Cassie
"Mama... oooooh... just killed a man...put a gun against his head, pulled my trigger, now he's dead..."
I wake to the strains of the first part of Bohemian Rhapsody—My mother's ringtone. (Yes, I thought I was being clever at the time.)
I'm confused for a moment, and then shoot upright as memory dawns.
The panic attack. My neighbor coming to my aid and helping me into my house. Me asking him to stay with me.
"Mama...oooooh..."
I scramble for my purse. "H-hello?"
"Cassandra?" My mother's concerned voice comes through the phone. "Where are you? I thought you were coming over for lunch!"
I blink the sleep away and try to think. No way do I want to tell my mother I had a panic attack. I had a hell of a time getting her to agree that I was ready to get my apartment in the place, and if she knew what just happened she'd be strong-arming me back to live with her in a second.
"Mom, I'm so sorry," I say. "I woke up sick. I felt just terrible. I must've rolled back over and gone back to sleep." The lie rolls easily—too easily?—off my tongue, and at the spurt of guilt, I truthfully add, "I just woke up again when you called just now."
"Oh, sweetie," she chides. "This has been a lot for you! The stress and who knows what else is taking a toll." She clucks her tongue and I can see her exact expression as if she's in front of me rather than across town.
She continues, "I was afraid of this—"
"I'll be fine, mom," I cut in. "You're right- it's probably just the stress of moving, and I just wore myself out. I'll rest up today and will be fine by tomorrow."
At my firm tone, my mother backs off. "Yes, you rest up, dear. I'll bring some soup."
"No, it's fine, I've got some here. Sorry again about missing lunch. Can I call you tomorrow?"
"Of course. Rest now. Love you."
I return the sentiment, end the call, and blow out a breath.
My brain conjures up the memory of the attack, an image of my body crumpling flashing through my mind, and I feel the panic rise again. But this time I'm ready and I repeat my script, over and over—"it's OK to have anxiety"—until the panic levels off.
It's taken me over a year to get to this point.
Two years ago I was in my second year of college, double-majoring in Spanish and business. I was also working two jobs to pay my tuition. The stress of it all began to take a toll on my health, and as my courses grew more difficult, I started to struggle to handle them and balance work at the same time.
My daily anxiety levels began to rise, negative thought spiraling through my mind all the time. I didn't have time to go to the doctor, didn't have time to figure out why my body was responding this way, why I felt like I had a weight on my chest and was short of breath almost all the time.
And then, I had the big one. The event, as I think of it. The event that would forever change me, that would divide my life into a 'before' and 'after.'
I was in bed, nodding off, when it hit. Out of nowhere, I had intrusive thoughts about what a failure I was, and the sheer, impossible amount of work I had to complete. My body responded with what I know now are the classic panic attack symptoms- heart racing, dry mouth, tunnel vision, trouble breathing, body dissociation, chills. I'd experienced milder attacks like these and just been able to buck up, push the thoughts and feelings away, pretend they didn't exist.
But this time, it didn't end for days, until I got to the doctor and got a prescription for Xanax. But after that, it seemed like my brain had been rewired. I was terrified all the time, always on the edge of another attack.
I tried to stick it out for a while but I could barely get out of bed, much less work and go to school. I ended up quitting my jobs, taking a leave from school, and moving back in with my mom while I attended an intensive outpatient program for treatment of anxiety and panic disorders. It took more than a year, but I'd learned that my brain WAS rewired by that event, as well as ways to manage. I was slowly returning to normal, everyday life. This apartment was the first step.
Until yesterday I hadn't had a panic attack in months. I am crushed at the relapse and am trying not to fall into the spiral of fear, the whispers of It's happening again. All your hard work has been for nothing. You will never be able to be normal again.
Again I shake myself out of it, this time focusing on disrupting the intrusive thought spiral: "it's just a thought. It can't hurt me," I repeat multiple times.
It works.
I get up and I'm a little shaky but other than that the symptoms of intense anxiety have passed. I head into the shower and think about how I can thank my new neighbor for taking care of me.
***
Ben
Sweat runs down my bare chest in thin rivulets and my feet pound on the treadmill at a punishing clip. I wear no headphones— I don't need music. The rhythmic sound of my running shoes hitting the rubber of the treadmill over and over soothes me.
I run at least five miles six days a week, but today I am on my tenth. I have so much energy, my body buzzes with it, and this is the one outlet I have.
For now.
It's been twenty-four hours since I've seen Cassie, since I rubbed myself between her beautiful feet as she slept, sweet and innocent and unaware. Twenty four hours since I swiped her key, which is even now burning a hole in my pants pocket.
The logical part of me understands what is pure common sense to everyone else- that I shouldn't use it, shouldn't further violate her privacy.
So I'm running to try to get this clawing need inside me out of my system. To tire myself out to the point that I don't even have the strength to walk across the street to apartment 1c.
I hear a sound, a chime of some kind. I ignore it and focus on the thud thud thud thud of my running shoes making contact with the rubber of my treadmill belt. But after a couple of minutes, the sound comes again.
Is that—my doorbell?
My brow furrows as I tap the button to slow the treadmill.
I don't think anyone has rung my doorbell since my mother was alive. My packages are left in a large lockbox downstairs, and no one visits me. Which is how I've always preferred it.
So who the fuck is at my door now?
Irritated at the interruption, I grab my workout towel and stomp out out of my second bedroom—my gym. I use the towel to wipe the sweat from my chest and face, then rub my hair with it as I get to the door.
I look through the peephole and the anger dissipates. In its place, a warm sensation unfurls in my chest.
It's her.
Without stopping to think about my sweaty, half-naked state, I unbolt my door and swing it open.
I drink in the sight of her like a dying man finding water after wandering in the arid desert for days. She's wearing some kind of oversized purple tie-dyed shirt that hangs off one bare shoulder with black leggings. Her hair is down and loose in dark brown waves with gold shot through in places.
She's breathtaking.
We are both staring. Her eyes are wide, and travel down my chest. I remember that I haven't put on a shirt, and then I wonder if it offends her.
I want to ask her to come in, and if I should put on a shirt. But all that comes out when I open my mouth is a growly noise.
My cheeks flush with embarrassment and I grind my teeth in frustration.
She seems to understand somehow what's happening. "Hi," she says, her voice breathy. I catalogue her face, and see that her cheeks are pink too.
She holds out a plate covered with tin foil. "Chocolate chip cookies. For you."
My heart thunders in my chest.
She made me cookies?
She is still holding out the plate, so I take it from her and, after a beat, I gesture into my condo. Her eyes dart to the side nervously, and then she smiles tentatively and steps over my threshold.
I set the cookies down on the coffee table as I try to remember what my mother would do when she had company over years before. A lightbulb goes off and I pad into my kitchen and get two glasses of ice water.
When I return she's sitting on my mother's gray sofa, fidgeting. I hand her a glass of ice water and then sit next to her in the opposite end of the couch. I gulp my water thirstily and then place the empty glass on the coffee table.
Her eyes are on my chest again, then move lower, to my abs, which are bunched up from my sitting position. I'm terrible at reading people, but I like the way she looks at my naked torso.
In response to feeling her gaze I flex my stomach muscles, and I feel a flutter in my chest when she blushes.
I made her do that.
I surprise myself when my mouth stretches into a smile. I don't smile often- because of my neurological disorder I just don't experience emotions like normal people- so this is a novel experience for me.
Cassie averts her eyes from my chest and the hard ridges of my stomach. She looks at the carpet, opens her mouth and then closes it again.
I wait patiently to see what she does, if she'll reveal the purpose of her visit, if she'll tell me why she's bringing me cookies.
Finally, she speaks. "I-I hope you don't think this is weird..."
Oh, Cassie, you'd freak out if you knew just how weird I am.
She takes a breath and continues. "I've seen you at your window. I wanted to come thank you for your help. So I made cookies and then I — I just tried to estimate where your door would be. I figured at the worst I could knock on a few doors before I found you."
I nod. She takes it as a cue to continue.
"Yesterday—I had a pretty bad panic attack." She pauses and words come tumbling out of her mouth. "I have a disorder. Anxiety and panic disorder. It's been better, I mean, it's been months,
but yesterday—" she trails off. "Anyway, I appreciated you coming to my rescue."
