Having Severe Generalized Anxiety Disorder is Crippling Me into Agoraphobia
He leaves to walk the dog: a mundane task
I imagine him shanked prison-style. Dog kicked or taken.
I see a Dodge Charger run him over like Death Race 3000 for points.
Mangled body flattened as if steamrolled.
Dog whimpering, tongue lapping a bloodied disfigured face.
He goes to the pharmacy: a necessary evil.
Headline flashes “CVS robbed at gunpoint–
Customer caught in police crossfire.”
We drive to the doctor: even more anxiety.
The whole way, I hang on to the “oh shit handle” flinching.
Envision a truck jackknifing. Our car overturned and crushed.
We sit at the back of the Comedy Store.
He belly laughs at Maz Jobrani and Ms. Pat. I try but fail.
Worried the house is being burglarized again.
Check the alarm system over and over. Monitor the cameras.
Watch Chaka Khan in concert, aisle seats for optimal escape.
Heart races–fear the inevitable mass shooting.
Stampede. Boots on my back.
It’s time for bed: two “go-bags” packed next to me.
Computers, important documents, Mikey my childhood doll.
Prepared to grab the dog and run.
Dream of an electrical fire.
I stand at our front door.
Sunny day, birds chirping, kids bouncing basketballs on the way to the park.
It’s a mirage.
We’re likely to die out there.
Heart palpitations, dry mouth, sweaty palms, legs trembling.
Stay home.
Invisible Illnesses
When my hair follicles light up like toxic fireflies,
you cannot see the screaming behind my eyes,
or begin to understand that my nerves combust
the way lightning strikes turn sand into shards of glass.
You, who jumps and runs and lifts and takes
the stairs on purpose for extra exercise, can’t comprehend
my leaded legs, joints blowing up like balloon animals,
bone-on-bone knees slice so sharply I can feel
pain in my teeth, metal scraping the pot bottom.
You can’t imagine torturous flare-ups lasting days, rationalizing
suicide. As if my body were peppered with a thousand paper
cuts sunk in a lemon salt alcohol bath, crawled for hours on jagged
rocks, then spine stomped, compressed, forced fetal position.
Can’t you push through it, dear? You ask.
Doubting, think I’m a drama queen because I still have
all my limbs, but you refuse to educate yourself on
Fibromyalgia or Spondyloarthritis. Fancy words, you repeat,
for things that aren’t real, if you try hard enough.
I can’t control much, but I will walk
away from your toxicity, your denial of my pain.
I will no longer labor endlessly to convince you.
There is power in choosing myself, energy reserved
for the believers, those who offer shoulders
to lean on when the fatigue sets in.
Like feelings of love have no discernible
visual, nor do I, and we both still exist.
An Abecedarian for My Multiple Diagnoses
Avoiding discussing mental health is a family value.
Black sheep–I dare to break tradition
cautiously toe-dip in Al-Anon, see from a
different lens. Graduate to cognitive behavioral therapy–
explains so much. Being Bipolar, I dissociate,
feel held hostage on a plane I’m supposed to pilot,
get easily overwhelmed, stuck, catatonic when not manic.
Having tools at my disposal made all the difference,
illuminates the rapid pendulum of emotions.
Journaling juggles Depression, manages the
kaleidoscope of my mental state. Focus on my
locus of control soothes Generalized Anxiety Disorder, but behavior
mods only go so far. Meds–a life preserver I need, don’t want.
Narrative therapy reframes experiences, but
optimism is elusive as illnesses pile like junkyard cars.
Processing Pain Disorder with psychological factors has me
questioning God, the universe, as I battle
Rheumatoid Arthritis and Fibromyalgia. The joints swell,
stiffen like a dead body, nerves meticulously fire,
taunt me–“Feel it. Feel it all.” I sob, wonder if this will be my
undoing. Envision my genes street fighting my gamma waves
violently for control. But I survived the South Bronx, my
warrior mentality kicks in, I mine emotional wounds for strength.
Xanax takes the edge off, resolve is not enough.
Yoga, walking, decorating, writing, allow me to keep a
zen casa, a semblance of lucidity that preserves my inner peace.
I Sit in Anxiety, Alarm Armed, Button Ready
I have nowhere to hide
when they break into this house again.
Fat, I do not fit under the bed.
The closet cannot hold me and my clothes.
This floor has no hatch, no secret
safe room, only a SimpliSafe
panic button, siren blares
to ward off evil.
Triggers an alert to police
moving molasses, if they even roll up
whom I fear will see my brown skin
believe me the perpetrator not homeowner.
She’s black and big and armed
The alarm company knows to tell them
to give me a fighting chance.
My husband trained me to survive–to shoot.
I’m skilled enough to lay cover fire
too afraid to engage in close combat.
The gun will surely get taken from me.
I do not have the constitution to delete a life
even when mine is on the line.
So when home alone, I pray:
Let me be anything but a statistic.
Isolating When the World Is a Dumpster Fire
This house is a time capsule of ghosts,
a historic complication that gift wraps recollections,
places them strategically under my mind’s tree.
Anxiety taunts, twiddles the emotions that curdle in my gut,
stirs up the words trying to escape my mouth,
and produces a neuropathic heart.
Shut-in? I say sheltered in place, nostalgic
for laughter-filled evenings feeding chosen familia,
smoked out porch nights, and feeling secure here, anywhere.
Alarmed, armed, I witness the foundation crumble,
the social fabric deteriorate, my world shrink.
Is this what they mean when they say, She’s lost her marbles?
Inside, a shrine to the psychological fortitude
that carries my fluctuating weight,
spins my boldness like silk,
propels me to step out, lean in,
leave fingerprints regardless of the risk.
I bleed out slowly in solitary confinement,
a snapping turtle in murky water who knows
that to venture outside right now isn’t safe.
But being Brown, it never was.
