My name is Nathan Wells. I am twenty-nine years old and live in Boston, Massachusetts alone at 3374 Dockside St. apartment number 33. I tell myself this every day because I know that it cannot change without me knowing about it first. I do not have to worry about it. Another thing I do every day is count the fire-escapes that decorate the exterior of my brick building; even though I know there are fourteen. I often imagine a scenario where my room catches on fire and I’m forced to use one of these fire-escapes. I worry that these fire-escapes could be utilized by thiefs and robbers to break into my small apartment.
Upon thinking of these scenarios I often launch into a panic attack. It feels as though someone has stolen the air out of my lungs and I tremble and shake like a leaf in August. It feels as though I’ve been spun in circles, round and round until I am unable to walk because I fear falling down. It feels like I am about to die. Die a horrible and unjust death; one that is so gruesome and awful that even the most notoriously evil criminal wouldn’t be sentenced to. This occurs daily, yet I am forced to stare at the fire escape every morning when I awake at three-thirty in the morning. Why three-thirty? I can’t sleep anyways, so it does not matter to me. I don’t have to go to work until ten o’clock, but I need time to mentally prepare myself for the day. I have to be ready before I can leave my apartment.
I was diagnosed with Panic Disorder at the age twenty-three. Over the past six years or so the only people to know about my diagnosis are my doctor, my therapist and myself. Nobody else must know this information. It could be used against me, I would be at a disadvantage, I would be an outsider looking in at this fishbowl society of ours that seems impossible to join. I try not to worry about things like this, but I really can’t help it.
Panic.
Feeling separated from the masses is not a feeling that is foreign to me. I find joy in pretending to be normal, I try to do normal and average things. They make me happy, I often picture scenarios in which I am able to do normal things without thinking too much about them. These scenarios help guide me through my insomnia filled nights, they allow me to relax, which is an incredible feat. I’ve made a goal for myself, a goal that I have promised myself I will achieve. I will go to the coffee shop around the corner from my house every other morning and purchase a coffee. But today… today I am adding a new component to my resolution. Not only do I have to go and purchase a coffee in such a crowded and loud area, I have to hold a conversation with the cashier for more than fifteen seconds.
Today I am going to talk to the lady at the register, Camilla, for fifteen seconds. I have never spoken to her about anything that was not related to me attaining a cup of black coffee, but today, today is the day. Today is the day I will ask her how she is. I will make eye contact with her and ask her how she is without becoming overwhelmed. I can do it… I just need some time to get ready, so waking up at three-thirty in the morning it is.
I watched a movie the other day where a striking gentleman walked into a diner and talked to his waitress for about twenty minutes. He was able hold a conversation with her and look directly into her eyes. He told her all about himself and she listened and nodded when necessary, then she told him about herself. They connected and became friends. I want friends. I want to be able to talk to a waitress or cashier or co-worker without them coming over and forcing conversation with me first.
I know that people force conversation with me. I get it. Who wants to talk to the man who won’t look them in the eyes? Who wants to talk to the man who has to go to the breakroom to take his anti-depressant just to get through the day? But most of all, who wants to talk to the man who cannot even talk to Camilla, the lady at the register of the coffee house around the corner from their apartment? Nobody. That’s who. That is why I have to learn how to talk to people, I have to try.
I think about everything that can happen to me over the course of my lifetime. I try not to let it overwhelm me, I try to prevent myself from letting my disorder take me down. No matter how terrified or blindsided I am by my panic attacks, I cannot let it consume my life and make me less happy of a person. Staring at myself in the mirror, I see the reflection of the clock. It reads eight o’clock in the morning. I grab my jacket and place my hand on the door handle, re-assuring myself that it was ok that I would count the fourteen different fire escapes as I left. I told myself that it was ok that I would take my anti-depression medication in the breakroom at work too. All that mattered was that I was going to talk to the lady at the register.
I open the door and walked down to the lobby of my apartment building. Playing on the television located in the corner was a news title that showed fellow Americans rallying to have those who suffered from mental disorders of any kind put into hospitals, away from the rest of the mass public. I did not want to go and get coffee anymore.