5

For years now, I have been trying to describe what my anxiety feels like. Some days it feels like there’s someone in my brain, jumping up and down and screaming while I try to remain straight-faced. Sometimes, it feels like all of my nerve endings are on edge, preparing themselves for whatever invisible danger is approaching. Most days, it feels like I can’t read minds. That wouldn’t be much of an issue if it weren’t for the fact that the rest of the people on the planet can. This includes—but is not limited to—the hotel room filled with my friends that’s rapidly fading into the distance behind me as I drive away. 

Anyway, I’m supposed to be listing five things I can see right now. I’m told that’s what you’re supposed to do when you’re having a panic attack. My therapist taught me a technique after I had convinced myself for the fifth time that week that all my friends secretly hated me. She called it grounding. That makes sense, considering that my body feels like it’s buzzing with electricity. I need some grounding. The first thing I can see is the building I just drove past. It’s one of those new apartment buildings that looks modern and has a striking paint color. I think it was green. I’ve noticed a lot of those around while I’ve been in Lincoln. A group of friends and I made the choice to make the hour trip from Omaha to see a comedy show. I don’t know why I decided to drive a car packed full of people to a different city and share a hotel room with them, but I tend not to question my decision-making these days. I know I should be back at the hotel sleeping, but I have instead chosen to take a spur-of-the-moment midnight drive. The second and third things I see are the two pieces of paper sitting on my dashboard. I’m pretty sure they’re receipts, too important to throw away but not important enough to put in my glove box. The pencil rolling around by my feet is the fourth thing I see. At a red light, I pick it up and look at it. It’s cracked in some places, most likely because I’ve stepped on it so many times. I feel bad for a moment, not just because I never have any pencils, but because I probably only used it once before it ended up here. Either way, as soon as the light turns green, I toss it back on the ground and start driving again. I briefly wonder how long it will stay there, hitting the side of my shoe every few minutes. I look at the two friends who have tagged along on this drive, sitting in the passenger and back seats of my car. I really wanted to go alone, but after I talked to them, they insisted on coming with me. I bet they think I’ll do something drastic. Or maybe they were scared they wouldn’t have a ride to the show tomorrow. It was probably that. 

4

You see, I’m not supposed to know that anyone can read minds. A condition of this power is that you can’t ever let it slip, to me at least, that you have it. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure if they can read everyone else’s minds or just mine. If it was just mine, I figure that would be a pretty lame power. I force myself to refocus my eyes on the road and think of four things that I can feel. The steering wheel underneath my fingers is cold and hard. I grip it tightly but release a bit when my hands begin to sting. I move my hands over the cracked leather, thinking about how many times I had gripped this wheel without ever really thinking about its existence. The bumps in the road startle me, making me jump in my seat. I try to avoid the cracks on the street, but I know it’s impossible because this street is more cracks than pavement. The cool air coming from the vents blows on my sweat-drenched face. On another day, or a different time, I would think to ask if anyone in the car is cold. Instead, I close my eyes slightly and let the frigid breeze soothe me. The seat underneath me is somewhere between hard and soft. Hard enough that I don’t feel like I’m sinking down into the bowels of my car, but soft enough that an hour-long trip to Lincoln doesn’t make my butt ache. I’m used to the drive, though. A year of going back and forth from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln and Omaha every weekend has made the trip feel like a familiar song. I could easily sing it without looking at the lyrics. I feel a squeeze on my shoulder and realize that my friend’s hand has been there for some time now. We aren’t the kind of friends that hug each other. The most we’ll do is punch each other on the arm, and that’s enough to show we care. So even though that hand is comforting, it brings on a new wave of panic. I wonder how badly he thinks I’m doing to feel like he has to have it there. Well, as far as things I can touch, I think that’s four. 

3

I can never quite remember what order to do the lists in. Is it see, hear, touch, taste, smell? Or hear, smell, taste, touch, see? I remember that I took a screenshot of a list I found online, so I look at it. We are in the parking lot of a Hy-Vee, which has long since closed for the night. I’m not sure how far away we are from the hotel. I feel like I should know, having spent a year of my life here, but I’ve never been good at figuring out where I am, let alone figuring out how to get back to where I started. My friends say nothing, and I say nothing to them. I see that next on the list is to list three things I hear. Well, I already have one down – the silence. I wonder if I should say something, tell them that this was all just some big joke. Or that I’m completely fine and that they shouldn’t worry. I keep quiet because they would know that both of those statements aren’t truthful. For a moment I let myself become consumed by the feeling of pure embarrassment. They, no doubt, noticed how off I was earlier, refusing to speak to anyone or crack a smile at their vain attempts to cheer me up. I couldn’t tell them that I felt left out, feeling more like a taxi driver listening to my passengers have fun conversations while I focused on not missing the exit. I decide the moment is over and try desperately to focus on something else. I absently hear some traffic from the main road near the parking lot. I wouldn’t have imagined that many cars would be out at this time of night. Part of me thinks that someone driving past me must share this feeling—this choking, nerve-frying feeling. I shout at the part of me that says I am alone and take solace in that fact that somewhere, someone must be sitting in a parking lot too. The engine is still on; I can hear it humming its familiar tune. I almost turn it off, but my friend finally speaks. 

“Are you okay?” she asks. 

“No,” I say, and I begin to drive back the way we came. 

2

The list I found online, titled “54321 Grounding Technique,” calls it a game. This exercise that is supposed to bring me back from the brink of insanity, the one that is keeping me from running my car off the road, is a game. It is not a fun game. I feel like a child being taught that the ability to feel the softness of their baby blanket or the jagged edges of a Lego piece has a name. The list says that I’m supposed to focus on the “here-and-now.” I would be much more willing to do so if the here-and-now wasn’t filled with intrusive thoughts and meaningless worries. I take a deep breath and realize I smell terrible. I haven’t put on deodorant since this morning, and it shows. I hope my friends don’t notice, but if they do, they have the courtesy not to mention it. According to the list, I can name smells I smell right now or ones I like, so I think about the rain. Everything about the rain smells wonderful. The smell before it’s even started, warning me of its inevitability. And after, that mix of wet grass, concrete, and whatever else was stuck in the storm. I almost wish it was raining now, just to get one good whiff of that almost magical scent. Pulling back into the hotel parking lot, I finally look my friends in the eyes and begin to speak.

1

More often than not, I’ll have a thought that I thank the heavens I didn’t say out loud. Almost as if on cue, I’ll get a weird look from a person passing by, or, god forbid, one of my friends. I wish I had the kind of brain that forgot about that look, ignored it, or didn’t even register its existence. Instead, I spiral into a universe with me as the most unlucky inhabitant. The thought of having my mind exposed and the thoughts that were carefully filtered away being transmitted into the heads of the people I care about consumes me like quicksand composed of pure dread. Logically, I know that there’s no way that anyone can read minds, let alone that I could be the only one who can’t. But in that state, it’s almost impossible to factor in any reason in my thoughts. 

The only sense that I haven’t thought about yet is taste. I haven’t eaten in hours, so there’s no lingering food on my taste buds. I open my mouth to taste the air, but I can’t discern anything specific. I decide that I taste nothing, like tofu or lima beans taste like nothing. But I find a discrepancy between what my therapist told me and this list that I found. The final task on this list is to name one good thing about myself. I could say that I’m good at singing, or good at writing poetry, or that I’m a really good friend, but I think the thing that I like most about myself right now is that my mind is one that cannot be read. My thoughts are safe inside my own head, which is just one less thing for me to worry about. Finally feeling the extent of how tired I am, I open the door and get out of my car. I walk toward the hotel to get some rest before the show tomorrow (or rather today; It’s already 12:37 AM), but not before picking up the pencil on the floor and putting it in my pocket.