I’m at a loss. I don’t expect you to believe me. Writing this is a last ditch effort to connect with someone who may have experienced something similar. Besides, my writing feels easier to understand than when I start babbling out-loud. You’ll understand why I don’t feel like talking to my friends about this soon enough.
My therapist says I need to force myself to interact with people more. Exposure therapy or something. We started small. My homework was to invite friends over to my house one night. Simple enough, but I still wrote, deleted, and rewrote the text over and over. Finally, it was done. Two highschool friends I hadn’t seen in months, Lauren and Emily, were coming over on Friday.
Wednesday and Thursday were dreadful. That’s what anxiety does to you, it fills your mental space. My mind was uncharitable to itself. Thoughts like these dominated my internal monologue,
“What if I can’t think of anything to say?”
But I have severe anxiety, and to me that means that every little thing can trick me into believing it is the end of the world. So who could blame me when I already had a drink or two in me when they arrived? But Lauren and Emily and I go way back. Soon enough we were laughing at the time Lauren jumped off a bridge and into the mud. She got stuck and Emily stayed with her while I ran back to the garage and grabbed a rope. I will forever cherish the old memories I have of us running around our neighborhood when we were kids.
We were a few beers deep by the fire when my neighbor poked his head over the fence. It was not the first time he had done this, in fact it had become somewhat of a routine for him to come out and say “Hi” while I read in the backyard. In the lead up to tonight I had all but anticipated this happening.
That’s another thing anxiety does, in some twisted sense, it can make you feel ready. Whatever happens, you’ve already run every possible situation over and over again in your head. Our townhome shares a wall, after all. He had to have heard us.
So like a good neighbor, he offered us a tray of mixed drinks. I turned on a smile and agreed.
I took a glass from the tray, took a sip. It was marvelous. The ice was crushed to my favorite size and the flavor was tropical and multilayered. None of these thoughts came out of my mouth.
“Fruity!” I exclaimed. I cringed as I said it. My internal monologue started to punish me like always.
Fruity? Tone it down. You sound like a machine.
I was relieved to see him smile. He was pleased.
“It’s a strawberry daiquiri, I just got a new blender and wanted to try it out. Do your friends want some?” He asked.
I gestured for Lauren and Emily to join at the fence while purposefully maintaining a smile so as to signal, “Yes: this is safe”. We downed them right there, replaced our glasses on the tray as we swallowed brain freezes.
He was walking back towards the house, stopped, turned around.
“Hey, don’t let me intrude. I’m making gumbo, but the only way to make it was to make too much of it!” He paused and waited for us to laugh, so we did.
“Would you girls want to help me by eating some? You’d be doing me a favor..”
I was about to decline but as I opened my mouth Lauren had already blurted out in her typical ditsy way, “I LOVE GUMBO.”
It was decided. Out of my hands. We followed him through his screened-in porch and inside his house.
It was eccentric yet organized. Cozy and functional. There were plants I couldn’t name and loud pop art on the walls. It was clean. I noted drearily that the speaker sat on the counter along our shared wall.
He disappeared into the kitchen, promising to not be long.
Lauren, Emily and I found our place at the dining room table. It was already set for each of us.
Was he expecting other guests? Or laid down bowls expecting us?
What felt spontaneous moments before now took the shape of a planned event. But I’m a generally anxious person, and these types of thoughts are a constant monologue. If I’ve learned anything from therapy, you should label them head on. Identify, then reframe.
Sometimes your neighbor is friendly and leaves the table set all the time. Whatever. Don’t be paranoid.
He returned from the kitchen, suddenly suited in full hosting garb. Aproned, hands in oven mitts, and hoisting a cheese plate aloft. He set it down at the center of the table with a flourish.
Next he brought out the crock pot. The room was instantly filled with a steaming cajun aroma. We breathed in and gave compliments as he spooned heaping portions into each of our bowls. He served himself last and sat at the head of the table, by me.
He put his hands together and exclaimed, “Bon appetit!”
We looked at each other, stirred, and lifted steaming spoonfuls to our mouths. I could feel his eyes on us as we took our first bite.
Lauren’s face lit up, “this is so good!”
Conversation came more easily after we started eating. It was good, savory with lingering heat that had me reaching for the sweating glass of water.
Emily asked in a southern accent, “Did you grow up in Louisiana, because your gumbo tastes like it was made by a ‘N’awlins’ native”.
My neighbor laughed. I could feel second-hand embarrassment coming on from Emily’s attempt at the accent, and looked around the room for something else to talk about.
“I love your Jade plant! I had one of my own but my cat kept eating it and getting sick. I guess they’re toxic to cats.” I had heard the words, “I guess” come out of my mouth, even though I knew with one hundred percent certainty that the jade plant was toxic.
My neighbor replied, “Oh really? I didn’t know they were poisonous to cats. That’s a shame, but actually explains a lot! Humphrey is throwing up all the time, we’ve changed his food so many times I can’t even remember.”
“Yeah, it’s a shame but I had to get rid of mine.” I said.
“Well thanks for coming to my house and telling me I have to get rid of my favorite plant!!” He smiled and waited for us to laugh again.
We did so. I smiled nervously. I had messed up. A bedrock anxiety bloomed. Sweating. Chair uncomfortable. Steam from the bowl warmed my whole body, and I felt a flush come over my face. I laughed too loud to fill the dead air. My body began to feel lanky and embarrassing.
The FEAR of panic is more scary than the actual situation you are in. Breathe.
I didn’t mean to upset him. Stupid plant. Stupid cat. Why can’t I just leave my mouth shut?
It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re among friends. You’re going to be okay.
So I did what I always do: I prayed that someone else would start talking.
Mercifully, Lauren asked, “Your cat’s name is Humphrey? That’s adorable, is he hiding from us?”
I was no longer listening. I planted my feet flat on the floor. Wiggled my toes. Felt the calm start at the bottom, work its way slowly to the top.
The flat ground brings me back to earth. I hear my therapist in my head.
The genesis of calm is in your toes. Wiggle them.
Deep breath, in. Then out.
The calm is in your ankles now.
Flowing to your knees.
Thighs.
Waist.
Belly.
Chest.
Deep breath.
Shoulders.
Moving down your arms now.
Soon it will reach the end of your hands.
The ends of your fingers.
My neighbor asked me something I didn’t quite hear. He was looking right at me. I was in my own world.
“Sorry?”
“Can I see your ring? It’s so pretty”
He reached across the table, took my finger. Pulled it across the table towards himself. He inspected my ring closely. I could feel the heat of his exhale on my hand as he peered over his glasses. I’m uncomfortable, but too agreeable to escape. My main worry was about how clammy my hands probably were.
“It’s my mother’s ring, she left it to me when she…” I began to say.
My neighbor interjected. “So you’ve got a bit of a green thumb, is that right?”
What? Oh right , the stupid plant.
He was suddenly squeezing my hand a little too hard. He took my thumb and started to bend it backwards. Uncomfortability turned quickly to panic as pain lanced up my arm.
“Someone with a green thumb doesn’t need to wear RINGS. You’re going to get them dirty!”
“What are you doing? Stop!” I shouted.
He was using both hands to bend my thumb back. The pain was unreal. Excruciating. In slow motion, I looked to my friends in desperation.
“HE’S HURTING ME!”
Nothing. Nothing registered on either of my friend’s faces. To my horror, Lauren brought another spoonful of gumbo to her mouth. She was looking through me with glassy eyes. The room stood still.
I pulled back as hard as I could. I gritted my teeth, could have bitten my tongue clean off. Where were my friends? With blank faces they continued to eat.
“Or should I get rid of the cat and keep the plant, which would make you happier?” He growled.
A long spindle of drool slipped from the corner of his mouth and spread on to the table. The wire of saliva stayed attached to his mouth for a beat, thinner and thinner until it succumbed. My neighbor’s eyes are wide, determined. I’ve never seen him like this before. I’ve never seen anyone like this before. I realize through tears that he is waiting for me to respond.
“I DONT GIVE A SHIT WHAT YOU DO, LET ME GO.” I shouted.
He smiled from ear to ear, exposing food caught in yellow teeth.
“Are you enjoying your gumbo?”
My hand looked like a child’s in his. I hit my neighbor with my free hand, tried to wrestle my other hand from his grip, but he will not let go. I started slapping the top of the table loudly in an effort to get the attention of my friends. Nothing.
My neighbor is extremely concentrated on bending my thumb back as far as he can. I don’t know what I heard next. If I had to guess, it was something like, “Yes, this would do just fine….”
I’m in agony. I panicked. The only thing in my immediate cone of vision that could do damage was a fork. I grabbed it and started stabbing. I was surprised to see blood erupt from his skin as I stabbed him in the arm with my nondominant hand.
I’m released and jumped up immediately from my chair. I tried to take a step back, but it was blocked by a side table and couch. I knocked a lamp off the table behind me. It crashed to the floor. Glass shattered and the room went dark.
My friends suddenly registered me again, the spell seemingly broken.
“What are you doing !? Lauren or Emily had shouted.
Mortified faces looked to the fork in the ambient light from the kitchen. I gripped it like a weapon, outstretched and directed at my neighbor’s seat.
I’m hysterical. I’m screaming.
“He grabbed me! T-t-tried to break my thumb!”
My friends turned from me to the neighbor.
To my horror, his chair was empty.
No, not empty. He was bending under the table. His butt was still in his seat, I could see his belt and the top of his pants. I looked underneath the table and his face was staring up at me in the dark. His eyes were right between my legs. There was no way his face could have been in that spot while still sitting down. His neck had to have grown at least two feet when out of view of my friends.
This all happened very fast, but bear with me. He blinked vertically. Like his eyelids were angled on a Y axis instead of an X. This pierced my soul. I yelled, “FUCK THIS” and scrambled over the back of the couch.
If he had grabbed my leg…
My hand was on the doorknob when he reappeared in full. He tucked his napkin into his collar. Doing so made him look well-mannered, back to normal.
I had distance between us now, and inquired further.
“What the hell was that !?”
It seemed like he took forever to reply. “Sorry about that! I dropped your ring on the ground.”
He placed my ring on the table. I searched for blood where I had stabbed but saw none.
I’m stunned. Silent. My friends are bug eyed, waiting for me to explain myself.
“What’s wrong, did it hurt when I took it off? Sorry about that, maybe I don’t know my own strength. Here you go, I can’t be trusted with this any more” he smiled, beckoned for me to come closer. He sounded innocent, even charming.
I was too shocked to understand what was going on. I muttered something imperceptible, something like, “He was hurting me…” and probably trailed off. My mind was going a mile a minute. I took my eyes off my neighbor for one second to look at my friends.
Why didn’t they help me? There is no possible way that they didn’t notice.
I held my throbbing thumb in front of my eyes, as if to look for evidence to show them. He didn’t break the skin. My thumb hurts and is still tender, but there is no visible damage.
My fault?
I am still mad at myself for what I said next.
“I don’t know what just happened.”
Lauren and Emily stood up, bowls half-full, making excuses towards the exit. I don’t really remember what they said to get us out of there.
My heart pounded on the silent walk home. In my backyard a dead fire churned weak smoke. We entered my side of the house through the back door. My reflection in the mirror was unkempt. My hair was wild, I was sweating, my makeup ran with tears.
I couldn’t explain it. They didn’t see it. To them, I’m deranged. Guilty of breaking a lamp and not apologizing. Of ruining a perfectly good evening.
“You need to apologize.” Emily said.
“You need to not drink so much.” Lauren said.
“You guys seriously didn’t see that? He tried to break my thumb right in front of you!” I replied desperately.
“What are you talking about? He took off your ring, maybe that was kind of weird, but if it hurt you should have said something! Stand up for yourself, girl!” Lauren replied.
I steeled myself. Decided I needed to remain calm.
“He attacked me.” I said again. But my voice sounded weaker, colored with doubt.
I’m too scared to say what I’m thinking.
I’m being gaslit.
They left, making promises to “do it again soon”. After everything that had just happened, it still stung that they didn’t sound convinced.
After they left I closed all the blinds. Double checked that all the doors were locked. It felt like I could hear everything my neighbor was doing through the walls. He was doing dishes, going to the bathroom. I heard it all. I went through the house and covered all the vents with blankets. I was terrified that I was going to see a pair of eyes through the slats, like he was somehow going to be able to stretch his neck out so far that he could monitor me in any room through them.
Exhausted, I got into bed. My thumb throbbed under the sheets.
Like any night I spend socializing, I replayed the evening in my head over and over. At several points through the night I flinched thinking that I had heard my neighbor call out. I imagined that he would try to lure me to his side of the house with the supernatural voice of some mythic humanoid.
I feel like I didn’t sleep at all, but I must have, because I had a dream that I was sucking my thumb. I pulled it out and it had transformed into a cactus. Needles stabbed through my lips and cheeks, barbs pulling out like a fish hook and causing large gashes in my gums. The barbs didn’t hurt going into my mouth, but they were excruciating coming back out. This cycle continued until I looked down and before me was a bowl of green gumbo. What should have been an andouille sausage was instead a severed thumb. It rolled in the mixture among the celery, peppers and okra, the other side revealing my mother’s ring.
Morning now. I looked to the empty spot near the window where my jade plant used to be.
He doesn’t have a cat.
But again, my instinct is to go to the worst case scenario.
My friends didn’t care that I was being attacked.
Every little thing can convince you that it is the end of the world.
My neighbor probably wants to cook my fingers and use them to make gumbo. My friends are probably in on it.
That’s what anxiety does to you, it takes up your mental space.
We probably ate someone else’s fingers last night. He’s making a roux in preparation for mine as we speak.
I breathed in deeply, my therapist’s voice began to hypnotize me once again.
I planted my feet on the flat ground.
The genesis of calm is in your toes. Wiggle them.
Breathe in.
Your ankles.
Out.
No need to be paranoid.
Knees.
Thighs.
Waist.
Belly.
There has to be some sort of explanation?
Chest.
Shoulders. Down your arms to your hands.
The ends of your fingers.
“Can I see your ring?” My eyes bolted open to reveal an empty room and closed bedroom door.
I was alone.
I looked down to my hands, questioning reality. I burst out into fresh tears when I realized there was no ring on my finger.
It was still over there.
There is no way my therapist is going to believe this. Has anything like this ever happened to you?