Father Figure

Heat fills up my face and torso.  The screen blips and the machines start beeping to alert the masses.  My pulse just spiked from 90 to 120 and it refuses to drop.  And my spine feels like it's going to throw up.  That's probably the strangest sensation out of all the symptoms- feeling like your spine just became human, grew a stomach and an esophagus, and just ate a live squid.  My arms tingle and I feel a squeeze on my forearm from my husband.  "Hey, are you okay?"

I'm having a minor anxiety attack- and by sheer coincidence, I happen to be in an emergency room, hooked up to a machine that takes my vitals.  I'm here for a routine examination while trapped between insurances and doctor changes, but someone pushed the magic button in my brain, somehow...and I just short-circuited my personal machine.  It's all I can do to keep myself from throwing up.  And the doctor walks in to my screen of biological nonsense bleeping and blipping and asks me if my pulse is normally this high, making skeptical notes on her chart.

"It's...I have panic disorder.  And I'm not a big fan of hospitals," I mutter sheepishly.  She walks over and holds one of my hands, which is both soothing and awkward, and tells me to think of fluffy puppies.  I get what she's trying to do.  I tell my brain and my vomit-spine and my subconscious shame to shut down immediately.  I don't think of puppies because trying to think of a singular something is like surfing the internet for the definition to a word- you get sidetracked, end up playing a game, chatting on Facebook, and researching our dream vacation all in the same space, and that word is nonexistent the second you flip the power button.  No.  I prefer to pull the plug when I'm losing control.  I find a point on the wall where the paint meets the cement and force myself into believing that I'm sleeping.  My muscles unclench, my breathing deepens, and my vision blurs.  I haven't always been this good at shutting off my body, but I can temporarily stall the engine to give it a systemic reset.  I can feel the waves of panic just slightly above my head- they will come back the second I realize I'm not actually sleeping, but I might be slightly better at coping with the waves now that I have a subconscious surfboard.  My pulse dips and the beeping stops.  I make a joke at 90 miles per word that I must have died for a second there, and my pulse spikes and then stabilizes at an uncomfortable 106.  The doctor smiles and pats my hand, and tells the nurse to mark it at 106 and note that unfamiliar environments can be unpleasant for folks with anxiety.  I'm filled with gratitude, and my pulse spikes and then drops again.


Most of the time, when anxiety hits, I go through it and try not to let it resurface.  But today I'm consumed with the why.  Triggers, for me, are usually pretty obvious.  The night before an interview, I'm always violently ill.  Documentaries about cults send me into a cleaning frenzy or a writing storm, accompanied by the shakes and a side of asthma.  And a grab of the wrists apparently causes an immediate retraction into the fetal position with the words, "Don't," repeated ad nauseum for about 10 minutes.  So I know my triggers, most of the time.  Sometimes smaller things set me off- changes in routine, travel that lasts over an hour, you know.  But today's trigger is so miniscule that I almost miss it.  I almost don't understand it.  So, of course, I have to analyze the fuck out of it.

The image of a therapist with sunglasses on his face...and he looks so...fucked...up...like something I've seen before in the movies...like......

I violently shake my head.  No.  Playing into paranoid images in my brain is NOT going to halt the oncoming train of anxiety.  That's what I'm supposed to be doing- halting it.  I turn it off for a while.

At half past bedtime o'clock, it's back, and this time, there's no chatter in the house to stop it from coming.  I turn on the television.  I plug into the computer.  I start cleaning.  And researching.  And writing.

Shit.  Wrong idea.  Here it fucking comes. 

This isn't a dream.  It's a memory.  It's a memory distorted by the encyclopedia that bangs around in my brain- but it is a flesh-and-blood memory.  And it's not one that I wanted to revisit...at all.  Still, it's not going to go away, so I force myself to stay in the present moment and recall accurately, without fantasizing a different ending or more dramatic flair to the images.  It's real, it happened, I'm not alone...and no matter how stupid it sounds, it's legitimately frightening to me, which is enough.

I break away from the noise of the TV, the glow of the computer screen, and the snoring of my husband, and go back.



"Sweetie, you're just stuck in a fascist, witch-hunt of a community that needs someone young and innocent to blame.  You're their virgin sacrifice.  You can choose not to be."
"Look, that's not the point, Joey.  I KNOW they're being assholes, okay?!  But I have to feed myself and live under a roof and have a place to sleep, you know?  I don't GET a fucking choice in the matter.  It's play along or ACTUALLY be killed.  I just have to wait until they fire me.  There's no other way out- I've got to be able to take care of myself when they do.  I can't risk losing unemployment."
"Fine.  Whatever you say, Claudia.  You always know best."
"Oh come on, please don't pull that shit at this hour.  You know I hate that."
"I'm sorry.  I'm really not trying to start shit with you, honey.  I meant it as a compliment.  You DO really know what's best for you, or you wouldn't be as strong as you are right now."
"I'm not strong.  It's 11 at night and I'm sobbing on the phone to my ex-therapist because the thought of waking up tomorrow scares the fuck out of me."
"You're sobbing on the phone to your friend who loves you and cares about you.  You're surviving.  And doing it damn well, given the circumstances."
"That too...I guess.  God, I wish there was something you could do- ANYONE could do- to make this easier."
"Me too, babe......yikes.  Sorry.  Pet names are really inappropriate, that one in particular.  Crossed a line there, I'm really sorry."
"Oh relax, like I'm going to yell at you for calling me 'babe'.  My own father calls me that.  It doesn't really bother me- if it did, you'd know."
"Okay."
"So...how about we talk about this project you're working on, or whatever.  You've been off the scene for a while in your current crusade, haven't you?"
"Yeah.  I just haven't been feeling well.  This call isn't about me, though, it's about you."
"Suppose I decide not to make it about me for the next fifteen minutes- that cool with you?  I just need to not be in my own head."
"I'll do what I can."
"Thanks."

There's a long blip in my memory as I start to remember that this was a phone conversation- a fragment of it- from last May, with an individual I had trusted very much.  Someone I never should have trusted at all.  Anyhow, the memory is back, like a skip on a videocassette, and I'm back listening to the conversation in my head as I stare out at the lights on the street through my window.  This part of my memory sends chills down my spine, and as I try to tell myself that it isn't real, that I must be overexaggerating, and anything else I can, my body gives me a sharp jolt of nervous energy that makes me feel pins and needles over every inch of my body.  It's as if my brain suddenly went, "I'm sorry, Claudia, but you don't get to minimize this one."  I'm back on that couch alone in my old house...at 3 am...laughing about something on the phone...and then...

"I've always felt and thought of you as like a daughter to me."
"That's flattering, Joey.  Thanks."
"I mean it.  I never got to have children.  I guess they weren't in the stars for me, or whatever.  But if I had a daughter, I bet...I hope...she'd be a lot like you."
"That's really touching, Joey.  I like having a sort of second father figure in my life, too.  You're a very dear friend."
"I wish I could just take you under my wing and get you AWAY from all that crap up there.  You know we have a spare bedroom at my house."
"Yeah...it's okay.  I appreciate the sentiment, but I've got family and stuff."
"Family that makes you feel like shit and like it's your fault for the way this company is abusing you......sorry.  I just don't get people who blame their child for things not working out to perfection."
"It's not their fault, Joey, come on.  They're as mad at that company as I am- they just...don't think that I'm blameless.  And I'm probably not."
"Bullshit!  What did you EVER do to deserve the treatment you're getting?!  The issue here has nothing to do with you being inadequate, it has to do with a pencil dick being in charge of your paycheck who's too goddamn insecure to take a look in the fucking mirror!!  I mean, someone oughta take a shotgun to the man's face and give him a wake-up call to the way he's treating you!"
"Heh, maybe.  That seems a bit extreme, though, don't you think?  Whatever.  It's just a job, right?"
"Yeah.  You're right.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to get all scary on you.  I just feel so bad- I really wish someone would go in there and defend your honor.  Or that YOU at least would."
"I am.  I'm just doing it passively.  They can eat shit as far as I'm concerned- I'll collect my paycheck one way or another.  It's just that another way to do that is to let them run me out so I can collect the money while not having to show up for work any more.  I'll do my healing then.  I promise."
"Okay, daughter of mine.  But you better take care of yourself, understand?  Don't make me do that trippy therapist thing."
"You ARE a therapist- that's what you do, ya moron.  But I gotcha.  I'll be okay.  I feel better talking to you.  Look, it's getting late- you're old and cranky and you should be in bed.  And if I want any shot at making it to work on time tomorrow, I need to get some sleep too.  Sheesh.  This was supposed to be a brainstorming session for your project, wasn't it?  I was supposed to be that lovely friend that helped put your ideas on paper?  What a lame-o I am, huh?"
"Stop that.  Don't make me come up there, missy.  You know that's not a real threat, right?"
"Haha, yeah, I know, Joey.  I know.  I'm sorry if I kept you up late."
"You didn't.  I'm up at this hour all the time anyway.  Can't really sleep.  Besides, you let me talk about what I needed to talk about too.  Nobody's hurt here.  Just sleep deprived."
"Right.  Well, that needs to be remedied.  So I'm gonna say goodnight, okay?"
"Okay, kiddo.  Listen...I love you.  I will never abandon you."
"I......yeah, you too.  Now go get some sleep, you old bastard, will ya?  Night."

The images faded, but the weird feeling in my gut from that strange night had returned.  Slowly, I let the image of myself standing up and hanging up the phone fade.  I watched my year-younger self start to shake, violently, talk out loud to myself that "that's not weird, is it?  Friends say that to each other, right?" and send myself into a spasmodic episode of dry heaves, in between, shoveling out the words- "But it IS weird.  It IS weird.  Father figure?!  The fuck?!  'Daughter of mine?'  I mean it's sweet and it's touching, but god, I am not COMFORTABLE with hearing this shit.  I gotta call this friendship off before it gets too weird.  Or I gotta distance myself.  Or something.  Jesus.  I can't handle this much transference.  I must be blowing it out of proportion- I mean for gods sake, all we do is talk on the phone, that's innocent enough.  Where's my phone?  I gotta talk to my fiancee.  Fuck.  It's 4 o'clock in the morning.  Oh god..."

My husband, well before he became my husband, knew...though he had his doubts...what was going on.  After I talked to him about that night, he asked me, carefully, if I knew how I was going to handle future interactions.  I told him I planned on just not calling the man any more.  If he wanted to talk, he could call me.  Normal people do that.  So the calls would come in, and in, and in.  In fact, the more I pulled away, the more that things...seemed to go wrong with Joey.  People would leave him, shit would get destroyed...it was like a hurricane of hell had descended on his simple life- and on top of that, clients were harrassing him.  Pity drove our conversations upward from fifteen minutes to three hours...again...this time, dominated by his tales of woe.  I felt sorry for him.  I wanted to help.  At one point, I thought of sending him a moneygram- just to help pay the grocery bill.  But by now, I was living under my now-husband's roof.  And he saw what was going on.  And he didn't like it.

My husband is not one to raise his voice.  He's not one to even raise his suspicions.  He keeps his thoughts to himself.  So when I got off the phone with Joey that afternoon and began to share the conversation with him, he quietly turned and asked me a question.

"Claudia?  Do you ever think that...I don't know...that's an awful lot of misfortune to happen in such a short period of time, to just one man?"

I bristled and became defensive.  "What, you think he's lying to me?  YOU, the expert on how much tragedy can befall another human being in their hour of need?!"  My husband raised his hands in defense, slowly...calmly.

"I just think that he's putting a lot of pressure on you to help him with his burdens.  Emotionally, I mean.  I know he doesn't expect anything of you physically and all that...but you care about people, and for people, very strongly.  I just don't want to see that compassion taken advantage of.  And I am afraid that's what he might be doing.  I hope I'm just overreacting."

My face softened as I realized what he had meant, and we cuddled for a long while after that and talked about some of the things that had happened while I was going through my job stress.  My husband had been deployed for a good chunk of that time, and Joey had been someone I could go to when I couldn't talk to my husband.  Joey was safe.  He didn't have an ulterior motive or sexual interest, he was just Joey.  But, in talking with my husband about all these conversations, I began to realize that Joey might have been anything but safe.

His suspicions were proven right just a few short months later, when Joey severed all contact with me after I unearthed some suspicious activities he had made on a project we had worked on together.  When I confronted him on them, he cried abuse and took off...changed his name, his profession, and his living locale, erasing everyone's hard work and writing each project member off so viciously that you would never know these had been long term friends he was working with.  I wasn't as hurt as I expected I'd be when he finally wrote me off as well...but newly afraid that I could be duped again, by someone equally as charismatic as Joey.  I developed a sense of injustice, and I started to embrace the uncomfortable feelings- my "red flags"- that I had gotten while talking with this man.  I got in touch with other "former friends".  I read- and listened- to patterns...patterns so identical, it was as if each person had been telling my story, without my even telling it.  Right down to the words Joey used in conversation.  I felt like throwing up.  A month after shit rained down on the project, I collapsed, feeling like I had just run through the rainforest in Guyana to get away from a vat of Kool-Aid.

A therapist with sunglasses on his face, all fucked up...shit, that was it.  The paranoid picture in my head.  I always thought Joey looked creepily like Jim Jones.  Why was that always an afterthought when I listened to him speak?  That image...that...thought...

I guess I know what triggered the attack now.  Just a paranoid picture in my head.  But a picture is worth a thousand words.  And more than a thousand went into this entry, I guess.  And of course Joey's not Jim Jones.  That's totally psychotic.  But it's interesting that my brain made a connection like that.  And it certainly isn't something I can just...ignore, either.  Joey got caught red-handed being a hypocrite and a monster- and when an intervention was staged in the presence of friends, he beat them up emotionally and fled like a rabid animal.  Maybe they do share some similarities.

Maybe I should also stop watching cult documentaries.

At least I have an explanation for the panic attack, anyway.  There's always a trigger.  I just never know which one my brain is going to pull.

God, I let him call me "daughter"....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m_9hfHvQSNo