anxiety

The Defective Domino

The knots which had been steadily looping and tightening within me suddenly pulled mercilessly.  The knives stabbed my chest, my heart, I knew.  My innards wished to be decorative feathered boas draped across my clammy torso.  The bugs crawled across my skin, but I could not catch them.  I could not squash them.  I looked across the room.  The windows of the fifteenth floor apartment were open.  Jump, I heard whispered.  In fear, I sought refuge on the street.  The train was approaching.  Jump, I heard whispered.  The scissors snipped, and I floated away.

My mind and mood cycle rapidly.  Up to down, down to up, up and down together, defying the laws of gravity and any semblance of common sense.  I was slowly stacking dominoes.  A bachelors degree from college.  Enrollment in a certificate program for paralegal studies.  A wonderful, fulfilling, healthy relationship.  Then, the first domino tipped.  I am unsure what force with requisite pressure caused the first fall in a chain reaction.  Paranoia, depression, obsessive-compulsiveness, and anxiety began to take nest.  As the dominoes fell harder and faster, I feared this was the end, that I would finally come to know intimately the last domino in my chain.  Interventions were utilized.  The Klonopin we abruptly stopped, we started again.  We added Cymbalta, and added some more.  Medications were failing to drain the tub in which I was slowly drowning.

This morning, I awoke.  To awaken was not inherently unusual, but rather the circumstances under which I awoke were of peculiarity.  There was a strange dissipation anxiety and depression.  The air in the room hung uneasily, as if a being of large mass had just exited and there existed a void where he had stood.  I recognized with certainty the miracle of the defective domino.  Something in my life, in my mind, triggered a domino to default, to miss.  The train of dominoes ceased to fall, stopped in their tracks as if frozen.

I have never reached the last domino.  Perhaps there is a protective device operating within me, or externally of me, that renders a domino defective.  God, the love of my partner and my family, the wonders of therapy and pharmaceutical intervention.  I continue to fight because I know, without a doubt, that there is always a faulty domino in the pack.

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Baklava

A flaky, sticky sweet desert with delicate layers of filo dough that threaten to exfoliate, interspersed nuts, and the honey and syrup that hold it all together with the strength of spackling paste to drywall.  My mind flakes and crumbles.  Follow me on a city street, and filo crumbs fall behind my stride in the fashion of Hansel and Gretel.  My mind betrays me.  Obsessions and anxieties ensue.  The person across the room is spying on me to make reports to his authority.  Another wishes to commit slander and libel to destroy my name.  Paranoia, yes, I know.  The world decides to cut the connection between us.  I float, detached and without ground on which to plant my feet.  Betrayed, I am, by the very entity that is supposed to maintain bodily and emotional homeostasis.

Anxiety upon anxiety, obsession upon obsession, stack in layers of filo dough in a baklava.  I am accosted, I am overwhelmed. My teetering tower threatens to topple and crumble.  But for honey and syrup, I would disintegrate with the evening wind blowing through the evergreens.  Honey is temperamental.  An obstinate and unforgiving harvest is grainy, gritty and unpleasant to the tongue.  A pure harvest is smooth and thick, reminiscent of pouring caramel to cool.  The honey binding my filo, completing my self as a whole, flows from my partner.  Entangled arms in embrace, a brush of the lips, the honey flows freely.  It is with this honey that I build my fortress and my abode.  I stack weaknesses and bind them with strength, for I can create a perfect structure built upon imperfection.  For in this way, I am able to enjoy the product of the marriage of my mind with the love of others.