Love, Poetry, & Coffee

~ 7 ~

I'm making a mental note to myself about bringing a bag whenever I buy a book because currently, the plastic cover on my newly bought book is slowly slipping out of my grasp. Plastic and sweaty palms don't always go well to each other. I don't even know why I'm sweating. Is it a sudden feel of relief that I'm done socializing for today? Or is it because my brain recognizes this pathway I'm taking and begins to panic internally? I'll go with the latter, since I understand why must my brain panic internally. It is because it's time to face my demons again. Isn't that exciting? I'm so excited that my hands literally won't stop twitching.

Sweaty palms, twitching fingers, is just want a person need to carry one single book. I don't even have the patience to count how many times I've accidentally dropped the book. Every time it slips out of my grasp, I usually pick it up as quickly as possible before some stranger's eyes judge me from my clumsy action. I didn't know social anxiety is with me in this journey to go back home. Earlier, that bastard wasn't with me when I was chatting with people. I thought I overcome this bastard a long, long time ago.

My anxiety is like being hooked up to a cattle fence-not enough voltage to kill, but sufficient enough to keep things uncomfortable. I guess that's the downside of knowing things are awry instead of living in a constant blissful ignorance. Curiosity gets the best of me, instead of thinking about the thing I'm doing right now, it wanders to question about my normality. How does other people live in a constant blissful ignorance? What does it like to not have any anxious feeling waiting for me around the corner? Usually anxiety isn't even there, but when it's there, it just literally greets my brain with "Honey, I'm home" every time when I least expected it.

I'm not even going to point out how I deal with my anxiety attack. That's just pure hell, especially trying to finish the 5-4-3-2-1 method. Five things I see around me: trees, cars, fucking people, birds in the sky, and the afternoon sun. Four things I can touch around me: the book in my hand, my phone in my pocket, my wallet, and my stressed-out hair because of what I'm doing. It would have been easier if I just mentioned my trusty notepad, but I was panicking trying to think of the things I can touch. Three things I can hear: the chitter-chatter of these strangers around me-part of me wants to eavesdrop, but I'm still busy doing this method-the thud sound whenever I take a step-does that even count?-and my strong heartbeat that feels like it's ready to jump out of my chest. Two things I can smell: fresh air, and my knowingly wits of my fear. I can definitely smell my own fear. I take a quick sniff to make sure that it is my fear that I'm smelling, and after a second, I can proudly conclude that it is my own fear that I'm smelling. Am I taking this seriously? No, but at least it makes me chuckle every now and again. Lastly, one thing I can taste: I can taste my inevitable feel of sorrow and fear as I get closer to my apartment.

Did the method work on me? No-maybe it's because I didn't take it seriously-but it did give me enough fear to feel a vomit building up inside of me.

Your honor, is it wrong to puke on the busy streets?

Does that count as littering? I don't know, I didn't study in law school to know the answers to these questions, but Google might help. Now, how do I do this? I have a book in one hand-it's slowly skipping out of my sweaty hand-then my phone is in my pocket. Is it worth to be seen by other people while I struggle with this problem I encounter now? Probably not. But am I committed to know the answer to my own questions? Yes, definitely. Actually, I think I have an idea how to do this.

I open the book and place it against my chest. It's an awkward sight to see across the streets, but I'm really committed at this point. I carefully snatch my phone in my pocket, then places it on the open-book against my chest. Now people strolling pass me would think I'm just reading instead of searching weird stuff on the internet. Plus, I'll have the excuse to why I always trip over. I place a hand under the book, spreading my fingers to balance it out perfectly, as my other hand type in the question I needed to know the answer to.