Cadence

The quiet Sunday morning loomed on Luz’s mind. Her bedroom relaxation shifted from restful and promising to a sweat pod dampening her cotton nightshirt. Her breath escaped her, fingers going numb. She held her shaking hands in front of her, grabbing one hand with the other to make the shaking stop. The blankets suffocated her. Luz violently flung the blankets three feet in the air nearly knocking over a lamp and a framed Warhol print. Her angst supercharged her strength to protect her unhinged mind.

This wave came out of nowhere. Rising, she knew the only recourse was to start her day before obscure thoughts further invaded her. She opened her sock drawer and took out her worn hand-written checklist tucked flat in a corner, reserved for days like this when her memory was tangled between real and catastrophe.

Make coffee. Brewing.

Open window (no matter the temperature outside). A light mid-winter breeze blew in.

Five deep breaths. One. Two. Three and four. Five, slowed.

Three minutes. Her routine took three minutes. Her unnamed, untamed fear locked in its cage for the moment.

She knew that even this one short episode could turn her day from fun and productive to misunderstood and paralyzing. A second episode often followed. Stronger. Longer.

There was no one to call. No one understood. For five years, much of her family told her it was all in her head. She hid any signs from them. If they did not hear about it, it must not exist anymore. Some friends listened and consoled, showing her empathy in a world void of empathy for the unseen. But today was Sunday morning and she did not want to interrupt their moments of peaceful bliss, alone or otherwise. Breathing in again. Then sighing. She was in control at this minute on this day. She knew she would survive.

Ah, she remembered the Sunday paper. It would be sitting outside the door of her apartment. She would devour it with her coffee and a frozen waffle, toasted, no butter with honey. 

She tried to comprehend the words on the front page deeper, internalizing the syllables as if she needed them to strengthen her soul. Though in the back of her mind, she knew the words were merely a barrier to the other thoughts that could overtake her rationalization and turn her well body mysteriously ill. Focus required work. Work required energy.

She made it past the top of the hour. Today might be hour to hour wins. She cannot and should not predict. A little sun shined in through her small kitchen window. Maybe it would be a good day. 

Showered and dressed, she decides to go to the library to read and watch the patrons. She imagines watching the parents argue with their children and the homeless come in from off the street. They will all be in worse shape than her. The brisk seven block walk will force her to be present, dodging bicyclists, dogs, and the occasional hotdog stand. If her therapist knew Luz’s plan, she would be proud. Ninety-six sessions re-framing Luz from a reclusive hermit to a fledgling social being.

Before Luz gathers her things to leave, nausea invades her stomach and head. And a pain throbs in her upper back, slowly radiating down her spine, resting at her pubic bone. She knows what’s happening, but all of her is frozen in place for a moment or an hour. She can’t tell. She knows she is going to die this time. Here. Or maybe she is not the one who will die, but one of the family members who sucked up her air and thought mental illness was a fad that would fade from society. Guilt floods in. Had she unintentionally wished someone in her family would die today?

A bird chirps loudly outside the open window and her swelling thoughts pause. No, she had not doomed anyone to die today.

The rational moment frees her from the endless loop in her head and she runs to grab her checklist again before the repeat returns.

Make coffee. She empties the pot and starts a new one brewing. The weight of the wrongs in in her life starts to press on her shoulders again. Heavier.

Open window (no matter the temperature outside). She runs to the front of her apartment and tries to open a second window in her living room. It sticks. She leans into the frame, prying a year’s worth of paint decay and humidity from the seal on the wood. When it releases, she tosses it up with almost too much force, causing the glass and the window frame itself to shake. A stronger breeze covers her. God knows she needs his breath of reassurance.

She is thankful for the sticky window because it distracts her for a minute or two. The overwhelming dread has lifted again.

Five deep breaths. She can actually take them. Inhale to count of five. Exhale to count of five. 

Her second panic for the day. At least her anxiety level has moved from flaming red to dusty yellow. She repeats out loud the words her therapist has spoken to her hundreds of times.

“Panic is momentary. Anxiety will linger. It’s normal.”

She has to proceed with her day. Otherwise, the ruminations win. Her streak of coping days ends. And the failure loop restarts. Extra positive self-talk is too damn hard. Luz restarts as if the morning’s interruptions were nuances attributed to some other person or force.

She has another cup of coffee, extra caramel creamer. She toasts another frozen waffle; this time she eats it plain. She reads the entertainment section of the paper. Buckchain the rapper got married. Her favorite play is opening in July for a short stint at the Blair Theater down the street from her apartment. The food pantry gala raised two-hundred fifty-two thousand dollars.

Close to baseline. Her mind clear of irrational thoughts. Twenty minutes have passed.

She decides to pause with the paper awhile longer. Her body feels tired. An article about how the elementary schools are implementing sensitivity training catches her attention. She reads the three-page spread in its entirety, studies the pictures and their captions. Her thoughts are normal and fall into a regular pace.

Ready to once again entertain her Sunday plans, she unlocks the deadbolts and heads to the library.