The Panicked Adult

Sometimes I wish he left bruises on my body, then I wouldn’t want to toss my computer after every hopeless article. I slam my laptop closed and start stripping down for bed. Another wasted night. Another box of tissues littering the cold wood floor. Although I hate thinking in absolutes, I’m almost certain tomorrow morning my body will ache from another night of anxious dreams. Maybe I’ll luck out with only apocalyptic dreams tonight. I almost miss the escapism. Almost. But no matter what type of terror awaits my silk sheets, the bags under my eyes will be mature enough to sing their ABCs. New knots will join the plethora of old ones rupturing any peace in between my shoulder blades. I’d bet good money my brain will prevent my stomach from receiving nutrition. God, I don’t want to go to sleep.

My normal haze of pain and frustration carries my feet all the way to the office in the morning. Half the time I can’t remember how I made it to my desk, one of the few joys of disassociation.

“Wren! Good morning, how was your weekend? I bet you did something cool. Gosh how I miss my twenties, you’re so lucky. Still in your prime, not an old fart like me,” Barb giggles at herself. “Any fun dates?” She rattles off two more questions I don’t hear. I force myself to politely look at the irritating smile on her face to accompany the high-pitched voice she shares with every female anime character.

“Morning Barb, my weekend was great. Got a lot accomplished, how was Susan’s recital?”

“Oh! Susan was wonderful,” she gushes. “I cried the whole way through. She strokes the keys so wonderfully.” If only she knew our weekend did have one thing in common. If only I cried because my child performed below average at some stupid fucking piano recital.

I don’t remember the rest of our conversation. I open my desktop and start absentmindedly combing through color-coded excel spreadsheets. I wish I had more energy to quit my position. I didn’t go to an expensive private school to be someone’s executive assistant at a company I don’t even like. I feel like I’m in a large coffin in my windowless office.

Around what feels like noon, my phone starts attacking my desk with vibrations. I can feel the bile rise in my stomach as I reach to flip it over. My dad. Habit has taught me to answer immediately but today I can’t, not after our last call. He called me pathetic for caring about mom’s feelings. Although I had heard the same words countless times before, something felt different.

The vibrations get louder with each ring, now my entire office is shaking. My hands follow suit, I shove them under my bouncing thighs. I want to send him to voicemail, but I can’t bear the litany of text messages which will inevitably follow. He’ll demand an answer for the selfishness he sees. I glimpse at my panic-stricken face and chapped lips in my phone’s reflection after his name disappears from the screen. Temporary relief pours over my chilled and shivering body when no voicemail follows. I forget about lunch.

I spend the rest of my afternoon dreading the evening. Enzo is coming over tonight, I imagine he wants to discuss the latest mistake I made. A mistake I’ve made a million times before, a mistake I keep telling him I won’t make in the future. I didn’t mean to shut down mid-conversation and start spewing nonsense. In those moments, it’s like my cognitive brain shuts down. When he sat down on the floor to help me, I didn’t want to insult his efforts, but his kindness is terrifying. So I pushed him away and told him he didn’t know what he was talking about, even though he’s the person who would know the most. I can’t even remember half of the conversation now, but I can’t tell him that. It seems my innate need to avoid conflict just keeps causing more conflict.

I wish he knew how much I really am trying; wish he knew it wasn’t my lack of willpower. My body just betrays my mind, over and over again. Who knows, maybe he’s right. Maybe it is my willpower. I’m slowly losing my place in his life. I know it and he knows it. But maybe tonight we’ll forget.

As soon as I get home, I start cooking the fanciest dinner I can muster. Glazed salmon, brussels sprouts, and garlic mashed potatoes. All delectable aromas that will rush into his nose when the door opens. I hope the forced hominess temporarily seduces Enzo. A momentary reprieve from reality, a reminder I’m still the woman he fell in love with.

Enzo enters like a cat; the click of the door is the only way I know he arrived. “Baby, I’m here,” he says but his words are deceitful. They seem soft but his voice is cold. He’s forgotten the way those words used to cause flowers to bloom. Now baby is laced with arsenic. I know I can conjure up the antidote, I just need more time.

We make small talk. No, I make small talk and Enzo obliges but I can see the tenseness in his jaw. My eyes trace his recently edged beard and fade. I remember when he used to send me pictures after the barbershop. I want to bring up the other night, I want to bridge the gap between us, but my body’s frozen. The pit in my stomach keeps growing, soon it’ll rival the big blue holes in Belize. I know what I should say but knowing doesn’t make it any easier. The words simply dance on my tongue in a dangerous folk circle, mocking me. All I need is for one word to break formation, but the words feel a false security in my mouth. My tongue won’t listen to my brain and my brain’s too occupied to devote the energy it needs to remedy the vocal resistance. I'm is overwhelmed at the task of convincing my limbs that there are no weights being piled on top of them. My limbs are relentless, battling back with the executive. Certainly, my brain is just confused, what other reason would my limbs have to lie, there’s no other explanation to feel immobile and pinned to the chair.

“Wren,” Enzo jolts my body into combat readiness. His copper eyes look tired. “Are we seriously not going to talk about the other night? We need to talk about it, you know this.”

I force words out of my mouth like it’s my dying wish. “I know. I’ve been doing so much better; the other night was a mistake. I was panicked and I said things out of fear, I’m-”

“Wren, your apology doesn’t mean anything anymore. You’ve used all your apologies and little to nothing has changed.” Exasperated Enzo continues, “I’m sick of initiating these conversations after you’ve hurt me while I’m trying to help you. I’m sick of your apologies. I’m so tired. Do you like seeing me this way? Do you have some sick need for us to go through this over and over?”

“No of course not,” my small voice’s barely able to contain the tremble in my vocal cords. His tall stature sticks out as I look up at him from across the round wood table. I feel insignificant. My fingers instinctively start to trace letters on my jeans, like they always do when fear causes my chest to match the pace of the fast setting on a piano barometer. Enzo drops his fork and clenches his fist against the table.

“Why do you keep hurting us? It’s not that hard Wren, it really isn’t. What’s hard is this,” he aggressively circles his finger around the table and his biceps become more pronounced against his black t-shirt. “This is what’s hard, wanting to be productive with someone who is just fighting themselves. Baby, I love you so much. Please stop destroying us. Please work with me, say anything to help us.”

Enzo’s fist unclenches and his sigh brings a glossiness to his eyes. I want to say something to soothe him and help us, I just don’t know what to say. I’m too afraid to say anything because saying something risks making the situation worse.

Enzo voice softens in the absence of my response. “How are we still talking about the same issues? Do you remember when we first started talking about your freezing and inability to care about something until it comes back to affect you?” I open my mouth to speak but he cuts me off.

“Two years ago, Wren. I’ve been lonely for two fucking years. I’ve been patient with you for two. Fucking. Years. For what? For you to tell me it’s another mistake. How many does that make? Fifty? A hundred? I’m tired Wren. How many more mistakes? I want to know. Tell me how many more you need to get out of your system until you can treat me the way you should have been treating me two years ago?”

Panic fills my veins. I look up at his pained face and shamefully avert my eyes, I stare out the window to the Seattle skyline instead. I don’t know how to answer. All these mistakes have put me in a position where there are no right answers unless a time machine miraculously pops up next to the cold, untouched salmon. God, I’d give anything for a time machine. I could make it right then, all the knowledge I have now could make it right.

Defeated and confused I promise, “I don’t know but I’m going to stop, I can stop. I’m learning how to stop panicking during serious conversations. I know I said so many things I didn’t mean the other night, I know I hurt you. I don’t know what I was doing. But I can stop, please babe, I don’t want to hurt you...us.”

The conversation carries on for another hour or so, a conversation we’ve had before but with different phrases between increasingly defeated souls. I go to bed exhausted but afraid to sleep. At least tonight, Enzo’s body will lie next to mine. I hold him like it’s the last night he’ll let me…because maybe it is.

Enzo leaves with the sun before I get the chance to apologize for the previous night. When I’m brushing my teeth, heat envelopes my body. A foreign feeling I’m too scared to acknowledge. As the heat builds, I have no choice but to recognize it as anger. The feeling is visceral, tangible even. Anger exploding through every orifice of my body. My nostrils flare as my lungs open wider to consume enough air to fuel my rage. My hands feel stronger than they ever have, I grip the sink to keep myself from doing something dangerous. But the desire to destroy everything, anything, is extraordinary.

Bitter thoughts race through my head. I hate him, I think. How could he do this to me? He was supposed to love me, but it isn’t love. How could it be? If he loved me, I wouldn’t be in this state. I wouldn’t panic every time someone made a sour face if he hadn’t scarred me so many times before. My panicking and freezing are his fault…his fault. How pathetic, he’s pathetic. I’m not pathetic, I’m traumatized by a childhood of landmines. He only ever taught me how to love out of fear, so now I don’t know anything else. And I hate myself for it. He forced me to hate myself before I hated him. My father doesn’t love me, he never did.

My shaking hands can’t keep up with the hot tears streaming down my face. I see my reflection through my foggy vision. My curly hair tousled in a high loose bun, a visual representation of how many times I tossed and turned last night. My grey eyes vibrant against the bloodshot whites. This is the first time I’ve really looked at myself in months, my collarbones are more prominent than they were in college. The heat from my soul is causing my cheeks to flush. A sob escapes the back of my throat and I look back down at the toothpaste incased sink, unable to look at myself further.

Rage continues to explore my unknown terrain, finally unleashing from the dark depths I’ve managed to conceal it in all these years. I race to my bedroom to grab my full-length mirror and slam it to the floor. Seductive adrenaline scatters through my body like the shards of glass on the wood beneath my feet. I want to break more. I need to break more.

Vision blurred, I stomp across the room. I don’t care about the pockets of fresh blood I feel form on the soles of my feet. Adrenaline masks insignificant pain; no amount of blood can overwhelm this anger. I grab the set of Harry Potter books my father bought me from the bookshelf in the corner, and I start ripping apart random pages. Instinct tells me to throw The Half-Blood Prince across my room as hard as I can, so I do. My pupils dart to my dresser, I can already hear the echo it’ll make if I shove it from the wall to join its glass comrades on the floor. With all my body weight I charge the dresser, watching the symphony of shelves reverberate on the ground. My underwear and t-shirts cascade underneath the emerald ottoman in front of my bed. I don’t recognize my voice as I scream into my hands.

It’s then that all my anger turns to despair. I collapse next to the dresser and I sob. Each whimper leaves my body to take up residence in my room. Half an hour later my bed is filled full of whimpers, they comfort each other on top of my pillows and under my blankets. After an hour my closet is occupied with more transparent entities. They pull cardigans and fuzzy hats on their love-starved bodies. Three hours later and I’m far from alone in my room filled with broken sobs and woebegone whimpers. We hug and slowly make peace with the existence of each other. The blood on my feet has turned to flaky brown crusts.

They tell me I don’t hate my father, but they confirm I’m right to hate what he’s done to me. Memories flash through my head. The time he manipulated me into writing in my diary only to use against my mother in court. When he weaponized my accomplishments to attack my brother and turn us against each other. How he attacked my emotions so frequently that I lost the ability to share them with anyone let alone myself.

The whimpers tell me my anger is justified; they warn me I’m just feeling the beginning. And as the whimpers and sobs say their goodbyes, they assure me they’ll be back soon. I believe them. For the first time in years, my sleep is nightmare free.

I get a therapist; she tells me to write down everything I can remember. All the manipulation and heartache. All the instances of emotional abuse. She reminds me to call it emotional abuse because it was. I relent and recognize my scars. For the next few months, I journal every possible moment. In cars. In elevators. Before I fall asleep. And everywhere in between. Every other week I find myself in Barnes and Nobles buying new journals to replace old ones. I accept Barnes and Nobles is more of a home to me than my father’s house ever was.

I pour the memories and anxiety I have into her. Two sessions a week for the foreseeable future. I tell her about the Christmas when my dad screamed throughout the house about how my mom was a cunt. She’s shocked at how many inappropriate adult conversations he had with me as a child and she apologies that I wasn’t allowed to be a kid. I share with her text messages and emails and all the years of covert manipulation. She tells me he must have been terrifying to me as a kid and I can’t rebuke her statement.

My therapist gives me the vocabulary to stop wishing for bruises. Narcissistic rage. Parentification. Narcissistic abuse. c-PTSD. Freeze stress response. Finally, I have a starting point and the endless hours I used to spend scouring the web dwindle down. I read a book and it tells me psychiatrists see no noticeable difference in the trauma of children of addicts versus children of narcissists. Relief breathes life into my body. I feel less crazy. I stop trying to salvage a relationship with my father, I won’t look for healing at the feet of someone who broke me.

The blinders come off my childhood, all the pieces and pain start filing into their rightful place. My whimpers and sobs return often. Sometimes I meet them in the bathroom stalls of restaurants, other times they lay in bed with me. We’re well-acquainted, I trust they will help me as I heal. But more importantly, I’m healing. As I close my journal, I hear Enzo’s cat-like movements.

“Hi babe, I brought home some take-out,” the arsenic is no longer coating his words.