Kat Kinsman - Hi, Anxiety: Life With a Bad Case of Nerves

The house has me in its jaws, and its not letting go. Cabs arent quick and planes dont wait, and I have to leave now... NOW... five minutes ago... ten, actually. But I cant. This thing is sinking its teeth into my hem, my skin. In my mind Ive started to yowl like an animal snapped in steel jaws.

Whats worse is that my husband is standing there, watching me rip apart. I cant stop myself and he cant help me and now Ive failed the two of us. You have to go, hes saying to me, kindly, but thats not what Im hearing through the thrum of blood in my ears. What Im hearing is: Go. Because you dont deserve any of thisthe warm, safe home, the kind, handsome, hilarious husband and throng of sweet, sleepy dogs who have gathered to see you offbecause you cant even manage to take care of the basic things youve been trusted with. Not your work, not your purse, not your keys, not your wedding ring. And certainly not your dignity.

The last time I saw my wedding ring was sometime before 3 A.M. when I finally shut the laptop Id been bent around for hours, scrambling to finish up some work before I went out of town, lest anyone be disappointed or have their lives made slightly inconvenient in my absence. Stupid, careless me, I should have skipped going out to dinner to get all my work finished. I didnt deserve that bit of social life. I should have stayed home and packed, but I didnt do that either, and after two fitful hours in bed, it was time to sling some clothes in my suitcase and fling myself toward the airport. Only that never happens easily. Why did I think it would be any different this time?

The mass began to form as I stood in front of the bathroom mirror, doing my damnedest to mask the ravages of a sleepless night. Mary Kay, Bobbi Brown, and Max Factor themselves could have manifested fully armed in my Brooklyn bathroom, taken one look at my pillow-creased, black-eyed face, and theyd have fled. But there I am, eyeliner wand in fist, attempting to make myself look like a member of the human race when the worry starts thickening in my core. My panic shifts shape each time it appears: sometimes a fist clutched around my windpipe, a grotesquely flexed jaw eroding my molars molecule by molecule, neck and back needled in electric tension, guts dissolving into liquid or a ratatat heartbeat that shocks me out of sleep and leaves me there, awake, no matter how rude the hour.

This particular morning, heat is leaching from somewhere between my shoulder blades, prickling up sweat beads in its path down my back, up to my cheeks, and out to my fingers, which were doing an even piss-poorer job than usual at sketching the edges of my eyelid. Whoopsa sudden bobble of my hand lands the wand on the bathroom floor and a kohl-black waterproof smudge on the bridge of my nose. I shake when Im nervous, drop things and fumble the pickup. I pull the unzipped suitcase off the bed (promptly dumping the contents onto the bedroom carpet) then stumble over my sweet little wraith of a whippet on the way down the stairs. I bark my annoyance at her and am instantly flooded with shame. Shes ancient and fading and I have gotten it in my head lately that shes going to slip away while Im out of town and (1.) I wont be there to hold her and (2.) the last thing that shell remember about me was that I was unkind to her. I bend down, memorizing the silken curve of her neck with my hands for the millionth time. It stills them for a moment.

But while patient dogs waitthe world (or at least the TSA) is not possessed of such mercy, and I am not about to let down the people who have paid for my travel if I miss my flight. I heave the jumble-stuffed suitcase to the front door and turn around to scrape my rings from the mantel to my fingers. Only they arent all there. My right-hand ring and engagement ring are present and accounted for, but my wedding band has vanished.

I sink to the floor, patting around desperately on the carpet in the predawn light because it must be there itmustitmustitmust but it isnt, and as I stand the edges of my vision begin to dissolve into gray. I draw together the last scraps of sanity and breath I have and walk to the landing to call upstairs to my husband. I try to sound as calm as possible, no mean feat, as I dont want to scare the hell out of him.

Darling, um, could you please come down here for a moment? I am melting down.

Douglas, among his many wonderful qualities, tends to be unflappable in the face of my madness, and an early riser to bootIm not yet so far gone that Id rouse him from his sleep to deal with a lost object crisisso I knew hed be awake. Moments later, he clatters downstairs, takes one look at my strained, stained face, and lacquers on some preventive cheer. What can I help you with, baby?

I manage, through a series of gestures and noises, to convey to him that I am down a ring, the important one, I hope he doesnt take it to mean that I dont believe in our marriage and treasure our bond, and though I am clearly incompetent, irresponsible, and unworthy of adult, romantic love, would he please not stop giving that love to me, and could he please get down on the carpetor at least hold the dogs out of the wayand help me locate this sacred symbol of our union in which I obviously do not deserve to be.

After a few, futile minutes, he pulls me back up. We are not going to find it right now, but I will when I do some housecleaning this weekend. But you have to get on the road now. I nod, gasping for air, sorry for him that he has to be tethered to me. Perhaps while I am away, and our whippet is dying, hell decide that the ring had the right idea, but meanwhile, he is escorting me to the door, handing me my shoulder bag and the handle of my suitcase while the dogs sidle over to check if they are expected to leave the house at this hour, too. I loop my purse around my other shoulder and the motion seems to jog Douglass memory.

Oh, do you have the car key? I need to move it later.

I freeze. In a laughably optimistic attempt to pretend that I could ever live life as anything other than a messy, adolescent horror show, Id recently bought a royal-blue leather purse (on sale, because retail is for people who can be trusted with nice things) small enough to allow only the essentials of grown-up-lady life: house and office keys, phone, ID, credit cards, lipstick, a thumb drive (or two, or five), a pen, and a small notebook. And that had worked well for all of a week or so before the cursed thing was jammed with receipts, loose change, wrappers, random business cards, mail, and right this minute, the keys to the car. Id borrowed them briefly to retrieve something from the glove box the day before and theyd been swallowed whole into the garbage pit that is my purse. I begin to dig, spilling dollar bills, my license, insurance card, MetroCard (whats this wallet of which you organized people speak?) on the floor while the chaos and worry ferment and swell.

Baby, its okay. Ill use the other set. But you have to go.

I go, all right, but not anywhere good. I hear myself scream, and feel the blazing trail of pain its scratched on its way from my lungs to my throat. Oh God. Its happening and I cannot tamp it down. Ive seen this before, my mother contorted, bellowing, her anxiety taking the shape of shrieks, aches, medicine bottles, missed flights, and hospital windows. Im still fumbling for the car key because I will find it and show it to Douglas and he will know Im still worth loving.

Please dont give up on me.

Baby, you have to leave.

Dont stop loving me. Please... please. I close my fingers around the thick fob and thrust it out to him, sobbing. It is proof that there is some sanity left. I make him hold me for a moment, and hes ginger about itor so I tell myself. Ten years together and Ive wrecked it all by letting him see that Im helpless against my own head, hands, and mind.