The thing is, I don’t like drugs. I don’t like the light-headed feeling when they don’t work right. And I don’t like having to rely on something to feel okay. Which is stupid, I guess. But Yia Yia was right: it does make me feel good to have the option when everything gets to be too much.
At the end of that appointment the doctor said I appeared to be handling it well.
Here’s the thing, though: it’s not really a compliment to tell someone who has anxiety that they don’t seem like someone with anxiety. Because it just means we’ve gotten really good at hiding it. Though, given Drake’s reaction earlier today, I think my anxiety is probably a little more obvious than I realized.
And anxiety isn’t the kind of thing you can talk to everyone about. The reason I know this is because I remember when my Yia Yia tried to talk to my dad about it.
He told her I needed to just stop it. That I was whining and just trying to keep her attention.
Attention-seeking.
Because it’s so glamorous, right? It’s probably the reason most people don’t want to admit they’re dealing with it. Like I feel better about myself because I have anxiety and I need to tell someone else so they can feel sorry for me? No, actually, that’s not it. I wouldn’t tell anyone if I could help it. In fact, I don’t tell anyone. When I start feeling overwhelmed, I just sort of shrink into myself and stop talking for a while. I don’t make a production of it, and I don’t try to include anyone on this very special tour of my nerves.
But my Yia Yia noticed everything. And she didn’t exactly come from a background that prescribed drugs and therapy. But she loved me, so she found other ways to help. Hence the yarn and the matis. Because she thought the evil eye could definitely help keep the bad stuff away.
But it’s personal too. My anxiety is not the same as someone else’s anxiety. And I don’t want to be told what I need to do to handle it.
I guess Dad just didn’t know what to do either. He still doesn’t. We sit next to each other in church once a week because that’s the one thing we still do even though Yia Yia isn’t around to make us do it. The Sunday after she died we both got dressed without her, and for a second we both forgot that she was gone, and neither of us wanted to admit that. So we just went to church. Sat next to each other for an hour. And left.
Which is nice. It’s something we both do at the same time. But I wouldn’t exactly call it something we do together. It’s just sharing space.
Namaste,
Leo
5
Today’s Pose: Crow
This is another inversion, which means you go upside down. Or you have the potential to, at least. The goal of the pose is to have your knees rest delicately on your upper arms.
You start in downward dog and walk your feet forward until your knees touch your arms.
Bend your elbows.
Lift heels off floor.
Rest knees against the outside of your upper arms.
It’s not as impossible as it sounds, because I’ve actually seen other students do it, but there’s also the somewhat distracting moment when someone loses their balance and face-plants into a puddle of their own sweat and the rest of the class has to keep their positions while someone—me—struggles to untangle their legs and try again.
And I’ve mentioned the sweat, but I haven’t really mentioned the sweat. Not to the point that anyone who hasn’t taken a hot yoga class can fully understand.
At the start of class, someone takes a giant mop and soaks up all the sweat from the previous class and then jumps on a towel to dry the rest of the residual wetness on the floor. Once you’re finished throwing up thinking about that, you start your class.
About half an hour into the class, our mats look like tiny islands floating in sweat again.
Other people’s sweat touches you. You step in it on the way out the door.
It is everywhere, but no one says anything about it because they’re over it.
Everyone except for me.
Dear Journal,
My mind is still thrumming in a steady wave of panic as I mentally retrace my steps and try to think of every possible location where my portfolio might be.
I tore my room apart at home, retraced my steps through all my classes, and even walked through the quad area at lunch, thinking I might have dropped it on my way to the parking lot.
Then I stopped dead when I saw Evey standing there by the lunch tables surrounded by people.
I rarely see her at school. We exist in the same ecosystem of people, but I’m more like algae in her world, if that makes any sense—gross, smelly algae just kind of existing.
Then, to up the weirdness factor, she was talking to Drake. It was like some strange crossover episode of my life as they both turned to look at me at the same time, and instead of walking away casually, I did a double take and walked into a trash can.
It’s one of those embarrassing moments that I’ll revisit ten years from now, but for today it’ll just be the thing distracting me in yoga as I go through the motions as if I have completely forgotten how to walk, stand, sit, and appear human.
Annabelle asks us to think about what brings us to our mats today, and I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to say my mental well-being or a desire to bond with the universe, but the truth is: avoidance.
Avoidance brings me to my mat today.
I am actively avoiding the class down the hall and also my dad, the big Greek guy in the Toyota Corolla out front, probably cleaning his ears with his car keys.
Annabelle asks us to listen to our bodies and to take a moment to appreciate our physical forms and our tremendous strength, and all I can think about is how I walk with my stomach muscles clenched and about how it has nothing to do with my physical strength. I don’t remember when I started doing it, bracing myself for a punch, but now that’s just how my stomach is. And it isn’t just when I’m around other people or doing something new. It is all the time. Everything feels tight and constricted, like I have to hold on to my organs or they’ll come spilling out of me in a disgusting, bloody mess on the floor.
Annabelle stands about two feet from me at all times because I need so much attention, and not one person seems irritated by this. It’s as if helping me NOT suck is part of the karmic energy of yoga.
She asked me if it was okay to reach out and reposition me, and I said yes, so now she moves my arms like I’m some weird marionette and puts her hands on my legs and back and calves and neck to show me how I’m supposed to move.