Anxiety Lotion

“Push down and turn,” said the cap of the pill bottle that rested next to my shaking hand. I don’t like being told what to do but knew the instruction of twisting open a lid was a kind suggestion to swallow the small white specks that cure anxiety. My feet jumped up and down to the rhythm I created in my mouth with the clicking of my teeth. My eyes scanned the room and ran up and down the colorful walls. They looked for an escape and found the sun nudging through the window behind me, spotlighting for dust particles to dance through. I knotted my toes with the wool of my slippers and wiggled each of them, fascinated by their ability to move independently. My pinky toe poked out of the ragged slippers and dangled against the polished wooden floor. Potential splinters would not be able to sneak their way through the dead layers of skin covering my heels. I looked at my stray toe and giggled because it reminded me of a cow utter, pink, and exposed. I crossed and uncrossed my legs, let gravity pull down my shoulders, sat up straight, growing nearly five inches, and found a reasonably comfortable position. I breathed in but forgot to exhale; my eyes felt stale and kept blinking to make sure enough moisture would be available for a more transparent lens. My computer screen flashed between each blink, and the pale page changed colors, but no words appeared. I took a deep breath but could exhale only through one nostril.

Engaging the core of my hands, I pushed on the keys that stuck to my heavily sanitized fingers. One more squirt will do the trick, but only 99.99% of the germs were killed. The 0.01% lurked in the unknown, perhaps beneath my unique toes.  The papercut on my finger wasn’t fond of the ceaseless routine of hand sanitizer applications, or as I call it, anxiety lotion. The tangy and calming aroma masked the rooms' previous stench of coffee and stress. The toxically clean smell had a soothing quality, promising me I was almost entirely germ-free. A cup of water sat lifeless next to my twitching hand. I dipped three fingers into the ceramic mug as bubbles climbed their way to the water’s surface. Fascinated by the way air danced underwater, I shifted my focus to the performance of round and bulky spheres of air.

I moved to a new location and listened to discussions about school, grades, and homework. Human voices were muffled with squirrels' noises competing to see who could successfully snatch student lunches. Wasps buzzed angrily, causing stress to the light chatter of overworked students, and air traveled through the thin branches of trees and bushes. I turned my head toward the tree that lost its leaves from winter. With its few leaves, it had just enough surface area to block a small patch of sunlight that would have given my knee a nice spotty tan. I noticed my legs were crossed, and I uncrossed them as the skin unstuck like it was freshly pasted together with a glue stick.  I turned my ear toward two girls talking about jobs. “Doesn’t everybody get an interview?” and “how many did you apply for?” I shifted back, putting my knee into the same patch of shade and my eyes were veiled by freshly showered hair. The damp strands were too heavy to be rearranged by the wind, but dry strands of hair shifted in the breeze as whiffs of shampoo traveled by my unclogged nostril. 

My wet hair evaporated and the curls settled into their original positions; happy, dry, and relaxed, even though they would be wilted again after the swim practice I had to attend in twelve hours. At 6 AM I saw a dark and cold pool deck dampened with fog, footprints, and soggy winter leaves. A sunless and soulless sky was blocked with my coaches’ angry face that glowed from the underwater pool lights. My coach should have been fired years ago for adding on training hours to our already vigorous schedule. Twenty hours a week and thirty years of coaching weren’t enough for her. Her power scares me and so do her menacing yellow eyes. She instructed the team to “hop up on the blocks and get ready to swim fast”. “Hop up” is my least favorite statement. The jolly sounding words come with an undertone of pain, dread, and distress.  I yawned and dangled my arms above the chilly piece of plastic etched with the number “7”. I looked between my feet and saw the silhouette of my teammate stretching her arms. Water and silence surrounded my head until my fingertips poked through the chlorine cloud mixed between air and water.  I loved this sport, didn’t I? Two hours and 6,000 yards later, I pulled myself onto the pool deck and dragged my feet to the locker room.

I would have to eat after practice; after two hours of sprinting through choppy water, one hour of lifting heavy metal objects, for a total three hours of tearing muscles and hiding my sweat and tears in a bigger body of water. Breakfast would come, but I didn’t want to be re-fueled for something that made me feel empty. Hunger feels good and seeing how long I can go on emptiness lets me take control, feel on top of the word, while thriving, striving, and achieving perfection, until I fall off.

I went into my doctor’s appointment scheduled for 9:00 am. With a concerned smile, she told me my height, weight, and blood pressure would be taken. I panicked.  I just had four cups of coffee, and my heart was racing, but I focused on the anxiety lotion dispensers plastered on the walls. I exclaimed, “I just had a ton of coffee; nothing will be accurate.” Unsure of how I wanted her to respond, she said with another concerned smile, “okay.” I hoped for the lowest numbers, but my heart rate was elevated from the coffee, my weight was loaded from the coffee, and my height was certainly not 5’9”. “I am 5’10”, I said under my breath.  I was frustrated with myself for having too much coffee. Nothing was accurate; it was never accurate. I left in tears for the uninformative and unprogressive appointment. I could have exercised more, I could have done homework, and I just wasted thirty minutes of my day. I needed help, but help was not available for inaccuracy and lies. Nothing was accomplished; nothing was ever accomplished.

I had more coffee. I added six packets of Sweet’N Low to the dark liquid and made a sugar dust storm that blinded the humans' eyes patiently waiting behind me to add creamer to their coffee. After the sixth tear of sugar, a man cleared his throat and indicated his irritation towards my tedious process of zero-calorie coffee preparation. I shuffled my feet to the left and looked over my shoulder multiple times between each shuffle to show him there was enough space for at least three people to arrange their coffees. The reluctance in his feet to pick up his tightly laced and shiny black work shoes suggested he wanted the coffee preparing arena to himself.

Frazzled and rushed, I sealed my creation and poked down the “soda” option as a joke. That decision made me angry because it wasn’t a soda, it wasn’t a joke, it was a finely prepared caffeine creation. Before I took the daring first sip, I hoped it would be sweet enough to satisfy my desire for emptiness. After gulping down a sample of my piping hot dark liquid, I felt it run through my veins, reheat my body, turn on my brain, draw open my eyelids, and finally, I was energized with zero calories.

I opened my laptop and stared myself in the eyes until a password request disrupted the intense glare.  My fingers vigorously tapped on the keys and the letters continued to rhythmically jump up and down, but nothing appeared on the page. I was lost in time and space, wondering when words would come, when sentences multiply, extend, and weave through pages creating a timeline, a story, and an experience. I scanned the keys and only saw symbols.  The letters available to compose beautiful words and sentences are empty as individuals; they are meaningless objects waiting to be arranged. My professor wanted a Descriptive List, a wordy explanation, a time to exhale, a time to let go, a space for complaints, a space for truth, an opportunity to tell, an opportunity to sell, the time is running out, class is coming near, the clock ticks, my feet freeze, my eyes dry out, my lungs become balloons of fiery air, and I have an anxiety attack.

.

Chicken Fingers

My dad dove into the fridge for the raw thighs of featherless squawk machines. The lifeless meat jiggled as it hit the granite counter. My dad coated the meat with zesty seasoning and took off his wedding ring. He was for a moment, a single man, massaging a dead chicken. I watched the spices scatter over the pink skin and waited for my dad to carry out the cool glass container. I saw smoke from the barbeque swallow my dad’s head. He coughed and took a few steps back from the grill. Between the smoke and a dusty window screen he yelled out that the chicken would be ready in twenty minutes. He made promises and kept them. I looked beyond the smoke dancing through my dad’s grey-blonde hair and remembered our times together when he sang our favorite song, “I Only Have Eyes for You.” I called it the “smoke alarm song” because my smoke alarm would twinkle in the dark room every eight seconds among the galaxy of glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. I was calmed by its routine process signaling the absence of smoke and danger. I was safe next to my dad and the smoke alarm flashed as we rested side by side gazing at the plastic galaxy. He would sing, “are the stars out tonight, I don’t know if its cloudy or bright” and my voice would crack, “I only have eyes for you, dear.” As I became a teenager, the “smoke alarm song” was no longer our bedtime routine and I rested alone looking at the remaining stars that had just enough glue from ten years past. I sometimes cried myself to sleep and sometimes fell asleep grinning so wide, my retainers fell out. My last moments of consciousness ended while gazing at a plastic galaxy. The chicken was done and my dad finished singing to the cooked meat. He slipped his ring back on and called our family to the table. He was a happily married man eating chicken with his family.

S(no)w Parameters

Today was my first walk of life.

Oxygen trickled through my limbs

From ear to ear I grinned

Snowflakes flossed my teeth

Crunching and crackling beneath

I was free and energized

As trees whispered, “you’re alive!”

The strongest I have felt

I have all the tools under my belt

But I wasn’t wearing a belt

I was wearing two pairs of pants

Reaching six miles, my heart started to dance

Two layers of protection serves temporarily

And my belt was missing.

Powder masked my face and the wind was hissing

“I am happy, I am free”, I told myself.

More powder, more wind

More power, more wins

More steps forward, more steps back

Footprints in the snow, I pick up the pace

Marking my trail, further from home base

I am free, I am happy

I am freezing, lips are chapping

Let me be alive, I am slowly freezing

Let me freeze, I am alive and screaming

Footprints further from home base.

Today was my first walk of life.