To Catastrophize

A cacophony of cicada songs slowly rises from the trees outside the window you slide open as if hostile to your presence. Their eerie buzzing floats on the breeze that suddenly picks up and sends leaves into flight against a backdrop of storm clouds. The wind ruffles your hair and you shiver. Slam the window closed again; you don't like rain these days.

Look around the little bedroom. Unadorned, off-white walls enclose a small room with a twin bed here and an old desk there. Think of your favorite color and imagine it popping up on these walls, on the bedding, in your wardrobe. But it's a waste of energy decorating survival, right?

You moved to this little apartment in a foreign city to reconstruct yourself. To cut out all the factors and see who you really are. How's that going for you? Are you still scared of the dark?

A small branch crashes into the window, the sound sending you back pedaling onto the bed. Put a hand on your chest. Feel your heart racing? It's almost beating as fast as when you hear people laughing in public, or when you give a presentation, or when you are asked your opinion on where to eat or who to vote for. Kind of pathetic, if you think about it.

Stand up and go to the door. Check for wallet and keys and phone. Now stop stalling and open the door. Groceries are reason enough to leave this haven and almonds won't last you another day.

Grab the door knob. Turn it. You can do it. Almost there.

Beneath your socks and slides you feel the ground start to vibrate, only a subtle tremble at first but now it grows into a noisy shake. Wood creaks and metal bends and the wind outside whistles between cracks of thunder. Put your hands on the wall for balance and stumble back toward the bed. Grab a pillow, now make your way into the bathroom.

One foot in front of the other. Now you're there. Get into the tub and wrap the pillow around your head. You can scream if you want to.

The violent storm numbs your hearing and everything feels like the deafening screeches of a million cicadas that are angry at you. Or laughing at you.

A few more seconds of teeth-rattling quaking and it begins to subside, then finally comes to a stop. You grip the pillow for a few more minutes while you wait for your ears to stop ringing.

Listen to pieces of the mirror fall onto the ground and shatter into even smaller shards. It's almost like that passion you used to have. What was it again? Something artsy, or maybe sciency. Doesn't really matter now, since you've found some online work that's satisfying enough. According to what you told your parents.

Open your eyes and look around. There is indeed glass everywhere, and the walls have cracks like spiderwebs. The faucet makes a slight squeak then bursts open, shooting water toward the ceiling. Hurry and stand up out of the tub, grab that towel, stifle the spray. Wait, there is still water puddling the tile floor. Water seeps in from no obvious source yet spreads rapidly, soaking your socks and now your pant legs. Well, don't just stand there, do something!

Just as you reach for another towel, a low rumble from above you steals your attention. Look up. The cracks have spread to the ceiling and continue to slither toward the center. The rumbling noise turns into a metallic groan as water starts to seep through one crack. Then another. Then all at once, as a flood bursts through the drywall and sweeps you off your feet. Within seconds, your flailing your arms while trying to get your feet back under you and your head above water. Try to grab onto something, anything your hands can grasp. That's the sink, there you go. Now your feet are planted and you breach the surface. Take deep breaths while your eyes search for the door. But there is no door. Four crumbling walls close in around you as the flood rises above your head. The gap between the water and the ceiling closes, and you're left scrambling under pitch black water.

You start to feel your heart pounding throughout your body. Drowning. Kind of like those memories that were suppressed to death. It's like you snuffed out their heartbeat trying to keep them quiet inside yourself.

You black out.

***

BzzzzzzzzBzZzZzZzBZZZZZZZZ.

Those snarky cicadas.

Open your eyes and take in your dimly lit bedroom. The setting sun casts an orange glow on the walls. You're lying on the bed, shoes still on, wallet still in your pocket. Look around and notice that the room looks normal. Dull as ever.

Perhaps the mention of your memories was taking it too far.

You can hear people talking and giggling along the sidewalk below your second-story window. The window is closed and you can't make out words, but the strangers' muffled intonations and laughs as they walk by sound like expressions of contentment. What do you think the people look like? What are they wearing? Some could be holding hands. Maybe some are finishing a date, or celebrating a birthday, or confiding in a friend. Do you wish to be among them?

While you're pondering that question, the cicadas grow more restless and noisy, drowning out--sorry, that's insensitive--stifling the sounds of the human experience outside your little shell of a room. Sit up and throw your nearest object at the window, whatever you're likely to keep near your bed. If it's your phone, you now have more cracks on it.

The army of cicadas screams on, unfazed by your tantrum. You fall back and slam a pillow over your head. Squeeze it tight. Can you still hear them?

Your hand touches something thin with four corners under your head. Let go of the pillow and prop up a bit so you can look. It's a journal. Ah, it's your childhood diary. You can tell because the cover is your favorite color and your name is spelled like it was written with a nondominant hand. Whether you hesitate or not, you will open this journal.

Images flood your mind as you read, or try to read, your old handwriting. Suddenly you can see old moments and hear their voices and smell the air. Do the documented accounts feel real to you? Or more like a dream?

"...cuase we were alredy wet so mom let us play in the rain and we playd for so long.....I couldn't sleep but mom got me a night light.....When I grow up I'm gonna be.....My dog was fifteen years old so he lived a long good life.....Goodbye middle school, hello real world.....She was just pretending to be my friend.....Prom is in one week but I still don't have.....I hate them.....We laughed so hard and we almost got in trouble.....My parents are considering getting a.....I got my permit but they're scared to let me drive.....One day no one will tell me what to do or how to live my life......So I might be in love.....Life is just one big game, and I don't want to play anymore.............."

"....I got the job and it'll give me security until I figure out the next step...................They were right, it's hard finding new friends at this age..................I was invited but was so nervous on the day that I just broke down and asked for a rain check.................Dr. Kelley called it 'catastrophizing'...............I know in my head they're not giving me a second thought but my body still shakes and I start stuttering and sweating and my breathing gets difficult ...................It's like a curse"

Hm. So it's not the rain itself you don't like.

You drop the book and stand up. Now, yank the blankets off the bed and stomp on them. Punch the mattress, too. Now go to your desk and grab a pencil. Snap it in half and do it to another one. Throw the pieces at the refrigerator. Now upend that chair. Now scream.

You won't scream? Afraid of embarrassing yourself by disturbing the neighbors? As expected, people-pleasers often tear themselves apart before daring to inconvenience anyone.

Fine, if you won't scream just hit yourself. Don't leave bruises though. Now go back to the journal and open it back up. See all the emotions penned by a hand you don't recognize anymore? They're meaningless then, so rip it up. Tear out all the pages and shred them. Burn them even!

Why won't you do it? You can't? Don't claim to be in charge here. When was the last time you took initiative in your façade of a life? You used to make sure it was everyone's knowledge that you were going to take the world by storm and lead your adventure. You seemed quite sure you would.

Yet you let fear dictate your life the way you let me write your story for the past five minutes.

When did the fear become so great? Why is getting groceries or just leaving your room enough to trigger your fight or flight? Why is your heart so heavy that carrying it to a class or a job or a party feels like carrying the weight of the world?

Look around the room again. How does it look now? How do you want it to look?

Can you learn to trust yourself again? Can you learn to take control of your life and live it well, even through all the fear and the anxiety? Can you do it scared?

I'll wait.