Written with Love

07 Turbulence

Annie 

Turns out the movie was a student film. Something black and white, and artsy -- full of heavy, empty silence. There was clearly a greater meaning I was meant to be taking away from it -- or something about the camera angles that Sasha was going to want to unpack after -- so I tried to be a good friend and pay attention. I really did try. 

But I could feel Noah's body next to me. The solidness of it. The heat of his hand resting an inch from mine, the rhythm of his breathing, the bounce of his knee, nearly vibrating with restless energy in the corner of my vision. I'd never had such compassion for a knee before. 

Not to mention the silence. 

I was a girl who loved silence. Or, at least, felt comforted by it. Silence held no expectations, no judgments, none of the fluttery, unstable, feeling that always came with conversation. 

This silence though? Too much. I could hear Noah breathing, so of course he could hear me too. Every shift of my weight, or recross of my ankles, or deep, steadying breath caused a tight feeling in my chest. Like I couldn't quite breathe all the way. Which of course made me want to breathe more. Which of course he could hear. Not like he was listening. But his presence threw me off, left me feeling more exposed than I wanted. As if by just hearing my breath he was learning something about me I didn't want to share. 

The numbness started in my fingers. I'd taken my coat off, but was sweating anyway. The actress on screen was watching herself in a bathroom mirror, mouth contorted in a silent scream, skin slick with falling tears. A wave of heaviness washed over me, and I tried to take a breath. I really did try. But it wasn't deep enough. I need to- 

I stumbled up from my seat. Or it felt like stumbling. I felt Noah's eyes on me. Heard the tail end of Sasha's whispered question. 

"...okay?" 

"Bathroom." I whispered back, hoping I sounded okay enough. I knew, cognitively, that talking meant I wasn't really dying -- you can't talk if you can't breathe -- but the less than rational part of my brain had only one word on loop: out, out, out. I need to get out. 

I hadn't been lying to Sasha, I did head for the bathroom. It was one of those single room ones, and I immediately locked the door and slumped back against it. Breathing in for four long beats, breathing out for six. Lengthening my exhales, just like I learned from Donna, my therapist between the ages of 13 and 16.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, narrowing the field of my vision. But I was breathing. In for four, out for six. I could feel my feet, curled my toes within my sneakers, tapped my fingers against my arm, trying to regain feeling. 

After what felt like forever, but probably wasn't longer than a few minutes, the warmth gradually melted away. In for four, out for six. 

My parents had called it "being shy" growing up, and I didn't blame them. I'm sure that was some of it. The way I avoided big family gatherings, hiding away in my room, far from the scrutiny of prying aunts and uncles. The way I was never the first to talk in groups, never wanted to do the loud, overwhelming activities Will seemed so entertained by, always clung a little too tightly to them in social settings. 

It wasn't until eight grade, when they realized I wasn't growing out of it, that they took me to see someone. Donna taught me how to deal with the tightness when it came, to challenge the feeling of inevitable doom that had been my companion growing up, and, in general, helped me breath a little steadier.

It had been her that encouraged me to writing my feelings out, giving more oxygen to the spark that was already burning inside me, turning it to fire.