Wednesday, February 17, 2016

Compulsion Makes My Heart Feel Light Headed


Checking. Always checking. My heart feels lightheaded, my brain buzzes with bizarre thoughts, and my stomach is flooded with a deep welling feeling of doom. The sensation comes in waves of irrational worry and looping thoughts colliding in the caverns of my mind.

It speaks. I must check. It builds, it beckons, it berates.

Check once
Check twice
Check three times

Keys, I see them, I feel them. Check
Wallet, I see it, I hold it. Check
Phone, I see it, I touch it. Check

Check once
Check twice
Check three times

All is calm. The waves have been quelled and the nagging pressure inside subsides.
And I am free; out the door and onto the street.

I can hear the ding and roll of the street car grinding against the rails. There is noisy chatter from two joggers passing by and the smell of yeast; a thick bready smell that dampens the air as it spirals from the brewery and stings my nose.

Down the block and past the brewery. Another door opens and I am in the coffee shop. The sweet gritty smell of roasted, ground, dripped coffee pulses throughout the place.

Sit, sip, relax, read. My brain is calm. The relentless repetitive inner thoughts are abated and satisfied…at least for the time being.

Glancing at the clock it is time to go, but my feet are stuck in place. Cemented and waiting until the urge to check has been compelled to silence.

Check once
Check twice
Check three times

Keys, their glint catches my eye, the cool metal traces my hand. Check
Wallet, the rosy leather exterior is in view, I weigh it in my hand. Check
Phone, the glossy apple comes into focus, I touch the cracks and edges. Check

Check once
Check twice
Check three times

Breath, exhale, breath, exhale. Everything is in order. You are in control. The surge of overwhelming panic is gone. And you are unrestricted from taking a step out the door.

By Blakelee Kelley

Thursday, February 4, 2016

“Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!”



Sticky paper hearts, obsolete tin-can robots, and color-by-numbers math worksheets are the vivid memories that pepper the inside of my eyelids from the year of second grade. A year that would be marked with the label, embarrassment.

 "Excuse me, Mrs. Holtcamp!” No response, as the addition lesson continues to smoothly play out like a conductor leading a symphony.

With my hand raised high in the air and a lurching feeling growing in my stomach I sputtered, “Mrs. Holtcamp?” “Class, what is 3+4? Use the color key to color in the correct section,” Mrs. Holtcamp commands.

Now the feeling is rising; a gurgling geyser in my stomach. My eyes flutter shut and when they open again the contents of my stomach are splayed across my desk; seeping, oozing, drizzling onto the carpet. My cheeks run crimson and molten. 44 eyes stare as the smell of regurgitated lunch compels fingers to clasp over noses. And all I can do is sit there like an icicle frozen in the mess, pretending that this is not happening. I feel the faint sensation of my body being pulled away from the desk, though I could not say whether it was of my own volition or by teacher force.

The next flash of recognition comes as I am directed to stand by the door and wait. Wait for what feels like a looming punishment. Wait for the texture of flecked vomit to dry on my shirt. Wait while Mrs. Holtcamp recaps the episode to my mom over the phone. Wait as the janitor pours a powdery substance over the goo turning it into crystalized bile. I wait for what feels like the longest time anyone has ever had to wait in the entire universe; at least the immediate universe of a second grader.

I am startled by the embrace of cold air as it sucks its way into the classroom and the awareness of my mom draping me in love, concern, and a mother’s promise that everything will be alright.

I am finally free of the suspended humiliation as I find myself in my own bed entangled in well-worn blankets and teddy bears. The tinkle of ginger ale fizzing in a glass and the hum of a lullaby conspire against my consciousness to rid me of this torturous day and summon me off to slumber.

 By Blakelee Kelley