Authors: Victoria Sawyer
Now, I’m dizzy, leaning against the counter, dazed. It’s
almost as if I’m floating outside my own body. But the sensations in my stomach
are grounding me, letting me know that I am here, physically trapped inside
this booth with no easy way of escape. I break out in a cold sweat, heart
hammering, body trembling and nauseous. It feels like a heart attack. It is my
own personal hell.
I can’t believe I have to call someone just so I can dash
out of here to the restroom. I hate that something private like that has to be
explained to a relative stranger. I have to pick up the in-store phone and make
a page, asking the manager to call me back, then wait until he finally does and
then ask him to come to the booth. Even then he might not be able to come right
away and I really feel like I need him to come
now
. But I hate to use my
one call of the night right now, just 45 minutes after Michelle left.
I try to stand the sensations, try to fight off the
feelings, but it’s bad, flu-like and miserable. I want to lie down and curl up
into a little ball of sobbing, terrified, sick, dying girl. But I can’t. I’ve
got to stand it. I absolutely cannot allow myself to be embarrassed completely
in front of everyone in the store by freaking out because I’m trapped.
I
can’t let anyone know. I must not.
I try desperately to count the cashier till in front of me,
my hands shaking, knocking nickels and dimes around, finally dropping the debit
slips in a snowfall of paperwork all over the floor. Emotions of futility and
despair roll up from my feet to my head, heavy with dread and I feel like I’m
far away, wrapped in smothering hot, damp cotton, tears pricking at the back of
my eyes. I’m not strong enough for this. I want to go home, to feel safe from
these feelings. There is no joking now, this is serious shit and I can’t escape
it. Not ever.
My eyes are almost overflowing and I blink furiously trying
to stop it. I’m a quivering mess and my stomach rumbles again, knives piercing
me in the side, breath caught in the back of my throat. I swear there is a
membrane covering my windpipe and I can’t drag in one deep breath of air. I’m
smothering,
oh God
, my chest feels tight and I try to drag in a breath
and I’m on fire, burning with embarrassment, belly piercing me again and again,
heart thudding, slamming, about to explode.
I try to hold back the overflow of moisture that is
threatening to creep down my cheeks and make it obvious to others that
something is wrong. I don’t want anyone to know I’m feeling this way and I know
that if I pick up the phone now and make that page it will be my only escape of
the night. I have one shot and I’d better not waste it. After my one chance,
another will seem excessive and annoying to the manager.
I pick up the phone, indecision eating away at me like stomach
acid, should I call or not? I evaluate how I’m feeling.
Trapped, nauseous,
sick, ill, twisted, frantic, all wrong, definitely over the top crazy.
I
push the call button, about to speak into the phone when my stomach releases,
the pain easing away for a moment. I sink down, half sitting on the low counter
next to the lottery machine, cradling my mid-section, rocking back and forth,
my arms wrapped tightly, the tears finally seeping over. I shudder with relief,
with fear, with uncertainty. Thank God there are no customers around right now.
After a few minutes I unwrap a bit and hang up the phone,
pulling a tissue from the nearby box to dab at my eyes. Last just a little
longer, I beg myself, dragging deep breaths of air into my straining lungs. This
is hell.
#######################
Somehow I made it through tonight. I’m home now, but it
was bad and I ended up calling the manager to take over for a few minutes. Somehow
I made it through the rest of night without calling again. But it was an entire
evening on the edge of mental breakdown disaster. Sometimes for a few weeks I’m
able to forget what the full-on mind/body fuck that is my personal hell feels
like. Sometimes I can live for a little while with just a few passing twinges
and nothing excessive. But when I do feel that excessive over-the-top
terror-sickness, it attacks my body and mind and it makes me start to dwell on
it all over again. It’s like some horrible drug has been released into my
bloodstream, crippling me. I don’t want to dwell on it. I don’t feel like
spending the next several weeks close to losing it. It makes me feel like
drinking constantly or doing something that takes this fucking shit out of my
mind. Sometimes I really get freakin angry about this. I hate it so much.
The steamy Florida air is distinctly cool inside the
colorfully decorated Chinese restaurant and I’m crammed in on one side of the
crowded table, surrounded by my parents, brother, cousins, aunts, and uncles. The
buzz around the table is of the impending space shuttle lift off just 35 miles
from where we are now eating. My Aunt Karen wishes we could go see it, even
from a distance and my Uncle Henry thinks we should drive there and see if we
can find a good spot. My parents want to go too, telling stories about seeing
the lift off on TV and how they had always wished they could see it in person.
I’m wishing we could just go back to the hotel room because
my eyes are burning, I’m tired, entirely too full of Chinese food and soda and
the sunburn that I didn’t realize I had on my shoulders is beginning to ache. My
cousins on the other hand, are talking about what we’ll do tomorrow when we
visit the Kennedy Space Center. As we’re finishing our meals, an older man with
a fishing hat and Bermuda shorts walks up to the table.
“Heard ya’ll talking about the space lift off and wondered
if you might like to have free tickets to get in across the lagoon from the
launch site. Real first class seats to the grand show,” he says with a
flourish. The table falls into silence and my aunts and uncles look amazed. I’m
thinking, now we’re gonna have to go somewhere else tonight, although seeing
the shuttle lift off could be pretty interesting.
“Wow,” says my Uncle David, finally speaking up for the
group, “We’d love that. How many could get in?”
“Well these tickets can get 4 cars on site, so as many
people as you can fit,” the man says, pulling four tickets from his wallet. Everyone
looks stunned, their eyes wide in amazement at our good fortune. “I’ve seen the
shuttle lift off so many times, it’s nothing to me, but when I heard you folks
talking about it and knew I had these tickets sitting in my pocket, I had to
get up and be charitable,” the man continues holding the tickets toward my
Uncle David. My uncle stands up and shakes the man’s hand, thanking him
profusely, and the tickets are passed.
After the man leaves, telling my uncle that his son works
for NASA, the family ruckus reaches new levels. Everyone is excited, the long
table filled with boisterous laughter and excited ideas about what it will be
like to be so close to a shuttle lift off. Everyone is talking about the
astronauts and what it might look like against the night sky and whether it
might be loud or blinding and who at home will be jealous that we got to see it
up close.
Finally, after the check has been paid, we leave the
restaurant for the 45 minute drive. We can only take four cars, so several of
my cousins and I pack into the back of my aunt and uncle’s capped pick-up truck
while my parents and other relatives take other cars.
After we’ve been driving for a while, my cousins chit
chatting, laughing and playing card games together on the floor of the pickup,
I suddenly realize that I have to go to the bathroom, and soon. I’m a shy and
quiet kid while my cousins are a loud, wild crowd, so I start to fidget. I
don’t like calling attention to myself, especially once I realize that the
entire cavalcade of cars filled with my family members will have to pull over
on the side of the highway so that I can pee.
After trying to ignore it for a while, I know that I really
have to go, so I have no choice but to become the center of attention. Eventually
I get up the nerve to say something to my Uncle Henry and we pull over. I get
out of the truck, do my thing behind some bushes on the side of the road, get
back in and the moment I sit down something strange begins to happen.
A burning hot sensation starts to creep into my cheeks and
my heart begins to slam as if I’ve been running full tilt during a game of tag.
Voices and laughter seem to dim all around me and I’m hyper-focused inside my
own head. My constantly revolving thoughts are: I’m going to embarrass myself,
something terrible is going to happen to me. Suddenly my whole body is
quivering like the time I drank four huge sips of my father’s black coffee.
Already my smirking, laughing cousins begin to zero in on
me.
“Why’s your face so red?”
“Are you okay?”
“What’s wrong with you?”
Their questions are dim as if I’m underwater and far away. I
shrug, trying to lift their attention and put my cooler hands on my burning
face. Suddenly, I have to go to the bathroom, again. My heart races at this
thought and I know I absolutely can’t ask them to pull the truck over again
after I just asked to go.
What can I do? Oh no!
My heart races, pulse galloping through my veins and I
squirm as sweat begins to bead on my forehead. I want out of the truck. Now. Immediately.
I want to be away from the prying, uncaring eyes of my cousins. I need to avoid
their questions, their laughter. My stomach churns like my mom’s electric mixer
set on high, finally gathering itself into a tight little ball of doughy pain
and I feel as if I am about to vomit all the Chinese food I just ate.
Sweat breaks out on my forehead and upper lip and I wonder
if I am losing it. What is wrong? Why do I feel this way? Why is everyone
looking at me? Why are terrified thoughts flying through my head? For some
reason I’m only capable of thinking of doom and destruction, eyes directed at
me, mocking laughter, teasing, condescending comments. I desperately have to go
to the bathroom again and I just went. I just asked them to stop for me.
Since I absolutely cannot pee my pants, I sit there,
uncomfortable, hot, legs squeezed together, focused inside my own head, stomach
queasy and nauseous. Around me, my cousins go back to talking and laughing,
throwing down cards in the game of War they’ve been playing, their eyes darting
to my face every now and then.
Time is suddenly crawling and I’m screaming inside.
Get
me out of here! I need to escape!
The barrage of terrible physical feelings
continues to crash over me again and again. My stomach twists like a dirty
dishrag, heart booming and skipping like machine gun fire. I’m quivering, weak,
floating outside my own body and the ceiling and walls of the truck cap seem to
be pressing in on me, smothering me. I can’t breathe. Suddenly there isn’t
enough air. I can feel that my face is beet red, and I’m horrified, totally
losing it.
Finally just when I’m at my limit, when I believe that that
I can’t handle another second without begging someone to pull over again so I
can be sick or pee or just escape, we arrive at the launch site, driving
through the gate and into the dirt parking lot where I can just make out the
shape of several dark blue porta potties against the setting sun.
I jump out of the truck on legs that barely support me,
almost falling back against the side of the truck in my haste to get to the
nearest one. Inside, not much happens. I didn’t have to go that badly after
all. What is wrong with me?
The rest of the night creeps by as we wait for the shuttle
to lift off and no matter what I do, I can’t shake the terrified, quivery, sick
feelings. And then to make matters worse, the shuttle doesn’t go off due to
some malfunction. We have to come back in two nights. And there is no way in
heck I’m getting back into that truck for the ride home.
Back at the hotel room, and before my parents have a chance
to really look at me, I shiver my way into the small bathroom and lock the
door. Finally I’m alone. I sit on the closed toilet lid and draw my knees up
under my chin. My hands are still shaking and I grasp them tightly around my
legs to stop the tremors.
I wonder what is wrong with me. Why am I so scared? I feel
like I’m going crazy. Am I sick? Tears begin to stream down my face. I want to
go home. I don’t want to be in Florida on vacation anymore. I don’t want to
leave the hotel room and I desperately don’t want to embarrass myself in front
of my family or cousins.
I hug my knees tighter, trying to drag in deep breaths of
air around my racking sobs. I’m out of control. I can’t be trusted, my body
can’t be trusted. It’s exhibiting all the wrong symptoms at all the wrong times
and my mind isn’t helping matters either, flying from each irrational crazy
fear to the next. I feel like a compressed spring, waiting to be released, but
I can find no release for my feelings or my body.
A soft knock comes at the door and a voice.
“Victoria, are you okay? Please let me in.” It’s my mother. I
uncurl my aching body and drag myself to the door. As I pass the mirror, my
face looks tearstained, eyes red, expression pinched and pained. As soon as I
open the door, I fly into my mother’s open arms, pushing my face into the warm
crook between her body and arm.
“Mom, I’m scared, I’m nervous and I don’t know why,” I bawl,
my tears soaking her shirt. My mother rubs my back, trying to soothe her
distraught child.
Silent tears fall from my mother’s eyes and land on my dark
bent head. Instinctively she knows what is wrong with me. She cries for herself
and she cries for me. She senses what is happening to me because it has
happened to her, it still happens to her. She knows that a lifelong curse that
she had hoped would never affect her children has now made its appearance in
me. Her worst nightmare has come true. It’s as if she’s seeing herself as a
child, reliving the fear, the questions, the anxiety that she experienced at an
even younger age. This is the day she had hoped would never come.