Waving Not Drowning

And then, and then, and then- Heather stops to catch her breath. She starts choking on her own saliva pooling in the back of her throat. She stops and coughs violently, wheezes an intake of breath and tries to calm herself down.Whenever she gets worked up she loses the ability to speak in full sentences. Her hands start to shake and her feet get ice cold. She has a series of exercises she's supposed to do to quiet the noise and slow her brain down. Cognitive reprogramming, it's called. Her mom's obsessed with neuroplasticity, retraining the brain, so she makes Heather practice and practice and practice patterns and reactions so she can control her outbursts. She's a raw nerve; cries on a dime, becomes righteously indignant when the neighbour scolds her dog. It's too much. Heather's worn out, run down, depleted by the sheer effort required to exist. She feels everything full on, her dial goes up to 11 and then into overdrive. The other kids at school are freaked ...

How can someone be that ignorant? Beth is beside herself, shaking with fury, literally biting her tongue until she begins to taste that metallic sting of blood in the back of her throat. Thinking about things while standing in the checkout line, replaying the last three days over and over in her head, waiting to buy three new tea towels to replace the ones now burnt to a crisp along with a new mop head and three bottles of Lysol. This makes Beth shake and hum out loud, much to the disturbance of the woman ahead of her in line who shoulder checks with a look of curious irritation. Beth is wracking her brain- had Karen always been this filthy? When she stayed with her last year in Tahoe, Beth learned that Karen's idea of cleanliness was not on par with hers but then Karen flushed the toilet and took showers.  At least Beth thought so at the time. Karen's visit has turned Beth's apartment in a toxic waste zone. Twice Beth has had to clean her own toilet of crap sprayed all ove...

The crack has opened up again in the corner of her mouth. It comes out of nowhere, swells up and puffs out, splitting slightly every time she stretches her mouth wide, a nervous tic acquired as of late, a way to move the tension out of her face and head. Sela makes a face like a lion, or an oversized ventriloquist's dummy, mouth wide open, tongue protruding down her chin, eyes wild. Her tongue darts in and out of the crack, flicking at it, rolling back and forth over the swollen nub in the right corner, unconsiously, involuntarily like an iguana catching flies. It's stress, she knows this. Her body sends her warning signals then full on alarms. Can't sleep, can't eat, hair starts to fall out in clumps. It starts with her lips, though. This time she catches it early. Mainlines the vitamin C and zinc, magnesium to calm her nerves. Nag Champa burning in the living room. She shuts off her computer, turns off her phone. If she doesn't engage she can control her reaction,...