two

I sat at my computer and stared at this prompt for a very long time. Comfortable? At peace? In a specific location? Me, at peace and totally calm?

I’m sorry, but that’s not me. I have a hard time feeling comfortable. Like, ever.

I’m anxious and frantic; there’s always some part of me going at a mile a minute, whether I’m in the middle of brainstorming something for The Maroon, taking notes in class, typing up an essay, or even sitting seemingly still. I fidget, squirm, pick, and fuss. I’ve been known to ask what the symptoms of Restless Leg Syndrome are, because oh dear God I totally have that don’t I? It’s kind of become my shtick, if you will, but I wish it wasn’t.

I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder when I was 14, but that was really a long time coming. I’ve had an overwhelming sense of dread in the back of my mind since I was in fourth grade. It’s that constant sensation of hearing your phone ringing somewhere in your room, but every time you think you’ve found the cell and you can answer it, it stops ringing. Thus, years of panic attacks and the overpowering sense of constantly drowning has made it hard for me to relax.

And that sucks. Like….a lot.

But there are those few, fleeting moments where I’m pulled out of the water and I can breathe again. It’s those moments when a friend calls to go out and we can be quiet together, yet perfectly comfortable.
 
It’s those moments where I can go over to my cousin’s house and play with her kids, and I can just focus on the task ahead of us…stacking one block on top of another, pulling one glove on at a time.

It’s those moments when I’m outside in the shade and the light hits the big, broad leaves at just the right angle that green light filters through and dabbles on my face and I feel like my lungs could inhale so much that they would probably burst.

It’s those moments right after waking up, when my body is still heavy and lethargic with sleep from last night, but my eyes are open enough to watch the light streaming in from the windows catching little dust motes.

I can barely have those moments of delicate equilibrium by myself. I’m too restless to have them on my accord. I need these people and places in my life to help me there.

And, sure, sometimes these things fall apart and I’m left feeling like I’m drowning again. Sometimes little kids are crying and blocks are flying and food is being spit at me during lunch time. Sometimes it starts raining as soon as I start looking up at the trees and I get soaked. Sometimes my alarm goes off and the reality my situation dawns on me.

But...I guess that's my place.

My place is the quiet moments that live, unexpectedly, in the midst of chaos and panic. My place is the calm after the storm – after crying and missing the bus, but having a half hour to sit and watch the sun reflect off of car windows, watch birds fly from nest to nest, watch people go about their lives while waiting for a friend to pick me up and bring me back to the everyday craziness of the world.

Cadence and I having some down time together in her back yard

one

I'm constantly wondering if I can actually trust my memory. I have a hard time remembering whole events, but I can remember snapshots -- brief flashes of images, snippets of sound, a faint sense of an emotion that no longer lasts.

But I have faint memories that still play on loop in my head. It's like when I watched The Sound of Music on VHS so many times as a kid that only small snippets of time play, and the rest is a blank screen. I remember being nearly three years old and walking down the block near Prospect Park, waiting for my baby sister to be born. I remember being seven, or maybe even eight, and meeting my cousin Kristin for the first time -- I just got a Nintendo DS for making my First Communion, and I wanted to teach her all about the cool microphone feature that it had.

Bigger things stick out in my mind. I remember nearly every detail about the day that my parents announced they were getting divorced. The smell of burning rubber tires on blacktop. Kristin taking me to the movies, letting me eat all the buttery popcorn on top before she had any. Taking me to my favorite restaurant and letting me eat only appetizers for dinner. Going to bed that night thinking that the house was oddly quiet, and yet the deafening silence was too much for me to handle.

I remember the first time I met Kristin's first child, Cadence. It was two months after her birth; she had a hole in her heart and a MRSA colony growing inside her when she was born two months early. She cried when I held her in my arms for the first time. I handed the baby to my mother and ran to the bathroom in tears. How could this baby hate me, when her mother did so much for me?

And then there's this memory -- not really a child anymore, but not quite comfortable with being a teenager, either -- of sitting in a hotel room in Washington DC with Cadence crying in my lap as the TV droned in the background about saltwater aquariums. It's been nearly a year since Cadence and I had our first meeting, and our relationship has been rocky. I'm trying to get her to stop crying, but it's been nearly ten minutes. I was brought on this trip to babysit while Kristin went to a wedding, but my confidence at this point is so shaken that I'm not quite sure who the baby is.

And yet we're sitting in front of the floor-length mirror, staring at our reflections. Cadence huffs and whines until the condensation forms on the glass, and then watches as it dissipates. She strains against my arms and reaches a fragile finger out to draw shapes -- constellations, really -- in the fog.

I remember how fragile this moment was, as any sort of interruption could shatter our brief moment of peace. The funny thing is, I don't remember how this ends, either. Maybe she falls asleep right there. Maybe she starts crying again and I call her mother in tears (probably the latter).

Maybe that's all my memory is, anyway -- huffing and puffing, willing a snapshot to surface in my mind, and then watching it slowly fade away into oblivion.

Cadence had to see me off to "The Ball", better known as Junior Prom.

Our relationship isn't so rocky anymore -- I'm now her "bes' friend"