Angst
Victoria Sawyer
Copyright © 2013 by Victoria Sawyer, An S.R.H Publication
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the Author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Published in the United States of America
Amazon Kindle Edition, 2013
Angst Anxiety Panic Publishers
www.angstanxietypanic.wordpress.com
Cover Design: Scarlet Serpentine Designs
Cover photo Credit: Photos by Kerri (www.photosbykerri.com), Kerri Lavertu
Font credit: Misprinted Type, Eduardo Recife (www.misprintedtype.com), Misproject, Porcelain
My Freshman Year – 2004 - 2005
April 10, 2005
August 27, 2004
June17, 2005
October 14, 2004
March 2, 1995, Third Grade
May 3, 2005
October 31, 2004
November 12, 2004
January 10, 1992, Five Years Old
December 2, 2004
December 3, 2004
November 24, 1996 Fifth Grade
February 19, 2005
December 9, 2004
December 12, 2004
December 31, 2004
March 3, 2005
March 4, 2005
January 25, 2005
March 11, 2005
February 13, 2005
April 21, 2005
February 20, 2005
February 25, 2005
March 13, 2005
April 10, 2005
May 10, 2005
June 16, 2005
June 18, 2002 15 Years old
June 17, 2005
July 2, 2005
August 8, 2005
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“May I be safe from inner and outer harm”
Loving Kindness Meditation
For D
It’s my own life
My own story
Will you hold me forever?
You, framed in that moment
in my mind
a wall of a thousand memories
may yours be the brightest
How vividly intense your eyes were in that instant
when you said I was beautiful
despite the scars
I let you touch me
I let you inside
I showed you who I am
Broken, beaten, destroyed
And you loved me anyway
April 10, 2005
Socially Unmentionable
“Victoria, what the fuck?!” he says in a harsh, tight, angry voice. Low, deadly low. I’ve heard this voice before.
“What the fuck, babe,” I say half-heartedly, not sure where this is going. What can I say to lead him astray? What can I say to stop him from finding out about my problem?
My stomach is still aching something fierce and I feel bile rising in my throat at the thought of getting into that car. I need that damn alcohol on the counter over there or I’m going to freakin lose it. I need it like an alcoholic. I imagine mentally zinging that glass into my hand from across the room. I can already feel it, like it’s in my hand, the warmth of the alcohol burning down my throat, the terrible fear banished beneath 17 shots. Oh my God… Am I am alcoholic? I am…except…I only need it right now to feel calm. But here’s the thing…I can’t start acting distant or like I want to get drugged and drunk out of my mind and expect to keep him. I imagine his ex-girlfriend drinking, snorting coke, smoking grass, taking X and then cheating on him. He won’t like it. He just won’t.
Ok, I’ll tell him my secret, my well-guarded truth. I’ll lay it on the line right now and see what happens. He can make his choice. Choose the drunk, drugged out chick or the crazy one. Whichever he wants. Spin the wheel, win a prize. Some fuckin prize.
“Here’s the thing,” I begin, facing him, noting his blazing eyes, tense posture, that stiff necked look that I know so well, and I know that I can’t push him any further. But before I can continue, a frat brother walks into the room, startling me, causing my boyfriend to look away. My chance has been lost. Damn. I was going to tell him. Really I was. I wasn’t going to chicken out at the last minute and somehow magically come up with a really nice doozy of a lie. Or was I? It’s impossible to know what I would have done.
“Ready to go?” he asks us, and my boyfriend just looks at me.
“Yup, let’s go,” I say with another fake brittle smile.
Let’s go, Mr. Officer, why don’t you put on those cuffs and actually restrain me even more. I need to be humiliated. I deserve this shit for even imagining that I could handle it. Mandated corporal punishment from the social officer for the crazy chick.
I follow his tense back outside and I can tell that he’s still not satisfied with our encounter. What must he be thinking? He walks into the kitchen to find his girlfriend of a month alone, chugging a full glass of vodka at a party before we leave to go somewhere else. What does that mean? Is she an alcoholic? What other reason could there be? I’m sure it makes no sense to him.
Now the car is in sight and I realize I need to go to the bathroom, again. But I just went and I can’t really have to go pee again right? No. If I had to go again it would mean something else. Something socially unmentionable.
Perhaps, if I’m really lucky, I can convince him that not only do I have a massive secret drinking problem, but I’m bulimic too. Awesome! All the things I’m not, simply to hide the one thing I am.
Ok, I’m focusing on me again, nothing new, and I’m sick, dead sick. My stomach is slamming and sloshing and the bile is rising and I’m sweating and burning up and the world has been left behind, gauzy and ethereal, but not in a pleasant way, in a terrifying way. The car doors are open now and they want me to get in. It’s like fighting a black hole, a social dragging unpleasant sucking black hole. But I fight it. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’m full on panic mind fucked. I can’t!!!!!!
August 27, 2004
Already I’m in the shit
I. Am. Crazy.
The thought keeps repeating like a heartbeat, a tattoo inside my head as I try to focus on the road before me, a black tar path snaking its way toward my panic filled final destination. The gunning of the motor as I shift into fifth gear makes me cringe. I’m flying toward fate, toward my first day at New Hartford University.
My self-defeating mantra is one I can’t escape, a screeching vinyl record, stuck on the same three words. I groan, faackkk I’m so nervous, as my stomach slithers, hands shaking on the steering wheel, silver ring-clad fingers gripped in a death hold around the black plastic, like somehow my death grasp might make me feel better. Nope, not working. Can’t do this…can’t. Blood pounds in my temples, blurring my vision and the road is suddenly swimmy and smeared, my arms weak and boneless, totally without the strength to turn the wheel at the appropriate time.
I’m hysterical.
Crazy.
Fucked up.
A caustic, self-destructive bitch, hyped up on anxiety and caffeine, leg jiggling with nervous energy.
I shouldn’t be terrified of my first day of college, I should stop this nonsense. After all, I know it’s irrational, I know it’s insane, but I can’t help it. I can’t seem to stop the feelings, any more than I can stop breathing.
I mash my foot down on the accelerator of my junk Ford and shove these thoughts away because they don’t matter. I’m so sick of my own bullshit. I don’t want to deal with this at all, but this is my life, almost every day. And somehow, don't ask me how, I’ve managed to hide my spectacular mental defects from just about everyone under an exterior of sarcasm, laughter, and excuses.
For ten years, since I was eight years old, I’ve been mastering the art of inventing excuses and now I’m a queen of social sleight of hand. I guess you could call my excuses lies, dirty self-preserving lies.
My stomach churns and a blistering heat races over me. Fuck! I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’m gonna feel so trapped in that classroom. In a last ditch effort to stop the physical feelings I forcefully wrench myself back into my physical present, sitting in my car, flying down the highway toward my first day of college. I shift my focus to the double yellow line as it zings by along with cars, houses, scenery; I’m mentally trying to chill, meditate, zone out. But no matter what I do, it’s useless. I’m only capable of focusing inside my own head on every thought of catastrophic embarrassment or having my craziness revealed at the hands of my peers. I can’t. I am so crazy, too weak.
I start singing along with the loud, sexy, thumping music, my long dark hair blowing in the wind of my open window, distracting myself from the persistent thoughts and my hot sick body. Oh God, I’m desperate, I don’t want to be so paralyzed and sick with fear that I can’t even walk in to my first class on my first day. What I need to do is to shut the hell up! I’m the most frustrating person, ever. I try to ignore my crowding thoughts, clicking on my right hand blinker, zooming toward campus, about to take an exit to my new life.
But I can’t fully ignore my obsession. I never can. I do have to live in here, in this head, with the fear. And my damn pessimism isn’t helping matters either. It’s so hard to grow up and realize truths about yourself, truths that you can no longer deny. I can’t deny that I’m depressive, sarcastic, compulsive, pessimistic, nervous, self-conscious, anxious, over-sexed, and yet prudish. I’ve begun to face these exquisite details of my existence head on and I will freely admit to myself that I am a mess. Yup, a damn pathetic mess of a girl. There's truth for ya. And I’m forcing myself to do this thing called college, because it is expected, not because I want to.
I switch gears in an instant, eyes snapping to the shoulder of the road as I pass a guy running, no shirt on, athletic shorts, nicely tanned pec muscles moving in time with his arms, his abs glistening and one word comes to mind. Sex. And maybe a second and third. Drinking and partying. I take a minute to imagine my fingers skimming rock hard pecs, his mouth on mine and then start to think about alcohol. Oh, sweet alcohol.
I need to get wasted. I want to get so smashed that the real Victoria will fade away to be replaced by a sexy, confident stranger who wants to seduce men, somehow feel good about herself and escape her ridiculous, persistent fear of everyday things. And since I’m admitting all my personal failures as a way to make myself feel worse, I know I have some kind of sick desire to be wanted by guys like Mr. Sexy Runner. I have this need to feel worthy. Worthy of what, I have no idea.
I smile crookedly as the University sign wings by me on my right and I slow down, realizing that I’m almost on campus now. Let the testing of my strength of will begin. Smiling wryly, always able to amuse myself at my own expense, I launch into another loud verse of my dirty rap music, cursing like a fiend, as I turn the wheel a hard left into A lot.
#######################
I’m on foot, surrounded by other students, faculty, people moving everywhere at once, everyone on a mission. As I stride down the hill from the commuter lot in my black tank top, tight low-rise jeans, oversized sunglasses, red lips, hips swaying, I’m a sight I can only imagine, trying to view myself from the outside in. My mirror usually says the first layer is polished and confident, shiny even, yet the inside is oh so unsure, self-conscious, pathetic and ...crazy. Yeah, I’m that awesome.
Campus opens up before me, sprawling, terrifyingly so, and yet at the same time I have a sense of expansion, people everywhere, electric excitement. I smirk to see the things that are at odds here. Buildings that look like 19th century permanence, brick, nicely landscaped, old world, scholarly, but the student body is a different matter altogether. Instead of buttoned up conservatism, I’m looking at people who want to show off the goods and yeah, they’ve got ‘em.
There are several types of fashion here: gym-ready, glam, goth and the crunchy-grungy chicks. The gym-ready casual girls are wearing spandex yoga pants and tight NHU Panthers t-shirts, while the glam girls are all about tight jeans or skirts, tiny tops and struts that could bowl you over from a mile away. The grungy, crunchy chicks have dreads or lank hair and wear patchwork skirts, plaids and hemp bracelets. The guys are harder to classify, but you’ve got your typical jocks in gym clothes, woodsy dudes in plaids and shit-kickers, potheads with their glazed eyes and long hair, almost everyone else is in jeans or camo cargo shorts with shirts that advertise beer.
I’m down the hill now, through a small crush of people headed back up the hill to their cars, and I pause for a moment and pull out my campus map and schedule, trying to find my first class. Hamilton Smith Hall is to my right and I plot out my path, finally crossing the street, eyes glued to my schedule. Wow, it’s embarrassingly obvious that I’m new on campus. Wicked fuckin awesome, Victoria. I imagine how I look, map in hand, brand new black messenger bag strapped to my back, schedule of classes behind the map, untried and squeaky clean new. What a complete loser. I rotate my bag to the front and quickly stuff my map and schedule away before anyone notices the green girl who hasn’t a clue.
And I’m people watching as I go, taking everything in. Distraction. Distraction is always key to getting me on the outside of my damn over-thinking brain. I’m walking past crowds of students wearing sunglasses, backpacks, messenger bags, body types of every kind. I critically observe the pretty blonde in the holy-shit short skirt, typical va-va-voom, as she struts by, wondering if her oversized and overtly perky breasts could possibly be real, what a hoe-bag! And then there’s the jock type with the muscles bulging out of his too-tight t-shirt, his aviator sunglasses and his God-damned cocky-bastard grin. Yeah he’s full of himself. And now, the quiet-looking freckled girl with the mousy hair hanging half in front of her face, looking how I feel, poor girl.
Good looking people, odd looking people, I wonder what they think of me? What does this blonde guy with the wicked glint in his eyes goofing off with a group of football players think of me? Am I attractive? Am I not? What would these lovely people think if they knew how crazy I really am? It’s worth a laugh because as long as I’m in control (and please hope to God that I always am) no one will ever find out because it’s my darkest, deepest secret.
Ok, back off…getting a little too close to the avoided topic. So I’m back to distraction. I purposefully take a deep breath of the fresh smell of cut grass. The day is a beautiful New England end-of-summer day. Blue sky, warm sunshine aroma wafting on the breeze, and campus looks fantastic with perfectly manicured bushes, lawns of thick green grass, tall stately trees and of course those damn intimidating, claustrophobic brick buildings. I shiver, because despite the warmth and magnificent vista, there’s some kind of enormity about me being a part of this huge intense campus.
And now without warning, God I’m crazy, I’m yanked back to the inside my head for no apparent reason other than the fact that I must enjoy torturing myself by feeling nervous and on edge with racing thoughts. I’m thinking, I really don’t want to walk into my new classroom to meet new faces and new challenges and feel trapped within this new overwhelming University. I attempt, and definitely fail miserably, to suppress the jabbing hot nerves that are crawling all over my body making me hot, jittery, and sick to my stomach. I’m such a Goddamn study in opposites, cool calm exterior and a freakin mess inside.
Crazy crazy crazy, I sing to myself sarcastically with a tiny anger grin. At least I’m able to keep some kind of a sense of humor about how weird I am. Now Ham-Smith is in sight, and I pick up my pace, brushing by groups of strangers, hoping to get a good seat before the crowds.
Inside the muggy building, sunglasses pushed up on my head, and schedule back in hand, I bound up the steps to the second floor, searching doors for room 22
6. It has to be here, beeotch, go left, this is room 244, I tell myself as anxious minutes tick by. I wind down hallways filled with sunlight, students brushing past me, hurrying to their own classrooms. Finally 226 is before me and I sigh with an internal child-like whine, it’s already half full and the only seats available are in the far corner from the door. Shit, so much for sitting close to escape.
My heart starts to slam and suddenly my stomach rolls over inside like an alligator on a tether. Don’t do this now. Seriously Victoria, do not do this you crazy psycho bitch. Goddamn it. I wrestle the feelings, strengthening my resolve, mentally pushing terrified me into a coffin, slamming the lid, standing back, triumphant, desperate to make college a “good experience.” Yeah right. Pathetic.
I quickly nab a seat in the back row near the open window, tossing my backpack on the floor and pulling out a notebook and pen. I cross my legs at the ankle, pretending to be busy reading something in my blank notebook, yet discreetly gazing around the room. My heart starts to thud because I’m finally here, and since I need a good dose of distraction, I decide to rip everyone in the room to shreds, if only to keep my mind off the one place I don’t want to go. I pick out the attractive guys (Mr. bed-tossed brown hair is HOT), the girls who think they are all that (Ms. Skanky-whore in the teeny-tiny bright red tank top, you know who I’m talking about, slut!), the people who know each other but are avoiding acknowledging it and the couple who looks like they were dating back in high school. Gross. Mr. Basketball Jock and Ms. Blondie Cheerleader are so mushy, trading lovelorn looks as they sit down together, their hands parting at the last minute.
I fiddle with my pen, watching. No one is talking to each other except the lovey dovey couple. Everyone in the room, eyes switching back and forth, trying not to stare at each other yet trying to assess and grade each person. Finally, I pull out my cell phone, scrolling through old text messages pretending to do something other than look bored.
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