Posts tagged “anxiety

Don’t touch me, please….

Don’t touch me, please, just leave me alone, and if you talk to me, just look across the room when you’re doing so, because I’ll be doing the same, I’ll be looking away, but listening, and listening still, I’ll see the words in their letters bound, with all the possible meanings that might be there, I’ll stop, I’ll halt, I’ll run along, I’ll interrupt, I’ll be not calm, my hands will wander, my fingers will pick and pry, I’ll look at you when you’re looking away, but I’ll be listening still and listening still.

When you walk away from our talk’s circuitous talk, I’ll wonder still at the words and then.  I’ll wonder for a while and decide, and then I’ll send them away, like you, in their categories, their phrases and their speaking and thoughts.  I understood it all, or most of it and then, sometimes I got some of it, but not all of it, and it registers in some forms, but not in others’ nuances.  It makes sense most times or sometimes, but not in other times, and you won’t know which it is, in these or those, not now nor then.

Sometimes your words scrape the insides of my ears before they reach my brain.  I hear their clicking and crunching ways and the wet spit that sticks to their sides, I notice when some letters are missing, like when your mouth gets lazy or you talk too fast, they catch in my ear canals when you say them wrongly, improperly, incorrectly, out of place, out of tune, out of context, in error, in mis-thought, whatever, when you emphasize the wrong syllable or say coush instead of couch.  The letters get jammed up in my ears sometimes so the other words can’t get through and then I hear your voice rise and rise and the letters get more jammed still, they run and run and crash into the sides of my insides, my ears and veins and arteries, too, they make my lungs pump harder and harder and faster still, the words are still clogged in their letters’ catching and the thoughts are gone and the letters become numbers and I hate numbers and they’re all a-squiggle and mean nothing as my heart is pounding in my head and my fingers pick their other fingers and everything gets fuzzy from the inside, hazy and undefined and I don’t know what you’re saying and thinking and your eyes are piercing when I glance at them for a micro-second from my turned head and I hear the spit in the corners of your mouth squish and squash as your mouth flaps and keeps throwing other words and letters into my ears and I wish you’d just shut-up and leave me alone and please don’t touch me, just go away, don’t step any closer or any closer, don’t talk any louder or any louder, just close your mouth and leave before I explode in your face with my eyes wide wide open and hands curled into fists and I’m staring straight ahead but looking for something to throw or hit and my hands crash into my head and I scream at you and pull my hair and scratch my face and I’m suddenly strong with a stupid strong and you can’t hold me, no, get away, leave me alone, stop talking, don’t touch me, the letters are all stuck and I hate you and I hate me and you get away from me and what do you want and what did I say and my cat died when I was four and you went on those stupid interviews and it snowed today and it rained today and where’s the goddamned sun today and it’s okay if you’re shy and I didn’t have a melt-down so that I wouldn’t have to finish my homework and I said it myself and the baby was crying and I just wanted to help and go away, just get away, and stop with the words, don’t touch me, put your eyes away…and hold me, crush me, just wrap me up, hum a deep hum deep into my core and the parts of my cells, just be a nothing with me for a minute more, until I don’t feel these things anymore, just for a minute more, long minutes more, until the letters get unstuck in my ears and I can hear what you’re saying again, just leave me alone, don’t touch me, please…but don’t let me go.


When it was all so new and then

We don’t know how it happens, most of us, but when the buttons are depressed, it doesn’t matter.  All we know is that help is supposed to arrive on the other end of the line.  What is amazing, is that it does.  No, I haven’t yet witnessed the serious misplay of signals and heard the agonizing death or continued battering that was yearning for my help, but in time I know it may happen.  A nearly perpetual un-ease as the tone sounds in my ear; an equally perpetual wondering if this is going to be the one that may change my life forever.  It can change things like that, I know it.  I don’t want to be on the receiving end of that disaster, but it must come, for life knows no way of stopping the things that have been set in motion.  No amount of prayer or forethought is going to prevent the inevitability in life.  It just happens.  Frantic voices and then ones of grogged sleep and substance induced stupors, lucid memories of the things that used to be there and the distressed sighs of the aged ones who just can’t remember.  Were they going to come this Tuesday or next Tuesday?  Why haven’t they shown up yet?  They were only coming from across town and it seems they should have been here hours ago and I lost my cell phone and need a report number for the insurance and the man next door refuses to turn down his stereo and my babies are trying to sleep and I just got done seeing patients until three this morning and I would so like to get some sleep before I have to start the day again and don’t you know that damned dog just won’t shut up and the man just kept hitting her and she was crying, screaming for help and I had to call and now I’m taking my babies downstairs to my daddy’s apartment so they won’t be upstairs where all of that stuff is happening and the one Indian guy was grabbing the lady around the throat and smashing her head into the lamp post and I didn’t know what else to do and you’ve got to send help quick…. And so we do our best to get the numbers in the right places and depress the right keys so that help can be sent with the speed of an electronic beep to rescue the perishing.  God rest ye, merry gentlemen.

“You don’t pray before you send your kids out there into the world?  How can you know that they’re going to be safe?”  You don’t know, I can’t know, and neither can you.  Shall I pray to Peter Pan?  Will Prince Charming rescue me like the risen savior?  Isn’t it all the same thing?  Who can know?  How can you ask that of someone so believing of the stories they’ve heard?  How can you dare to ask such a thing of someone like that?  I don’t ask it, I just wonder it.

I left behind friends and security to gain trepidation and a few dollars more an hour and the prospect of earning even more as time proceeds onward.  Probation for a year and who knows what’s going to happen in that year.  I keep telling myself to relax.  Just relax and answer the phone.  Almost one hundred and sixty times today I just answered the phone and tried to just answer questions or just send help on the way.

The man from Connecticut hung up when he had to hold for so long.  Sorry, but I had some emergency cell-phone hang-up calls to answer.  The emergency-calls-holding-light kept flashing and I just knew that one of those blinks of light represented a life in distress.  In the past, at my former job, a sheet of green paper represented an infection of one sort or another, which was fine, no biggie.  Now the beep of a 9-1-1 call represents life or the absence of it, depending upon which side of the beep you look at.  Depending upon which side of the beep you were sitting at and how many times you had to listen to the recording saying please can you hold for a just minute more until we can get to you; please let me interrupt your story of how you got burglarized three years ago and just found your Elvis painting on black velvet at a yard sale so I can suggest that we’re going to get there in time to save your blue skinned baby.  I don’t know how long it will take but we’ve broadcast your call to officers in the area and they’re going to get there as soon as they’re able.  Please try to stay calm, and yes, Help is on the way.

Ramblings, undifferentiated stuff of whatever

I sit here and wonder, truly, at the cause, the origin of my anxiety at working this job.  I know that lives can be in the balance and I can be held accountable for whatever goes wrong, but why is it so unsettling?  People around me seem unaffected, content, and otherwise the opposite of me.  The sweat runs in streams, almost, down my side, darkening my shirts under the arms.  I am only talking to people…people just like me.  I had a brain lapse first thing this morning and I don’t think I have recovered.  It was an obvious call in which I just couldn’t grasp from my mind the type of call that it should be coded.  The supervisor said, “What do you think?”  It seemed like a real “Captain Obvious” moment that seems to have set me back somewhat.  Self-confidence is at a low.  The people seem particularly irritating today, as well; and bossy, and ignorant.  I am out of kilter and they are primed and ready.  There were moments I felt like I wanted to explode from the frustration.  The Quiet Room was beckoning.  I couldn’t smart off and that’s what I really wanted to do.  But now it is lunchtime, my sad book is finished – I’ll have to get the rest of his books, too, Robert Stone.  So the day is half over – or more, actually, and when I leave I get to drive to Avondale to get my baby.  Softness, gentleness; reason for going on, reason for living, for many things.  It’s not creative, but it’s expression.  The pen is to paper and the elements are flowing.  Flashes of images: the anniversary card I put by the coffee pot three days early, knowing I will put one out for the next three days as well, a flash of Josh, the garage, my chair by the piano, the plant running the length of the stairs, my mom, and more.  “Everything is proved upon the pulses.”  And?


And where it stirs is unknown but for the stirring.  And then.  I looked within to find the reason and the reason’s reasons.  Closed eyes and opening heart.  Searching for the portal that will release the flood.  Searching for the portal.  I finished a book, most sad, about the destruction wrought in a family by a sick parent and an obsessed parent.  One child who was born with something wrong and hovered over by the sick parent, and another child who was adored by the obsessed parent and loathed by the sick one.  Hated and loved simultaneously.  The loved and hated child ended up losing her own mind and finding the end in darkness.  Finding the soothing nonexistence of death.  It was sad to watch her coming undone.  It was sad to feel what her loved one, her mate, was going through while partaking in her life, when they talked about things that were better left unsaid, but had to be, unavoidable things.  The kinds of things that further rent and harmed the other party.  And then?  The quiet house came undone.  The foundation rocked and never stilled.  Well, it was only to be stilled in the loose and fragmented mind.  The torn heart that hadn’t learned to love.  Where would she find salvation, since her god was dead?  Where would she rest her soul if she had one?  By mine.  By mine in the eternal hereafter.  And then?  How the chords come, how they burst forth in song that means only what the heart knows and the tongue fails to express.  How it stirs, from deep inside.  I would that I could listen internally forever.  I wish.  Oh, I would that the song could flow unrepentantly, without hindrance, without impeded thought and constraint by others’ eyes.  Soothe where the damage is done.  Assuage the recklessness, still the torment; show the way to clear sight.  And then.  And then.  The chords release the chains.  They release the worries and concerns pent up within.  They release what the tongue and lips cannot.  They release.  Find the saving release in their escape.  And then.  With ease.  And counsel.  And tight throat.  The door opened, the heart closed.


In a fever, I slipped from scene to scene, desirous of the portable pen to capture the thoughts and bring to them a permanence that was otherwise not theirs.  It was a cyclone of images that whirled together and apart and had a semblance of meaning that could have been deciphered with someone’s unease.  Places I had been and faces I had encountered in many unreal ventures of living and existing outside of the normal self.  Whence came I to understand the unattainable?  Whose life had been caught in the web of searching and find?  That is all.


When I was a child, I spoke as a child and understood with the mind of a child.  What was a child?  What was the child in fetters to become upon release?  How would he know when the release came?  What herald could he trust?  They lied.  Thought censor prohibits reality from speaking with its multi-tongued lucidity and confusion.  The escape was unknown and lost to reasonable thought.  Never gave it another thought.  I guess I thought that this is just the life that I have and that’s it.  Of course I considered running away, but where was I to go?  Where could I go?  Naive in life and experience, fearful of the wrathful hand, I just endured.  Simple enough.  Behind the water conduit pipes that had been placed as playground equipment in the common yard, I lay contemplating a destination.  Further down the dirt road I went then, seeking any kind of escape, leading nowhere, but away.  The two tire-ruts that constituted the perimeter road lead further into the woods and then beyond the split to that one spot where we found the snake.  Torn open, its heart still beating, it had two firecrackers shoved into its internal organs, then BOOM!!!  A ringing and tingling of all my senses, fingers, and ears – scared me to death.  Unexplainable, I would certainly get my ass beat if discovered.  My ears still ring.  I have been discovered by none other than myself.  The snake symbolizes rebirth, everlasting life, and so she lives forever in my ringing ears.  Die not.  Salvation was scrawled out on a piece of notebook paper when I was sick.  The perfect crucifixion scene with the wind and everything.  I was ill and alone in that.  I have searched and cannot find.  Beyond the conduit and into the woods was a hole that had been dug into the rich earth.  A shard from a green ‘7- Up’ bottle left a scar on the little finger of my left hand.  Blood dripped into the dark soil, somewhat like a drop of mercury sliding across a tabletop.  Different though, it collected smaller bits of the dirt as it rolled further into the hole.  The pain shot up my arm and into the shoulder, registering finally at my brain before I knew what I had done.  Ok.  One of the neighbor kids would sneak out of the house with a baggie full of Oreo cookies and a cardboard can of frozen orange juice concentrate – Minute-Maid.  It was fun because it was stolen, but in truth, it wasn’t a good mix of flavors.  We hid in the conduit, out of sight.


Another day brought my father and me out into the yard to play catch.  One of the things that dads and their boys do.  It was not a sunny day and the grass, I believe, was nigh unto dead – it must have been winter or late fall, maybe early spring.  The ball kept coming to me faster and faster.  It stung my hand afresh with each catch.  I would toss the ball back to my father and he would burn it back to me.  With each rotation of his arm, I would wince inside at the thought of missing the ball.  I knew it would hurt like hell if it smacked me in the face – if it happened to glance off the outer edge of the pocket, missing its target.  Hey, batter, batter!  Hey, batta, batta!  Maybe the glove wasn’t the target.  My father. He told me later, when I was an adult, that he wanted to quit playing catch but didn’t want to spoil my ‘fun’ by simply calling it to an end, saying he was done…so he just kept throwing the ball harder so I’d want to quit myself…and I guess I thought the attention was good, it was positive somehow, I mean – he wasn’t yelling at me or beating me or ignoring me, so it must have been good…and I kept tossing it back to him…and he kept firing it back to me…it ended somehow…and he remembered it all those years later. I know why I remembered…but why did he?


Yes, they spoke of angels’ wings and other sacred things.  They, and I, sat on the edge of your mental periphery and scouted the ideas and concretized miscalculations that you had made in viewing us.  We happened to notice the wrinkle on the side of your one eye that was caused by long and hard pondering of things that you thought went around in the night of our minds.  You disclosed to nobody the inner dealings of those tangled nerve endings and beseeched your own unknown for the release.  Too bad.  You are captured in your self.  We are freed from your perpetual gaze, for we exist without you, and you do not.  You are your own imagining.  We live.  Free.  To free.


Fall from grace and find your own self.  Search those nether regions and un-lose your self.  We have and have not.  We have and are having to do that which is not.  We have seen the eroding sand castles on invisible shores.  We have observed the tide wearing away at the unimaginable.  We are.  We are beyond the imagined ourselves.  They have not unknown what in us lies.  Unimagined.


Looking through the mind and seeing out of the physical eye, I beheld that there were bars before me, like the frames of leaded window panes, structured, yet unmade.  Pointing the sight of my gaze, the lines began to sway in rhythm with themselves; undulations, and parallel.  Gone in the glimmer of the flicking eye; moving like a mouse along the baseboard.  She runs from the quiet become loud and hides beneath the empty wrappings of warm bodies.  And gone.  The spirit mouse vanished as though she never was.  Hiding in my mind.  You are pure crazy.  And then.  Bring on the cat to find the hiding.  Her little heart beats beside the shining of the stars, and the tiny eyes, while unmoving, see the world from an inch above the soil.  How do you acquaint the hunter, or scoop up the broom to unliven the furred runner?  Baby whiskers see, hear, and smell – me.  No.  Unfind the hiding.  Live, beat little heart – you are not of a roach.  My prejudice against ectoskeleton life- forms reminiscent of fouled kitchen appliances brought into pristine dwellings separates you from this lesser being.  Live and enjoy your diminutive yet worthwhile existence.  Live and enjoy!