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Depression is like molasses,

The gunk that fills up your joints

And stops up your head

Every time someone asks,

Can I get a gift card for $20?

What time are you free tomorrow?

How do I get to the nearest gas station?


The language I have spoken my whole life

Has suddenly become a jumble of noises

I can’t decipher.


Heady, unshakable exhaustion

Leaves me sputtering and frowning

As an undercurrent of prickling anxiety and

Burning humiliation warms my face.

Let me go check, I utter

(I don’t miss your puzzled look)

But you will move on

From the hard stop to the flow of things,

And I will become

But an irksome smudge on your memory.


Urban Legends

The first person to approach Neil was Jared. He placed his coffee cup on a stack of completed forms and seated himself in the chair facing Neil’s laminated name plate, scooting forward and folding his hands on the desk. Neil patiently removed the mug from his stack of papers, setting it on a coaster.

“Man, we gotta talk.”

“All right,” Neil responded, setting down his pen.

A long moment passed during which Jared watched his coworker, his face a careful blank that was negated by the blatant concern in his traitorous, expressive eyes. He cleared his throat, looking down at his hands. “Man- I don’t know how to say this.”

Refusing to engage the man with the disheveled hair and the crooked tie, Neil waited.

“You are an awesome guy. You’re smart and funny and- and I know you don’t want to hear it, but Becky really does like you. Anyway, the bottom line is, you’re really important to this business. And I know I’m not best friends with Bossman, but I can tell that he thinks highly of your contributions.”

A drop of hazelnut coffee had been standing guard on the rim of the mug and now began its journey downwards.

“Man, are you listening?”

Neil looked up. “Yes.”

“Are you sure?” Jared leaned forward. “’Cause I don’t think you are.”

“The boss thinks highly of my contributions.”

One dark eyebrow rose. “And?

“And I’m awesome.”

Jared threw his hands in the air and an invisible burst of energy exploded forth from his endless reserves. He leaned back in the chair to cross one leg, his face hidden behind his knuckles in thought.

“You really are something, aren’t you?”

Neil forced himself to maintain eye contact. The bead of coffee dripped into the coaster and disappeared.

“You got everything, man. Nice house, good money, great family. That mama of yours makes hash browns like she has a black belt in it… I don’t get it. What’s not to like?”

“What do you mean?”

 “I mean why you gotta go and make stuff up for attention?”


“I haven’t lied since last January when I told the waitress at Krazy Fries that I’d take the online survey.”

Jared’s hand dropped to his lap. “Really? You are really going to do this right now? To me?

Neil stared at Jared, blinking once. Shaking his head, the man stood, grabbed his coffee, and left the room.

 – – –

The next person to confront him was Janet. She knocked three times, loud enough to make the pens rattle in the penholder. They seemed to Neil to be shuddering in fear.

The fabric of her corduroy skirt groaned in protest as she shuffled in and slammed the door. She seated herself with an unceremonious exhalation of air. It reminded Neil vaguely of a gas-filled yard decoration deflating.

“Mister Astor.”

He waited patiently for her to continue. Her eyelids batted sluggishly, the left a split second ahead of the right. She let out another whoosh of air and continued.

“As you know, my position here is as the public relations advisor and administrator. It is my job to ensure that employee interactions with our cherished customers are upbeat and productive.”

Neil wondered privately how he wouldn’t have known such a fact, as he had worked with Janet for just under seven years.

“It has come to my attention that you have been discussing work-inappropriate issues while on duty.”

This moment, apparently, was the appropriate one to heft her gargantuan, construction-site clipboard onto the desk. One of the faded orange flower stickers on the plastic was beginning to peel.

A seafoam-colored pen clicked, poised in the woman’s endless fingernails. She jotted down what appeared to be the date on the top line of the legal pad.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Janet.”

Janet looked up, her brow furrowing as if she would never forgive him for interrupting her writing of the number “3.”

Swallowing, he continued. “I’m not sure what I’ve said that was inappropriate.”

The woman’s massive body heaved upward, settling in a dubiously upright position. “Well what do you think, Mr. Astor?”

Mr. Astor took a moment to collect his thoughts. “It has been my understanding that inappropriate subjects are threatening or sexual in nature, or are the spreading of rumors. Or lowering morale in general.”

The gust of air that emerged from Janet could’ve knocked him out of his chair. “It has come to my attention that you have been discussing questionable issues in the workplace. And by questionable, I mean that they’re distracting, and they put employees in an awkward position.”

Neil cleared his throat. “Awkward, ma’am?”

“It means people aren’t sure how to respond.”

At this moment, crinkled flower sticker decided to make an escape attempt.

“You’re telling people to believe things that they aren’t sure they believe. It makes people uncomfortable, Mr. Astor, because they’re torn between acknowledging you by lying and being honest about their feelings.”

“But wouldn’t that make any opinion a party disagrees with an inappropriate workplace discussion?”

“I’m here to tell you that it can’t happen again. If it does, you’ll be in quite a spot. If it happens in front of a customer, Mr. Lewinsky will be offering that spoiled brat of his a nice consultant job.”

When Neil had no more contributions to make, Janet scribbled something down on her pad of paper. The flower raised a single petal to Neil. Neil thought it must be asking for his help.

When she left the room, the door slammed so hard that his monitor flickered before returning to his screensaver.

 – – –

After a day of relative normalcy, the door creaked open so quietly that Neil hardly heard it over the hum of his computer.

“Um, Neil?”

Minimizing the spreadsheet he was filling in, he looked up. Becky’s eyes were wide, and she shuffled through the crack in the door before closing it as if her life depended on the finesse of the act.

She seated herself in the chair across the desk and immediately began to squirm. “Um.” The blonde let out a small laugh, prompting her face to flush a brilliant red. “I guess I heard from Jared that – well, and I heard it myself too. Um.”

Brown eyes flickered up to his gaze and immediately dropped back to her lap.

“You said you’ve seen something s-strange, and I – I guess I wanted you to know that we don’t all think you’re crazy. Not that you thought that we thought that you were crazy. I just wanted you to know that you’re important to me – well, important to us.”

Becky pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment. Neil could see her pulse in her neck, hammering like that of a tiny bird.

“When I was little, I would see things. I … I knew that they were real. So I know what you’re going through, not to insult you in case I don’t, but I just…” The petite woman sucked in a breath and held it for a long moment. “At the time, the things I saw seemed so real that I believed them, but I know now that it wasn’t my fault. Things can seem so real, and that doesn’t make you crazy. It just makes you flawed, a-and that’s what I like about-”

I’m not seeing things.

Neil had risen to his feet and slammed his fist on the desk before he knew he was acting. The crease in his brow disappeared and his mouth fell open, embarrassment blocking the flow of any semblance of an apology from forming on his lips.

A sob tore itself from the woman’s throat as she cowered back into the chair.

“I’m sorry,” he felt himself mutter, mind a haze of disbelief at his own rage. “I’m…”

Becky had run out of the room before he could complete his sentence.

 – – –

The next discussion off the matter came not five minutes later when a small but round figure appeared through the mottled glass of Neil’s office door. Mr. Radjeet’s tired, sorrowful expression seemed for once to be intentional. He seated himself without a greeting.

“Mr. Astor, do you know why I’m here?”

Neil stared at a spot on the desk between them. “Possibly.”

“Rebecca Morrison just walked past my office, very upset. Several of your co-workers reported an altercation of sorts that came from this room. A shouting.” He cleared his throat, a task that sounded like a great and fruitless undertaking. “Would you happen to know anything about that?”

There was a speck on the desk, Neil realized. Dirt, perhaps. “Yes, I think I would.”

“Neil,” Mr. Radjeet uttered, leaning forward and forcing his weary gaze to be met, “we’ve had this issue before. A few months ago something was said repeatedly to employees, and it started up again a couple of days ago. I sent Janet over to speak with you, and she seemed assured that the issue was resolved.”

“She was mistaken,” Neil heard himself reply.

A sliver of irritation was beginning to line the chubby man’s voice.

“Neil, this behavior is unacceptable. You cannot force your urban legends on people who are here to do a job. It would be one thing if you say you think you saw something in the woods once while you were drunk, but you’re telling people it’s coming into your house!” He sat back, and Neil’s eyes returned to the speck on the desk. It couldn’t be dirt. Maybe ink?

“I have given you ample time to fix this problem, Neil. Our benefits cover counseling services as long as your doctor refers you. You’ve been employee of the month six times! I don’t understand why you aren’t content with your position here.”

He looked back up at his boss. Yes, it was most definitely ink. A rose-colored sheet of paper slid across the desk, pushed by Mr. Radjeet’s stubby fingers.

“For the good of the business, I have to let you go, Neil.”

 – – –

The door closed behind him with a creak, and the man shuffled his feet across the welcome mat. His shoes clattered to the floor followed by his keys clattering onto the bookstand. Not bothering to remove his coat, Neil shuffled into the kitchen.

The figure at his kitchen table set his beer down when Neil entered. As usual, a deck of cards was sprawled across the table. “Hey, man. How was work?”

“I got fired,” Neil answered simply. The figure grunted, and his eyes lowered beneath the thick curtain of fur that covered his face.

“Awww. I’m sorry, Neil.”

“You have to leave.” Gathering his courage, he looked at the massive creature and forced his voice to be stern.

With a sigh, the thing in his kitchen picked his hand of cards back up. “Now why would I do that? Free power, hot showers … and those hash browns your mom brings over every Sunday? Amazing.”

When the thing said no more, Neil shook his head tiredly and went up the stairs.

Anxiety, Part I

Your heartbeat rises until your skull is pulsing, sending explosions of pain down your ear canals and reverberating between your teeth. The world rises around you, voices and footsteps and bumping and shuffling growing louder and louder as your chest constricts. Existence itself closes in, pressing and crushing until the whole world is roaring in your ears and on your back, until there’s no room to move or think or even to breathe.

This is what anxiety feels like.

I cannot speak for anyone but myself. Generalized Anxiety Disorder closes its sharp, spidery fingers around every individual’s throat from within the shadows of a different tragedy or situation. Everyone arms him or herself with different tools to beat this phantom back and to cleanse it from her veins. We are all beautiful in our profound uniqueness, and those divots and delicate spots we must reclaim and protect are all distinctly exclusive.

For me, anxiety is lying awake for hours, not realizing that the reason why I can’t sleep is my fists and legs and jaw being tensed up.

Anxiety is sitting in class, waiting for my turn to read off an answer. I know it’s correct, but as the voices get closer to my seat, my heartbeat rises to slam in my throat and my fingers begin to shake. I lose track of which question will be mine and I begin to doubt the correctness of my answer. What if I say something irrelevant and horribly embarrassing because of how nervous I am? What if I’m on the wrong page entirely?

Anxiety is waiting for the Driver’s Ed instructor to pick me up and sobbing uncontrollably because I know with every fiber of my being that I can’t do it. Anxiety is running to the bathroom to have debilitating stress-cramps and diarrhea five times before she arrives, leaving me so weak that when I climb into the driver’s seat to sign the time log, I slump against it, back and stomach too weak to hold me upright.

Anxiety is crying myself to sleep after a paper is passed out in English requiring us each to give a five-minute speech.

Anxiety is feeling cornered and suffocated when my mom comes to stand in the doorway of my room, the bathroom, any room; anxiety is knowing that even though it’s going to start a huge argument wherein I am accused of being controlling and disrespectful that I have to ask her to step inside or out into the hall because I feel trapped.

Anxiety is making up reasons not to see a friend I’ve known for almost a decade because I’m terrified of the humiliating pauses in conversation caused by my own self-consciousness.

Anxiety is waking up two hours before school to get the stress-cramps and diarrhea out of the way so I’m not late.

Anxiety is getting to the college and walking halfway to my class before realizing that the book we might need is at home, wherein humiliation and disgust crash down onto my shoulders, leaving me panicking, horrified, and defeated. I turn around and drive home.

Anxiety is putting off an urgently-needed doctor’s appointment for weeks because I’m too scared to talk to a stranger on the phone.

Anxiety is being called lazy, whiny, manipulative, and attention-seeking by people who can’t comprehend something small triggering a physiological reaction so intense that it feels like the world is going to close in and crush you. Anxiety is going to a writing competition and purposely turning in a bad story because accepting your two previous awards was so terrifying that it isn’t worth winning. Anxiety is sitting at a stoplight and starting to shake because all those people are waiting behind you, watching your car, and there’s a tiny possibility that you won’t notice that the light turned green for a second or two and somebody will get angry and honk. Anxiety is pulling off the highway while commuting to school and crying until you’re too exhausted to cry anymore because merging and passing and maintaining those speeds is simply too intense for you to manage. Anxiety is being mocked for asking to sit at a booth in a corner instead of in the middle of the room; anxiety is shutting off the lights and pulling the blinds down because you feel exposed and unsafe in your own house.

Anxiety is many things.

I cannot speak for everyone. What I do know is that anxiety is a legitimate diagnosis and a drastically different chemical response to stimuli from the norm. It is all-consuming, and without emotional support and often counseling, the monster overtakes one’s talents and passions, wrapping them up in its web of control and deception.

If any of this resembles your own experiences, I have one thing to say to you.

You are not alone.

There is a wealth of resources available to those suffering from anxiety – my personal experience includes regularly seeing a psychologist, joining a women’s group for traumatic stress, taking antidepressants and anti-anxiety medication, and pushing myself outside of my ever-expanding comfort zone to force myself to not only heal but to grow.

If you know someone with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, I would ask you to remember that anxiety attacks are not simply instances of an individual overreacting. The brain of one with anxiety issues is wired to mistakenly perceive small embarrassments or inconveniences as fight-or-flight situations, and in these situations, the person legitimately feels as if the issue can’t ever be recovered from. An open-minded and sympathetic approach is the best way to get an individual to open up about his or her disorder.

If you have Generalized Anxiety, don’t hesitate to seek out psychological and medical support. There are many different medications with varying approaches to quelling anxiety responses you can try, and talking to others working through the same issues can uncover some ingenious ways to work on reclaiming control of your body and emotions. There are various forms of meditation and self-hypnosis you can try and habits you can teach yourself that allow you to exist in the moment, shedding the constant fear of the past and the future. Acknowledge that this is a challenge with which you have been presented, and approach your recovery with grace and an open-mind.

If I overcame it, and I did, I assure you that you can too.



The Battle That Made Me Really Uncomfortable (And Kind of Giddy)

There was a fight on Twitter the other day.

If you are familiar with social networking in any way, shape or form, this will come as no surprise.

Somebody was in an argument with an individual on the opposing side of a political issue. He retweeted one of her responses to him – the Twitter way of calling for reinforcements. And naturally, I was first to charge to the frontlines of a debate that was not directed at me whatsoever, screeching my banshee-like battle cry and waving my American flag above my head as I approached.

“Awww! Misogynistic, objectifying slurs. What a good substitute for a coherent argument.”

Not bad, right?

Unsurprisingly, the party in question was not pleased with my having butted in where I wasn’t wanted. We hurtled into the kind of debate that renders you incapable of thinking straight as you vibrate with rage, excitement, and painful flashes of self-righteousness. A slew of “bad words” was fired at me. I deflected swiftly with skillful retweets (followed up by “this is the kind of person I’m dealing with”s and “I apologize for sharing, but she’s the one who typed it”s.) I re-read each tactical strike three times before hitting send, terrified that any typo or excluded apostrophe would be my Achilles’ heel.

She said that women who vote Republican are brain dead.

“I propose that any woman who votes exclusively for either party is brain dead.”

C*nt. Didn’t I realize that the world was grossly overpopulated?

“Calling names makes you appear defensive and incapable of forming a valid argument.”

We went round after round, steadily gaining attention and support from our respective allies. Someone told her to kill herself. She responded by telling the woman to follow her own advice. Several individuals accused her of merely seeking attention and needing psychological help. Among the token insults, we continued to debate.

The hatred and petulance of my own side, by this point, was acting as friendly fire. My brothers-in-arms were so cemented in their beliefs and the knowledge that theirs was the right side that they didn’t care about this girl’s opinion. Things that no one would utter to a person in “real life” were being written, favorited, and retweeted by the dozens. Instead of being the better person and calmly expressing one’s viewpoint, people were succumbing to the screaming and kicking, lowering themselves to the level of the individual I was trying to reason with. After forty five minutes of burning with such anger that my whole couch was vibrating, I was tiring of engaging in such a fruitless argument.

When I get tired of attempting to be mature, the polar opposite takes its place. I stated that until she was willing to level with me as a civilized, respectful person, I was done discussing this with her.

I then tweeted to someone else who was arguing with her and mentioned her Twitter handle very conspicuously.

“Can you tell @personinquestion that I think I hope her fridge stops working so all her ice cream melts and refreezes?”

She told me that she was a vegan; not a savage like me. “Ignoring” her, I again tweeted at our mutual acquaintance:

“Can you tell @personinquestion that I hope she farts in public and everybody stares at her?”

I know, I should’ve joined debate team.

She told me that I was unfunny, to which I had this sentiment to articulate:

“Oh, I’m very serious. I hope it’s one of those hot, musty farts that isn’t that loud but smells like Satan.”

Blame it on my chronic fatigue, but I don’t have it in me to keep “being angry” for extended periods of time. I’m not good at making enemies. I’m just too lazy.

She responded with “such trash.”

Now giggling maniacally, I clicked “edit.” I changed my name (Michelle Most) to “Such Trash.” I then began a Google search for images of trash cans, then changed my profile picture as well.

I finally simply asked her the question everyone neglected to ask her from the start in favor of self-assuring bullying: Why does this make you so angry?

Without any name calling, she answered.

You may be angry at them, but it’s their right to decide on this issue, I replied.

“Well, I hope they go out of business,” she responded.

Giving a frustrated sigh to my empty living room, I waited a few moments to make it seem as if I had other important things to do besides bickering with a complete stranger over the Internet before replying, “:D Congratulations!! And that’s how you deal with a business you don’t agree with in a free market society.”

Too tired to take myself, her, or any political issue seriously, I began tweeting her terrible clip art of confetti, balloons, and congratulations.

And then she responded with this.

“lol. Stop. You are a smart ass. I’m starting to like you. I don’t want to like you.”

Just like that, two people who disagree on something so sensationalized and inflammatory that we should never be able to be friends began to like each other.

That was one of the most exciting and simultaneously uncomfortable moments of my life.

I told her that though we disagree, I respect her and that I admire her passion. She apologized for being nasty, and I forgave her. I followed her account, and she followed mine in return.

What we often forget is that we’re not going to be right on every issue. More importantly, we forget that politics isn’t about winning a fight – it’s a forum for discussion; for expressing your opinion, then listening to the other person’s, then seriously weighing your belief against the valid criticism they have.

When you write someone off as wrong and therefore invalid, you forfeit the opportunity to show someone the validity of your opinion. You also forfeit a chance to critically dissect your own in order to strengthen and amend it.

Is beating someone down really more important than connecting with and showing respect to another human being?

I may lose some followers and friends when people notice that I regularly correspond on Twitter with the girl I had the argument with. But if someone is so convinced that he’s right that he shuts out everyone who disagrees, do I really want to be friends with him in the first place?

No, actually, I guess not.


Where Do We Go From Here?

I am twenty one years old.

The sky is bright, but wind whips the petunias and the trees.

I’m sitting on my mom’s couch. Cops is on, and I’m considering a Mountain Dew.

For the past few days, I have felt myself slipping into a deep depression. Not the kind that incapacitates you – this is merely the anxiety that blurs the edges of your thoughts and vision until you’re numb.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

“You’re young,” some say. “Take advantage of it while it lasts.” While what lasts? My hard-headed ignorance? My utter lack of a niche in this world?

“Keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” a few have advised me. I wish that was sufficient.

What I hear more often is, “You need to pick somewhere to transfer to. The government will only give you so much financial aid. You need to pick a major. Get a good job. You’re only on my insurance for another four years, you know.”

Yes. I, in fact, do know. You tell me this as the man on the radio behind you screams that college is nothing but indoctrination; that you don’t need it to succeed at something about which you’re passionate. I know. I know.

People who have had near-death experiences weep for me. “Life is such a gift,” they say. “I never understood. Life is such a gift.”

Then why does a brief second of calm make me feel like I’m reeling as my opportunities shove past to spiral out ahead, far beyond my reach?

And how do they still feel as if they’re hovering in the air around me like apparitions, just waiting for me to grasp them?

If the answers won’t come, I’ll have to create them myself.




44 - Chloe