuchsia, sea green and orange.
But I'm in a relationship with a real live woman. Not a girl.
And she says that I am an intelligent, beautiful woman. I think I feel like a girl.
I say "when I grow up I want to be..." and she says "why do you say it like that? As if you're not?"
Sometimes she says "I'm sorry. I forget you're 23."
Sometimes I say "I'm only 23!"
We make plans, saying "One Day We Should", even "In A Couple Of Years We Could." And we're starting to move past the point where one of us rushes to fill the gap with "I-mean-if-we're-still-you-know...we."
I find the magnitude of these plans overwhelming, often.
I circle them warily, sizing them up. Will you fit? Will I fit? Should I build my life around this?
We argued the other day over where we would get married, if we decided to In A Couple Of Years.
I said "I'm not going to get married at the bloody Club." She said "We can't have it in the garden. What if it rains?"
I thought, we will have it in the garden, you just don't know it yet. And we will make paper lanterns to hang in the tree branches.
I think I want to learn to knit. A small goal, to slip in my pocket.

I don't mean to make it sound like we are all seriousness and settled.
We drove to the beach the other night. She had towels in the back seat.
We stripped naked and left our clothes in the sand. And screamed as the water hit our bodies.
Mid-night. Mid-winter.
I've always wanted to do that.

Fear

I'm sleeping in a junk yard and breathing in mold.
The crazy hits and then it hits again.
 I want to be in free fall. Falling free.
Gravity's got a hold, pulling me closer than most. Affectionate embrace, clamped to the ground. I haven't seen the sun in days. Haven't tasted in days. Haven't slept in days. No wait, that's all I do in days. Haven't slept in nights. There are caves in this bed, there's a world in this bed, I could live a lifetime in this bed. If I get up in the dark there's no one around. Haven't spoken in days. Haven't changed my clothes in days, they are growing close up to my skin, like these sheets, close to my body. Welcome to my lair, welcome to my animal home, sit your bones in that corner, burrow down in that corner, hide your heart in that corner. Sit with me, sit, still, still, stiller.
There is more life growing in that bowl, than I hold in my body.

Hard

Getting to the point where it's hard again. And it's all hard. The not being there, the being there and feeling like I've come home, the thought of never coming home again.
It's scary, when the continuation of "things that are good" relies on someone else.
When you could walk through the door one day and find that they've had it, they're tired, they're bored, you're too much work, too much effort.
Of course my life as a single person was still good, and would be again. A myriad of things belong to just me.
It's just scary.

Excerpt From A Much Neglected Journal

Having one of those maybe I've been talking out loud all day, days. Instead of thinking.
I do hope not. Because otherwise, when I was running late this morning I told the old dear who stopped to wish the bus driver a Very Happy Easter, to "get the fuck off the bus so we can move already'.
(I told Jude about this, she seemed shocked. Probably it's not always best to let our loved ones in on the inner working of our minds.)
The back of the-girl-in-front-of-me's head is perfect.
She has the hair I wish I had. Close cropped curls bob.
But it's been two hours now. And I think I can see the grease, seeping through from her scalp.
Close cropped curls getting heavier and darker. Stiff.