Pushing an elephant up the stairs.

I arrived at work early this morning. Like, 45 minutes early. I should be concerned. Something's wrong. I couldn't sleep. I dressed better than usual. I woke up this morning worrying about money, worrying about Ash, worrying about Crocker, worrying about getting the gift wrapped for Mike's birthday today. Then, I realized I've not taken my anti-obsessive medication Luvox since, I think, Friday because I haven't changed pharmacies since I moved from Buford and ran out a couple days ago. I begin calling people too much, not able to focus, not able to think straight. I get antsy, panicked. I become rude. I shouldn't, shouldn't, shouldn't ever get into this condition. I start listing in my head all the things that I've bought recently, wondering the last time I checked the American Express website and wondering, as well, why my savings has gone down, even though I know who put the money in it and who transferred it out of it and how much it did it.

The first time one of these waves hit me was in sixth grade, and I didn't even realize what it was then. (Maybe it wasn't sixth grade. Whenever I remember something bad, I say it happened when I was in sixth grade because that was the year Jerry moved in with my mother and that was the year that I told her not to marry him, which she did after talking to me about it. I remember telling her that. She doesn't remember talking about it.)

Anyway, the first time one of these hit me was in sixth grade. Before going to sleep one night, a school night, I began screaming and crying in my room for no reason, worrying about the "future." How it wasn't certain. How it could be equally met with success and failure. How nothing was guaranteed. I was crying and crying, and my mother tried to hug me, and I yelled at her. Jerry was living there, for I remember him asking her why I was so worked up.

"He's hysterical," my mother said. "I can't tell why. Something about the future."

Just because bad things had happened, my disability and my parents' divorce, it didn't mean that the bad things were done happening. My mother wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, and she worries about money. My mother wakes up at 4 a.m. sometimes, not able to get back to sleep because something, some intangible something that she can do nothing about at the point when she was worrying about it, was on her mind, trying to keep her from peace.

I was thinking like this, thinking of everything and anything that could be the matter or could ever be the matter. Because I was disabled, it didn't mean that I wasn't going to have to work. It didn't mean that I could just coast along on being the cute one or the smart one or the one who knew all the state capitols. It wasn't going to be easy. Not everyone liked me or was even going to like me, as I'd thought. Success wasn't guaranteed. Worry was necessary. Work was needed. Pain was coming. Disappointment was a possibility. Innocence was lost.

I was in the sixth grade when I had my first panic attack. And I cried about it to my mother, who couldn't figure out what was wrong.

The world changed. My view of it changed. And I was crying. And I couldn't tell anyone what was wrong.