I tell her, that’s not the point,
Joelle was one of her best friends
and if she needs me now
I’ll leave work and get on the next train.
I cannot believe that she is worried about my feelings.
I don’t ask again.
I tell her I’m walking out the door
and will be there in forty minutes.
Walking to the train station,
I do not feel my feet hit the sidewalk.
It is just after noon and the sun is so strong
that there are sweat stains spreading under my arms.
Time isn’t moving normally.
I feel like it takes forever to lift one foot off the ground,
bend my knee, and place my foot down again.
On the train, I sit with my cheek pressed against the cool
window.
Long Island races past me, then Queens,
then the web of black cables that leads to the train yards.
When the train descends into the tunnels of Penn Station,
the windows become mirrors
and I can see how swollen and red my face is.
Days later, at the funeral,
Claire and I laugh through tears.
Joelle would have never worn the white ruffled blouse
and gold cross that her parents dressed her in.
Claire says this is not how she will remember Joelle.
Her face isn’t the right shape or color.
But Claire insists that it’s better this way—
that seeing Joelle like this will help her
accept that she is gone.
Claire speaks at the podium,
but I cannot hear her.
I see her mouth moving, but there are no words.
All I can think about is how blond her hair looks
against her black cotton dress.
Joelle’s boyfriend is last to speak.
He says yesterday he went to Joelle’s favorite restaurant
and ordered a bowl of chicken soup
for an empty seat.
All I want to do is sleep
and that makes me want to cry—
makes me remember how bad it was first semester,
when I hid under my blankets
in the darkness of drawn blinds.
I need sleep.
I need silence.
I need away.
I want to rest my head,
but I am afraid to sleep.
I am afraid I will wake up screaming.
I know it must be black under my eyes,
but it doesn’t matter.
Things like my face do not matter.
This is different.
This is not panic.
This is sadness.
I can do this.
I will not get lost in the fog
because this is real. Dying is real.
It is dark at the playground
and the only sounds are from the crickets.
The air is cooler than usual, moist.
I take my shoes off and swing.
Nate watches me from under the monkey bars.
I jump off, walk in the wet grass.
Nate puts his arms around me from behind,
kisses my neck, my shoulders.
My bare feet dig into the cold sand.
His hand touches my stomach,
under my tank top,
and I am electrified.
He lifts my shirt up,
exposes my chest to the cool air.
All the hairs on my body stand up
and I dig my feet deeper in the sand, ground myself.
Nate is work.
He is confused about everything—
especially his ex-girlfriend.
He thinks he still loves her
and because I love him
I say it’s okay if he wants to go back to her.
Nate says he needs to take care of himself,
says he cannot deal with romance,
and a moment later his hand is reaching for my belt.
I want to do whatever I can for him.
I want to fix him, make him whole.
I want to teach him
that he doesn’t have to fear people.
My actions are a lesson to him about love.
I crave broken men.
When I try to save other people
am I trying to save myself?
Am I covering up for my lack of strength
by putting people back together?
I am tired.
I want someone to save me—
build an intricate web
and place it beneath me in case I fall.
I feel better today.
I know that Nate cannot be
what I need him to be.
The waiting, the wanting,
and the desperation are familiar.
It is all too real, too soon.
My body cannot endure another Jason—
especially not this one, his best friend.
I’ve always wanted
to have my hair braided—
a whole head full of the long, skinny kind.
And after a summer of work, I have enough money
to go to one of those salons where only black women go.
I won’t tell anyone how much it costs, though—
it’s embarrassing that I would spend that much money,
but I want a change.
Rebecca goes with me to the salon,
sits down on the leather couch and waits
for eight hours as two women pull my hair and twist
in fake pieces so the braids will be longer, fuller.
When it’s done and I walk out onto the street,
I feel people staring and it makes me uncomfortable.
Rebecca reminds me that I can’t be upset.
“What did you expect?” she says.
“You’re a skinny white girl
with a head of braids.”
I’m not sure what my parents
thought I would look like,
but I can tell they hate it.
That they want me to look normal.
Part II
i.
Move-in day is like a sorority party.
Rebecca’s friends and I are living in a suite.
Rebecca and Rachel and Amanda and Tara are in doubles,
Jennifer and I are in singles.
There is so much laughing
and loud music,
and running from room to room
to borrow a hammer or some tacks.
I love that I have my own room,
that I can do whatever I want to these walls.
I am committed to making this space mine.
I hang a giant tie-dyed tapestry over the back wall.
It’s too bright, but I don’t care.
My dad got me a futon and a rug
and this space looks good,
looks like me,
and I am the only one with a key.
Almost instantly the girls and I
establish ourselves as a unit—
we even call ourselves a herd.
We plan our days around each other,
meet for lunch,
walk to dinner at the same time,
go to the student center for coffee
late at night.
I think the best part
is when we sit together doing homework.
We don’t need to talk.
It’s just nice to be around people.
My anxiety is better,
but it’s not great.
I’ve been taking Klonopin for almost a year
and my life has changed so much.
I have fewer panic attacks than freshman year,
but they are still there—
waiting for me
in the usual places.
The dining hall is still the worst.
> The second I walk in the door
and swipe my ID,
a switch goes off in my mind.
As I walk around to find something to eat
or someone to sit with,
it feels like I am underwater.
My limbs are heavy.
Sounds are muffled.
This swimming feeling,
combined with the dim light of the dining hall,
makes me feel faint.
The thought of passing out
makes me start to panic,
makes me wonder if I have had enough to drink
or if I have eaten enough
so my body can function.
I imagine being on line to get some pasta,
my eyes rolling back in my head.
I can see myself passing out,
hitting the dirty tile floor with a thud
and waking up with a crowd of people standing above me,
thinking I am such a freak.
One by one the girls all learn
about my anxiety.
I don’t need to come out and tell them—
all they need is to be in the right place
at the wrong time
and see it happen.
When Tara finds out
she says that it explains a lot—
that freshman year
I was distant
with everyone except Rebecca.
She would always see us
sitting in the dark, smoking,
writing in our journals.
She says that my unapproachability
and independence from the group
looked like maturity.
But now she says she understands
that I was that way
because I didn’t work well in groups.
She says that now
she tries to get me one on one—
that I am better that way,
more focused.
It means so much to me
that she would go out of her way
to see me alone,
so she can get the best of me.
I have a dream
that I am walking in the woods
and I find a stone temple
with crumbling white pillars.
I am standing inside eating tuna fish
and realize there are tiny bones in it.
I stand over a basin
and start pulling wads of dry tuna fish
out of my mouth.
It is endless.
No matter how much tuna I scoop out
there is always more.
Nate and I talk,
but I am usually the one to call.
I hate that he does that,
but I have learned that I have two choices:
either accept it
or not be friends with him.
I stare at the phone,
start to dial,
and hang up.
I do this over and over.
I don’t want to be the one to break first.
I don’t want to be the one who needs him.
It makes me feel like he doesn’t care—
that I am not as important to him
as he says I am.
But I always break.
I always call.
And when I do,
I forget
how hard it was to pick up the phone
when I hear his voice—
hear him say my name.
When we talk,
he likes to hear about school
and all the projects I am working on
and how well I am doing.
I think he looks up to me—
with my focus
and direction—
because he doesn’t have that.
At lunch Ann sits down with me
and I am surprised
at how easy the conversation is.
She says how intimidated she was
by me and Rebecca that weekend at Jennifer’s.
She says there was an impenetrable vibe about us,
but sitting here with me now,
she doesn’t feel it.
It’s weird to hear this again—
to hear how I was perceived
by people before they got to know me.
Some of the girls thought I was a bitch—
aloof, distant—
but now they see the truth.
The conversation shifts to guys
and I tell Ann
that Sean and I hooked up
a few weeks ago and she laughs.
She hooked up with him
at the very beginning of freshman year.
There is something about knowing this
that breaks a wall between us.
Just before Halloween,
Rebecca and I are at a party in town.
When things quiet down,
a few of us move upstairs
to another kid’s apartment.
His name is Jeff
and I’ve never seen him before.
I would have remembered him.
When I bend down to look at his books,
he says Henry Miller is his favorite.
I smile and tell him mine is Anaïs Nin.
Henry Miller and Anaïs Nin were lovers.
We talk for a while about them.
I like the way this is starting—
with Henry and Anaïs.
I have the dream again,
this time with taffy.
I don’t know where I am,
but it’s like I’m a magician
pulling multicolored scarves out of my mouth
and the taffy won’t stop coming.
Ann and I go to a party in town.
She drives us in her SUV
and seeing her sitting behind the wheel
makes her look even more petite.
The party is wall-to-wall people,
and even though it’s cool outside
the apartment is warm and stuffy.
We find seats and watch people shuffle by
to find a drink or a friend.
Ann takes off her jacket
and then tugs at her turtleneck,
tries to give herself some air.
She pulls her blond hair off her neck
into a ponytail.
She looks uncomfortable,
but I figure it’s because of the heat.
Some people I kind of know come by
and Ann barely says a word.
It’s like she’s not here.
Her green eyes grow wide
as she sinks lower and lower into the couch.
I lean over and ask if she’s all right.
She shakes her head no.
Without a word she stands up and puts on her jacket.
She asks if I’ll be able to find a ride home,
and when I say yes, she says she has to leave.
I tell her to wait, but she says she’ll be okay.
She leaves before I can say anything else.
She doesn’t look back.
I can’t believe that I just watched
someone else have a panic attack.
Now I see Jeff on campus all the time.
Every time I turn around, there he is—
sitting on the green,
getting coffee at the student center,
walking through the English department.
He is like a ghost
who has materialized just for me.
The first time I go to Jeff’s alone,
I stand at the door to his apartment, wait
to catch my breath
before I ring the bell
because I was too scared
to take the rickety elevator.
We talk for a long time.
It is one of those conversations
that should be awkward
but isn’t,
and when we kiss
it is p
erfect—
except for the shaking.
It starts in my stomach
and goes to my legs
and teeth.
I shouldn’t be cold.
Jeff is next to me,
on top of me,
under me.
Later, in bed, I peer over his head,
watch his cat claw at old issues of the Times
and then crawl into bed
over our legs.
And when I crawl
out of bed
to sleep on the floor
because he is a violent dreamer,
the cat takes my place beside him.
As I smoke
and sit with bare knees pressed to my chest,
the cat glares
between my legs,
and I wonder
if I didn’t have the braids
would Jeff have ever noticed me?
As Ann and I get closer
to the dining hall for dinner,
I know I can’t do it.
I can’t go in.
I had a panic attack in Lit class in the afternoon
and I am tired.
My body can’t take another one.
I can’t go in there
with all that noise,
and the sounds of forks banging against plates,
and the hum of people,
and those dim lights.
Ann and I sit outside for a while.
She knows what it’s like
and tries to calm me down.
She puts her hand on my back and rubs,
but I can’t do it.
I feel weak for not being able to go in
and do something so simple, so normal,
but I am tired
and I just want to go home.
Since the night I saw her have a panic attack
things have been different.
She comes to me,
red-faced and crying,
to help her calm down.
I reassure her
that she’s going to be okay,
that she’s not going to die,
I feel her forehead, tell her she’s cool,
and smooth down her fine blond hair.
She does the same for me.
She becomes the voice of reason
when there is none.
When I feel myself on the edge
and I don’t know what else to do,
I call her.
We do for each other
what we cannot do for ourselves.
When it is happening we are in another place
where the rules of reason do not apply.
We need a voice from the outside
because our own voices cannot be trusted.
We met too late,
I Don't Want to Be Crazy Page 5