Nightlight

Circle, circle, circle. I guess you could say I’ve been dizzy ever since.

-Ken Schrader

The room wasn’t spinning - I was bobbing, like a toy boat in a rocky bathtub; water agitated. It felt as if someone was shoving my shoulders, lifting my torso upwards, and then pushing my body downwards. If possible, my head was a helium balloon slipped from the hands of a child, resting awkwardly askew at the ceiling.

The week became a challenge of woman vs. mental gravity, and I found myself tracing walls and rickety blue bathroom stalls in an attempt to touch the physical attributes of being grounded to my surroundings. I was not untethered from the world around me, regardless of whether or not I was unintentionally swaying.

They suggested it was the press of heat. I drank water and stayed indoors. Perhaps it was the inordinate number of unnecessary stressors. I voiced my opinions, and stood tall. Maybe it was due to my diet. I ate healthy proteins. But my head was still full of helium, and the young child was desperately trying to tug at my string from below.

And so I wove my way through construction and conversation on Friday, in search of an Irish pub lunch and select photographs, in heels and helium. We were a large party, and were sat in the middle of the large, open space; our words drastically competing with the swarm of laughter and jumble of letters from the surrounding tables. I swear I clung to my chair with my fingertips as we waited for our food, gently reminding myself that I could always walk to the bathroom to regroup.

By Sunday morning, I’d had enough. I remembered a narrow hallway during the fall of freshman year, and a humorous conversation with a friend about the curse of having curvaceous thighs. She told me that she appreciated her flesh, because it reminded her that she existed, and that every time she moved, she was present “in the moment.” And with every step I took, I thought “I am on the ground. I am tethered. I feel my shoes beneath my feet, and I feel the soft sand below.”

It was as if a mother plucked my balloon from the air, and pulled it back down to the waiting hands of a child.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 1st, 2006 at 8:58 pm and is filed under Panic Disorder. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.