I sit crying behind my desk that Chloe left behind a year ago before she moved out. My trembling hands hold a cup of coffee. “I want to go home,” I repeat in my head.
But I am home, and I don’t understand why I always say this when I get upset.
I can’t do this paper. The reason I can’t do it isn’t the same as everybody else’s reasons though. It’s because every time I try to write or read about the Vietnam War for my history class, I want to vomit.
And it’s not because of the gruesome activities I’m reading about in the books for my class.
It’s not because of the fact that the paper is due in three hours.
It’s because of something I can barely admit to myself. My own fears of what I’m capable of.
I keep having violent thoughts. Looking at knives and scissors in my vicinity, I worry over my ability to stay in control of myself. I have no desire to hurt anyone. I cry at Sarah-McLaughlan commercials, my family and friends remark on my lovingness and care for all things. When I watched my dog kill a bunny, I pulled it out of his mouth and cried for an hour as I stroked the rabid thing and wouldn’t walk my dog for two days.
I worry constantly that something bad will happen to my parents, and I won’t be there to protect them.
I know I won’t be able to have a child. I won’t be able to hold it for fear of hurting it.
My whole life, I have constantly squinted my eyes, pushed my hand into my forehead, dug my nails into my hands tin the hopes that I could focus on the physical pressure instead of the unwanted, violent thoughts.
If it wasn’t violent, it was sexual. Incest, homosexuality, envisioning everyone I met in a sexual manner. I tried to contain it with the physical pressure, but nothing seemed to do the trick.
I was 15 when I was prescribed with Paxil and Xanax on as needed basis. It came after a series of panic attacks that kept me out of school, in my bed with no sleep. I got some therapy, and after being bumped up to 20 mg, I felt like I was like everybody else.
Then, when I was 20, my mom said I should probably try to get off of it. I was happy and content, and plus I had gained 20 pounds since I started it. I agreed, I’m sure I would be fine. I couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be so anxious. And, hey, if I was a little anxious and stayed thin, it would probably only increase my creativity.
My doctor suggested I cut back to 15 mg the summer before my junior year of college. I did. Nothing changed. Perhaps, a little easier time telling when I was full, but that was it.
Then I went back to 10. I had trouble eating for the fear that I would choke, I felt a little to serious, questioning whether I was here or in some alternate reality—a disconnection to the world around me. This wasn’t working.
Well, I could alternate between 15 and 10. So, I did. I felt better again.
Then I started school. I felt too embarrassed to cut my 10 mg tablets in half for fear that my roommates would see what I was doing. Ask about it. You? Medicated? Maybe, you’re not what I thought. You need medicine to be the person you are. Are you even really, or just this artificially friendly person?
I went to 10 again. I felt good. People just tended to say I had a nervous edge, which people hadn’t said I was since my childhood.
Then the second semester came. I turned 21. Went out 4 nights a week. Smoked weed one night a week. To counteract my partying ways, I began taking adderall occasionally to get some work out of the way. Then, I started drinking coffee when I couldn’t get my hands on some of the encapsulated euphoric energy.
During spring break, I took one Adderall on a Friday because I knew I wouldn’t write my paper if I didn’t.
Well, I didn’t write my paper with it. Instead, I applied for a bunch of internships. Then I had to walk my dog while my mom was at work before I went to my dad’s house for dinner.
My dog peacefully rested in the green grass as the wind blew gently at his white hair. He panted and looked to the sky.
I fell on my knees, as I begged him to get up. I was terrified. I needed to keep moving. I felt like my soul was going to jump out of body. My body had to keep up with my mind, and right now it felt like my body was going the pace of a turtle while my soul was sprinting down the aisles of a Red Eye to L.A.
Once I dragged my dog home, I got into the car for the five minute drive to my dad’s.
I almost pulled over four times before I made it.
I ran inside of his house and cried a hysterical cry. What was wrong, was I okay?
I didn’t answer. I laid on the couch and put my head on his chest as I sobbed into his blue oxford shirt. He petted my curly blonde hair. I don’t know, I said.
And, just like that, the scary thoughts invaded their way back into my mind.
Every time I tried to concentrate or I felt relaxed, they jumped back in. Even in my dreams.
Was I some kind of psychopath? I could never admit these thoughts to anyone. They might admit me and lock me away from the public.
When I first saw my therapist at the age of 15, I was convinced I had OCD. She was convinced I did not.
Did I wash my hands compulsively? No.
Did I check if the stove was on repeatedly? No.
Did I check if the doors were locked again and again? No.
Well, then OCD was not an option. I was just a nervous person.
It wasn’t until today that I learned that I could be obsessive without the visible compulsions. I found it in an anxiety workbook my doctor recommended for me.
Will I tell the therapist I have been told to talk to about these thoughts?
I never have before. Maybe this could be my way to contentedness. Maybe, this could be my way to the nearest mental hospital.
All I can think now is “I want to go home,” while I sit on the couch in my living room.