Memories in color
The thing about progress is that it’s different from growth. Growth is linear and can be measured, and progress is not and can not.
Growth is the seasons: predictable, in theory. Progress is how you lose your footing going up the stairs: still forward, but undeniably messy.
I am a Jerah in progress.
“This is what my room looks like on a week that my anxiety is particularly bad.” I indirectly apologized, offering an excuse for the tangles of sheets and the sea of laundry flooding against each wall. Usually my room is cleanish, showcasing the masterpiece that is my bed. There are candles lit on the dresser and books crammed in corners. A few pictures of people I used to love, and many of people that I still do hang on my walls. Maybe with last nights pajamas strewn across the chair in the corner.
When I’m not okay, stepping inside my room nearly guarantees snapping hangers under your feet and possibly rolling an ankle on a seemingly harmless pile of scrubs and shoes. There are probably 7 empty water bottles on the unoccupied side of my bed and my Vicks rub is most likely on the night stand without its lid.
My sister was trying to understand my anxiety, “What sets you off?”
It’s different each time. One time I left party early because a table fell over and the loud noise startled me and I couldn’t relax after that. Another time, my young pup’s collar got caught and twisted on a corner and in my panic, I couldn’t cut her free; I screamed and flipped the entire table over and cried for an hour even though she was fine. On two separate occasions, I’ve called the cops because I was home alone and the door bell unexpectedly rang.
“It was a hard week, they’re a little more sensitive when I go MIA for hours at a time on weeks like this.” I explained the 13 missed texts and 4 missed phone calls during a movie day.
When I start to feel better after weeks like the last, I often will neglect the self care that it requires to continue feeling better. A mistake made by many, I assume. I had a good weekend. “I’m feeling much better.” I said confidently each time I was checked on.
I had a lunch date then planned to go shopping with my best friend; I sipped a sweet green tea and roamed aimlessly while waiting for her to arrive at the mall. One moment I was looking at moisturizers and the next my head weighed 4 times as much as my body. There was lightening bouncing off my elbows into my fingertips. I frantically sent an SOS text and bumped into the shoulders of strangers that had no faces. I walked in a circle 3 times before I made a call. I was only inhaling.
“Hi my friend!” He answered cheerfully.
“I need you to tell me that I cannot sit down on the floor in the middle of this mall.” I choked.
He knew exactly what was happening.
“Okay, baby. Why don’t you find a bench? Is anyone with you?”
“THEY’RE ALL FULL. No, I’m alone.” I yelled in panic, not frustration. The sharp pains in my back and blurred vision fed my fear. “I can’t remember where I parked my car.” I admitted through streaming tears, still clenching onto the cup as it sweat in my hand.
I made it to a parking lot. Not my parking lot, but there were less people and the air was fresh, cold, grounding. The rain filled my little black flats and soaked my frizzy curls.
“Tell me what you’re looking at.”
“There’s a taxi. The yellow kind. The tree is still is mostly green.”
“Thats so nice. Nothing is green here anymore.” He said softly.
I remember the walk to my car through colors. He talked about his dress socks, which were blue with green umbrellas. He talked about blood, which is red. And my jeep, which is silver. I finally found my car. It was 3 parking lots over.
There are signs that I’m far less okay than I think. Sometimes I stop answering questions; I meet each inquiry with silence. The skin on my finger tips will shed and peel from me tapping. My legs will ache from the tension, or maybe from the pacing and fidgeting.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” A boy asked as his hand ran up and down my back. I said no, but after a moment of silence, I recounted the panic from 6 hours prior. “What do you think triggered it?” He asked in a whisper. I readjusted my head on his chest with no intention of answering. His arms tightened around me and I could breathe a little bit easier.
I still feel sensitive today. My hands are still unsteady and my heart rate is easily spiked. And, I suppose that is okay because the thing about growth is you have to start over after each winter, but with progress you can stand up exactly where you left yourself and take the next step.
A step forward, however messy.
