Alone at The Center of the Universe

 It has been four hours. My eyes well up as I register the time. Four hours on the floor. I think of how ridiculous I must look in my underwear and sweatshirt, hair still wrapped in a towel from my morning shower. I am lying on my living room carpet.

    I texted Mark an hour ago: "I can't get off the floor. I think I'm dying."

    "You aren't dying. You can get up. I promise."

    Of course, he's right. I'm not currently dying. Not anymore than anyone else. But of course he's wrong too, because I can't get up. I won't let myself.

    "I'm so anxious," I write. "I don't know what to do."

    I was doing so well this morning. I had my coffee and eggs while listening to the news, picked up a package at the post office, bought a bitter green juice at the health food store, and completed an hour-long workout video led by a very enthusiastic instructor telling me to smile because pain is completely mental. (Am I the only one that hates that saying? Whether your glutes are on fire or your mom just died, "Pain is in your head!" is arguably the least comforting thing to say to someone actually in pain.) I took a shower after my workout and then it came; that despicable and familiar feeling, like nausea from the stomach flu. Oh shit, you think, I've been here before. And it's gonna get worse before it gets better.

    Anxiety is relatively new for me. I have always been an over-thinker, but it's never been like this. It's so present. So physical. It starts deep in my stomach, and these nasty thoughts invade my brain, telling me that I'm going to get fired from work, that Mark is cheating on me, that my friends hang out with me because they feel bad for me, that my family thinks I'm crazy, that maybe I really am crazy. Then it moves up my stomach and into my heart, causing it to beat so fast that it could just stop any minute out of fatigue. It moves down my arms and legs, and I feel so unstable and limp that I have to lie down immediately. To a spectator, I look like a young woman that interrupted her makeup routine to rest. To me, I feel so wired that my body is preparing to explode into a thousand bloody, anxious pieces, and I would like to be in fetal position when that happens.

   It's been four hours now. As I begin to calm, I remember an old hack that my therapist taught me. When I am panicked beyond management, I'm supposed to think through the five senses. What do I see? What do I smell? It's supposed to ground me. So I focus on the steady hum of people outside. I live in Seattle in a neighborhood called Fremont, lovingly nicknamed "The Center of the Universe." My apartment is an historic building located in the heart of Fremont, so not only can I run out at 1 A.M. to grab a gyro across the street or buy a six-pack next door, but I can hear others doing it too - constantly. It can be a brilliant source of comfort, and it can also be devastating, like right now. My window is open. Amidst the sound of cars honking at reckless bicyclists and bicyclists swearing at drivers, I catch snippets of conversations as people walk by my building. A couple debates dinner options (Korean fusion v. thin crust pizza); a nasal-sounding woman grossly overuses the word "literally" while describing voter fraud to her boyfriend; a group of young men place bets on how many hard seltzers they'll consume at their pregame tonight; an old man repeatedly asks passersby for bus money and repeatedly is ignored. 

   I am so jealous of the Outside People. I know it's frivolous to want to be someone else since everyone has their own unique set of problems, bla bla bla, but look - at least these people can be outside right now. At least these people are OK enough to walk and talk and argue and eat. They are OK enough not to be on their floor.

   My phone dings. A text from Mark: "I'm sorry you're so anxious, Baby. It sounds like your body was telling you to lie down, so it's great that you listened to it. You're where you need to be, doing what you need to be. You're going to be OK."

   I finally make it off the floor. I take my hair out of its towel and brush it through. So far, so good. I put on pants, my baggy old GAP jeans that flatter me the least and comfort me the most. My plans for the evening are cancelled. I was obviously too panicked to have wine in the park with my friend Marissa, so I texted her, "Sorry, have the WORST headache today. Rain check? Ily!"

   Outside, an eccentric middle-aged man begins his daily lecture to the good people of Fremont via megaphone. He tells us the dangers of socialism and fumes about Russia. I think he also says something about God. I pour myself a glass of water and drink it, smiling a little at this small accomplishment of mine. I watch the man from my bedroom window, noticing the people that walk by and ignore him. In the plaza behind him, a young family of four eats ice cream cones. Bars are starting to open and they quickly fill with old friends drinking lagers and first dates describing their tech jobs over cocktails.

   The problem with living in The Center of the Universe is the constant reminder that things are happening for others when they are not happening for me. People are seeing people when I am not, making connections when I am not. I can spy on them all day long, gaining glimpses into their worlds, wondering where they did end up going to eat or who drank the most hard seltzers. Their lives affect me, but they don't know I exist. I feel pathetic to admit that it hurts sometimes. I want to be a part of them. I don't like being anxious and immobilized and desperately alone at The Center of the Universe.

   A cool breeze enters my apartment as the sun lowers, covering the city in a dark gold haze. As day mercifully turns to night, I make a snack, reply to some emails, and pour a glass of white wine. I feel better now. I'm heavy and hungover from my day-long panic, but I'm better. Mark texts me that he's leaving work. He suggests we get some dinner at the Thai restaurant two blocks down. I am eager to see him and hug him. I hope I didn't embarrass myself today over text.

   I put on rosy lip gloss and mascara and stare at myself in the mirror. I don't look like I just had a tortuous, anxiety-ridden day, debilitated to the floor by some chemical imbalance. I just look like a regular girl in rosy lip gloss and mascara. I leave my apartment and walk down the street. Man with Megaphone is preaching about the Bolshevik Revolution and I smile as I pass him. It feels strange to be out here with the people I have envied all day. I still feel like the girl in the tiny apartment a floor up, eavesdropping on their lives. As I near the restaurant, I realize that I look like an Outside Person even though I don't feel like one. Is it possible that some of the Outside People I envied today didn't feel like Outside People either? I look up from the groups of drunk girls in crop tops and punks smoking cigarettes, scanning for apartment buildings above the bars and restaurants. I wonder if there's someone up there watching, someone like me. I keep my head up, hoping that if there is such soul up there, they see me looking. I want them to know that even though they're alone, I'm alone too. And maybe, even for a second, we can be together; two sad, desperate souls, alone in The Center of the Universe.