Wordless Fields Forever…
Contains: descriptions of anxiety, stressful public situations, & related feelings
If at any point you feel stressed, please don’t feel the need to finish it.
Thank you for getting this far,
May the hugs be with you.
[Pre-Commentary]
This is an old, stream of consciousness essay (very lightly edited), and I’m sharing it now for Mental Health Awareness Day (which was 2 hours ago, so nice timing!)
Mostly because I’m too lazy to write anything new.
But also, it seemed important in some way.
This is not truly an essay about recovery, it’s super short, but it gets the sense of something into words, in some way, I think.
Don’t worry too much, this is from a few years ago, & a lot has changed since then.
(Side-note: Yes, the title of the piece is a Beatles song, as the title at the top of this post is a reference to “Strawberry Fields Forever”…)
As my old professor would say,
“titles don’t matter for shit”.
(she wouldn’t say it so crassly, bless her heart.)
But yeah, anyways, enough rambling.
‘ A Day in the Life ’
By Ian.
Class ends, you leave.
You just got done reading that essay or other, and you’re feeling fine.
It was no big deal, right?
You relax, your body feels the urge to use the restroom. You go.
After a while, you get a message from your friends. That surprise birthday thing you guys were planning a couple of weeks ago is on friday, right?
Oh no, Friday.
Not that Friday.
Not the Friday you have to go do the “thing”.
Not the thing that was planned out months ago.
Not the thing you “promised” to go to because reasons.
The walls of the bathroom feel cold.
You start crying.
You write back that you’re crying, and they respond, “why are you overreacting?!”
You just got finished reading that essay or other, you’re fine!
Just, fu-, fine.
You say you’re having a bad day, that’s why the crying started. Your mind’s still thinking about what to do.
It’s not possible to change your schedule, it’s set in stone. There’s tickets to the thing. They can’t be undone, they can’t be refunded.
“You can’t say no.”
“You can’t say no.”
You repeat, talking your errant self into a corner.
Like a dog stuck in a room with an electric floor, you acquaint yourself with the definition of “learned helplessness”.
You squeeze all the joy that would’ve come from doing things with people you loved, and shove it down beneath the weight of “reality”.
You stagger to your feet, having just successfully beaten down your mental defenses.
Promises must be kept.
Things must be gone to. There is no helping that. There is no way out.
Now, try walking outside.
Can you feel the breeze, the fresh air given off by the trees?
This will calm you down, this will refresh you.
The sun sets.
It’s getting dark, it’s getting late.
“You shouldn’t be out here at night.”
He says.
You keep walking, mindful of the stalker trailing behind you.
An unwanted passenger, you can’t seem to shake him.
His words distract you, they gnaw at your sense of security. You can’t find peace. You mustn’t stop walking.
Halfway to the parking garage,
he stabs you.
My heart!
My heart!
It feels like I’m being fucked in the heart!
There is nobody there.
But the pain is real. It’s sharpness is there, digging into your chest.
Terror poisons your blood.
“What if this is serious?”
You keep going.
“Just get to the car,
get to the car.”
Up the stairs you go, with the pain.
Not this floor. Not the next.
The one after that.
Out the door you go, through the carbon-monoxide oasis, & into the safety of your car.
You flop down, your back pressed against the cushioned seat, which isn’t really helping that chest area at all.
You take the worse possible action yet, and pull out your phone.
Hypochondria ensues.
You begin googling symptoms.
“What am I feeling, what is happening?
Is this a heart attack, is this a heart attack?!”
If it’s a heart attack, it won’t pass in 10 minutes…
Can you pinpoint the pain?
“Yes I can pinpoint it RIGHT HERE what is going on with me WHAT IS GOING ON?!?”
Oh, okay then!
you’ll be fine, don’t worry!
Although, now that you mention it,
It is rather normal to worry about this sort of thing.
