I just went into Target to get some shampoo and conditioner. That should have been simple enough, right? Apparently, I can’t even do that now.
It was fine, until I heard the laughter. I didn’t know who it was, but it was a girl’s unmistakable peal of laughter that started with one and erupts around the group until they all sound like this deafening cacophony of derision.
They’re laughing at you they’re laughing at you they’re laughing at you.
The sound felt like it was crawling over my skin, pulling me apart. Nothing felt real. I remember thinking I was going crazy, just like my mom did.
My heart was pounding. It was like a car had parked on my chest. The tears started rolling. All in the middle of Target. In the shampoo aisle. ‘Cause I’m a awesome like that.
I tried counting, like my therapist at the campus center said to. Once I found out that the emergency Xanax knocked me out for a few hours, I knew I couldn’t just pop them in my purse for a trip to Target. I was recently diagnosed with a Panic Disorder. My new medication won’t fully kick in for close to a month and I’ve only been on it a few days so far.
So while I was counting, the sound came nearer. They were moving towards me. And just like that, I started shaking. The walls were closing in on me. I was trapped. My brain had only one thought: Get out!
I turned and starting power walking… until I couldn’t.
I had walked right into one of The Laughing Girls. “Watch where you’re going, freak.”
The giggling had stopped and the silence was almost worse. I could feel all their eyes on me. With my head down, all I saw were grey leggings and black slouchy boots.
Don’t let them see you cry. Just get out. Get out get out get out get out…
I think I mumbled some kind of apology then went towards the front of the store.
The laughter exploded behind me again, dark and mean. When I heard “freak” again, I couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. The automatic doors swung open in front of me and I ran out into the parking lot.
There was a car honk and then tires screeched. It froze me in my steps. I looked over and saw a middle-aged man, red faced and yelling at me, gesturing with his hands in the air.
Why couldn’t I do anything right?
The man was still yelling so I hurried up the parking lot aisle, searching for my car.
Blue… it’s blue. Black, white, white, tan, BLUE! That’s when I saw the University parking decal in the rear window. My car. I stopped and took a few deep breaths. I fumbled in my pocket for my keys and got in.
I sat there. And sat some more. I don’t really know for how long. Until the shaking stopped? Until the tears dried? Until my stomach unknotted?
Gripping the steering wheel helped, but once I had calmed down enough, it hurt to straighten my fingers. I didn’t realize I’d been clutching it that hard, but my knuckles told me otherwise.
Of course, I should’ve just put it behind me, gone back to my dorm, taken some Xanax, and went to bed. But thinking about it, I suddenly started sobbing. Why was I so messed up? Why couldn’t I even go buy shampoo like a normal person? What if I’d gotten myself run over? What if that guy had run into something trying to swerve around me and hurt himself or some else died?
Just like that, it was all back. Stomach dropped, breath stopped, shaking, and now dizzy. I remember inhaling gulps of air, trying to get some into my lungs.
Somewhere in the back of my head, I remembered my therapist saying to take even breaths. Even breaths. Even breaths. Even breaths. And counting. Remember to count. Count. Something to make me focus.
Once I’d made it to two hundred, the shaking calmed. My stomach went back where it belonged. The world wasn’t whirling anymore. I waited for a few minutes longer to make sure.
Finally, it seemed I could drive. Thankfully, my school was only five minutes away. Four turns from parking lot to parking lot. I drove slowly, carefully, telling myself not to think about anything but driving. Just driving. Just getting home. Autopilot.
I was lucky to find a parking spot almost immediately back at my dorm. I threw the car into park, turned it off, and—because I’m a basket case—cried again.
I hate this so much. Some days are fine. I can go to class; I can hang out with a friend; I can go to the damn store and get shampoo and conditioner. And other days are like today.
My therapist said to start a journal so off to WordPress I went. Here I am. Look at me go. She said journaling would help me identify triggers and symptoms so we could come up with coping mechanisms that hopefully don’t involve running into people or traffic. I hope she can also help with how stupid I sometimes feel. And out of control. And embarrassed.
The girl I bumped into called me a freak. Which is exactly what I feel like. Everyone around me just goes on and does a million little normal things every day, not even thinking about half of them. I hear a group of girls laughing and immediately, I’m gone.
Last week, the sound of a rally in the campus quad sent me flying into my bed. I spent an hour with my arms around my knees, rocking and crying. About a month ago, I overheard a student on her cell phone screaming at her boyfriend that it was over and I took refuge in the library, which was thankfully the building I happened to be walking by.
But it’s so weird. Looking at what I just wrote, you’d think it was loud noise or something jarring like that. But I can listen to music loudly. I can go on roller coasters. I grew up in Jersey City, for god’s sake! You’d think loud noises wouldn’t bother me.
Maybe it’s just certain kinds of noise. Loud voices maybe? But music is voices. Well, singing is. I don’t know. Trying to figure it out makes me feel even crazier.
And I’m terrified that I’ll wind up like my mom. She went crazy when I was eight.
For a while, all she could do was stay in her room and cry. One day, after they’d had a shouting match that lasted for about five hours, my dad took her to the hospital and she didn’t come back for weeks. He said she needed time to get better.
When she got out of the hospital, I remember her coming home and hugging me and my dad. She got in her car, saying she was going to the store. My dad looked worried, but let her go. That was the last time I saw her. Apparently, she decided to go to Illinois and join a commune.
So now here I am, in my dorm room, wondering why I can’t just be normal. Trying to figure out how to cope when my body revolts over going shopping or walking across campus.
My therapist says this and medication are the first steps and that it will get easier. I hope so. I just feel really tired right now. And I just realized I didn’t get the shampoo or conditioner. Awesome.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Genalissa lives the gorgeous state of Mississippi and is exceptionally grateful for her family and friends. Her passions include singing, dancing, cuddling, theater, reading, writing, and driving. It is a distinct dream of hers to one day have tea and chocolate with Darren Criss, Crystal Bowersox, and RuPaul.