An Arbitrary Apprehension

How do we learn to fly if not first opening our arms?

I ask myself this very question rather often, discomfort with strangers, unfamiliar surroundings, crowds and many overstimulating environments. There's a curious civil unrest between thoughts and desires clashing and collapsing in upon each other before eventually settling into a comfortable white noise. The chaos subsiding, simplifying perception for a moment. Increasingly powerful waves of anxiety...

Have you ever found yourself in a situation you cannot escape? A building or room you're unable to fathom its external boundaries as it closes in around you with a feverish voracity as though the room itself were alive and breathing... heaving with ever more difficult gasps until finally unable to draw air... a moment whereupon you discover yourself in such a small space, each touch, sound and smell becomes unbearable? That's what a massive panic attack feels like. It overwhelms your nervous system until eventually shutting down completely in a sort of shock.

I've had that.

Tenth grade, few weeks in... the year I tried to learn welding. I wasn't able to attend again for a half year after slowly working with special education classes and counselors in order to find a way to overcome the consistent anxiety and avoid another attack.

You don't want to be alone but you want to be in your safe space following those moments. It can be pretty overwhelming and pills have done only further damage, causing a strange mellow hum of anxiety before a shocking panic much like the powerful reaction to abilify I've chronicled many places. My body craves routine, it finds solace in somber moments which many people find distasteful. It's one reason I love cemeteries and darkness in general.

Anxiety itself is an interesting diagnosis. Whether general anxiety or social anxiety, there are only so few triggers we can easily identify if at all... and I worked for many years with private practice professionals searching for ways to cope. One such coping mechanism was "Turtle."

My mother had learned it from a professional in Romeo, MI just across the way from a Radio Shack we often visited just after appointments. It was sorta fun seeing that doc... until he suggested ritalin and my body went haywire for the first time finding me within an admittedly lavish hospital with glorious food and plenty of chill time for watching Fern Gully.

I remember a few moments clearly upon admission including the dual prodding of needles for blood tests and standing in a cold, tiled room with steel showerheads and handles set into seemingly enormous chasms of shoddily draped plastic curtains. I recall the fear of being nude... my bare skin crawling with anticipation before finalizing tests and being led toward the hallway entrance, staff desk to my right and labeled resident use showers ahead... the dayroom was comforting abeit cozy.

My doctor was meant to be a foremost expert on child ADHD, Doctor Dabough I believe... a stern man wearing thin framed glasses sat at a warm brown coloured wood print desk. This was the first of many visits, beginning age seven. Many pills disagree with my body, it was often required for dedicated professionals to monitor reactions for days upon further administration.

There were further activity rooms and a computer in the small classroom within which we studied dated textbooks and reviewed paperwork given to us by each of our respective schools. I very much respect that facility as the only place ever to dedicate significant time to learning, treating and often suggesting professionals for possible diagnosis. For all the stigma, there are genuine professional facilities in Michigan... yet all that was ever suggested was ADHD and anxiety until an excrutiating review by Doctor Ryan. Upon finalizing his assessment, his initial conclusion was "Pervasive Developmental or Otherwise Specified"

Eventually, around age fifteen I visited a smaller place yet only once... an again, warm and sparse assembly of fuzzy carpeted walls wherein I met a few young people struggling including a girl named Stephanie with long, golden blonde hair crying and being the "dork" I always am (my sister Andrea's endearing term) I promptly asked, "You okay? What's wrong?" (paraphrased of course) and upon hearing a short reply about average struggles weighing heavily, I said, "You know what... We can't hug, right?" then reached down and snatched up one of the Happy Feet cow slippers adorning my stompers and quickly presented it to her exclaming, "Hug this!" with an exaggerated smile.

She smiled and embraced my cow slipper with a bit of a snotty giggle. From there, I proceeded to entertain her and anyone feeling down. Each time asked the standard round of questions upon hearing, "Are any of you hearing or seeing anything that isn't there?" I retorted with a witty, "Yeah I see pink elephants" recalling a Looney Toons cartoon featuring said elephants. As usual, there was the constant sketching and drawing of interesting things along with poetry when finding the opportunity.

My mother had been able to bring my contacts case and solution to the hospital before nightfall so I carefully removed the clear blueish tinted lenses, setting the toric lens in the left side and regular on the right. These were again very institutional showers yet they were attached to our rooms adding a certain quaintness to the shoddily draped plastic curtains... I hope to never return.

Stephanie was the first and only time meeting and spending time with a person from institution... I meant to hang out, her and her friends used fifty dollars mom had given me for weed and got me high... never hung out again but I remember how terrible weed felt and we kept in touch online.