Drt (8 page)

I went up to one of the people sitting at the table and tapped him on the shoulder. He was white and wiry and wore a well combed-over slap of brown hair. “Can I sit down?”

The man contorted in his chair, motioning to the chairs that had their back to the wall. “Sure right over there. Are you here for Be Well?”
 

“Yes,” I said.
 

“Well, please sit down.”
 

“I'm Greg.”
 

“Tom, but we do the name thing all together in the beginning.”
 

“Okay.”
 

“Okay.”

I stood for an awkward moment, staring at Tom before walking around the table and squeezing myself in a chair between the wall and the table. I sat for a moment in an odd combination of calmness and claustrophobia.

The assembled group ate without acknowledging me. They smiled warmly when I met one of their gazes but none made any effort to introduce themselves.
 

A plump Hispanic woman descended the stairs and came toward the table. In her left hand was a spiral notebook with a pen shoved in the wire. In her right hand she carried a large red cup with a string hanging off the side of the cup that spun like a top. It made me think of a weather vane for some reason.
 

She sat down at the head of the table and steeped the bag a couple of times. She wore a dark long sleeve shirt and jeans; her hair gathered at the top of her head. Her face was a little round, but her eyes were dark and welcoming.
 

“I see we have a newcomer,” she said.
 

I nodded at her.
 

“And you're shy,” she said, rising from her chair. “It’s okay, we are all shy when we are around people that we don't know, but if you keep coming,” she put her hands on my shoulders. I felt all tension drop out of me, “you will know us all better and you will feel comfortable. What's your name?”

“Greg.”

“I'm Sylvia,” she said. She had a way about her. Sylvia’s voice and demeanor had a quality that was soothing and peaceful. In her presence I felt the muscles release in my back, I sat deeper in my chair, my feet flatter on the floor. She had the calm confidence that just made you relax and spread out. She was mesmerizing, comforting, and kept your rapt attention. She went back to her chair.
 

The people at the table exchanged smiles with me as a greeting and all said ‘Be Well’ but not in any discernible union. I had sat down only minutes ago, and maybe it was Sylvia’s calming spirit, but I felt like these people understood me. They understood my troubles like no one else had or would.
 

“I want to start out with this,” said Sylvia, smoothing the dog ears on her open notepad in front of her. “I am not a doctor, nor am I qualified to diagnose. I am however, a therapist. Just like you, I have had my problems with anxiety but I am here to help you. We are here to help you and we also hope you can help us, Greg. Your experiences are valuable to us and we thank you for joining us.”

“Thank you,” I said with an almost lump in my throat. “I would like that help.”
 

“You poor darling, you have had a very hard time, haven't you?”
 

“Yes.”

“This is where it starts getting better.”

The group made supportive noises. Various murmurs of ‘It’s okay’ or ‘I’ve been there’ congealed into a paste of platitudes.
 

“Thank you,” I said. I realized how long it had been since I slept.
 

“Well, Greg,” Silvia said. “Maybe we could go around the table and introduce ourselves. Katy let’s start with you.”
 

The group went around the table and said their names. Some even added their conditions like it was an Al Anon meeting. Some of them said depression, many said anxiety. When the group finished, Sylvia broadcast a smile to the table.
 

“Very good. Well, seeing as how we have our new person here, I think we should do some sharing today. Let’s talk about why we are here, what we are feeling. Then Greg, you can share with us.”
 

“That sounds great.”
 

“Tom, why don't you start? Talk about your experiences.”

Tom smoothed the strands of hair so that they lay more flat on his head. “Well, like I said my name's Tom and I have anxiety disorder. I lost my job last year. It came as a shock and I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t trust anything or anybody after that. I felt lost. One day I was at the grocery store and it hit me. I felt like my chest was collapsing in on itself. I couldn’t breathe and I felt like I was on fire. I was standing in the dairy section, but I felt like I was going to burn up, so I started taking my clothes off, first my coat and shoes and then my pants and my underwear. I was standing in the aisle, with a carton of eggs in my hand, as people started screaming and pointing. I realized what I had done, that I was standing there naked. I decided to try and pass it off. I kept shopping. For some reason I decided that if I just acted casually no one would notice. They did, of course, running at me with their maroon aprons and ties. They tackled me, detained me, and I was arrested when the police arrived.
 

I have to say, I feel so much better since I have been coming here. I meditate twice a day; I release a lot of stress by taking a jog. I have learned how to manage it so much better. I still have the attacks but they don't last long and they are not nearly as bad.” Tom stopped talking and just nodded awkwardly at the group.
 

The people at the table nodded, still eating. I nodded too and suddenly my own problems didn’t seem so bad. I felt like I could tell these people anything. I knew they would understand.

Sylvia nodded. “That was great, Tom. Grant, could you speak also?”
 

A muscular man with a skin tight white shirt answered to the name Grant. He shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. Hey, I was the last person that I thought would be going to meetings like this, but about two years ago,” his words ran somewhat together. He sounded like he said bouttooyearsago. “I found my girl in bed with a friend of mine. Just walked into my fuckin’ house and found a friend of mine fuckin’ my girl in my bed. I was just about to knock that fuckin’ asshole out but my girl stopped me and tried to calm me down. She was there naked and rubbing my shoulders and she said that I should join them. I wanted to slap that bitch for even fuckin’ saying it but the fuckin’ shoulder rub felt so good. So anyways, I did, and we are all now in the bed, fuckin’ and stuff. So my buddy starts rubbin’ my back and shit, and then I’m like ‘what the fuck, I ain’t gay you fuckin’ faggot’. So I says to him get your fuckin’ hands off me or I’m gonna punch you in the fuckin’ eye, right? But he says I should just go with it, and I’m like no fuckin’ way, no fuckin’ way. But anyways, he’s fuckin’ me in the ass and I’m like not okay with this, but I’m pushing back and shit, trying to prove to this asshole I ain’t gay, and he and I start meeting up on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and I’m still trying to tell this motherfucker I ain’t gay, but he’s insisting on all this fucking shit, I realize that he’s got some kind of faggot spell on me, like he’s got me in some fuckin’ trance and it’s giving me anxiety and shit. So I started coming here, and now I can control the anxiety and I don’t have the problem with that asshole anymore.”
 

The people in the group kept eating, some nodded without looking up from their food.
 

“I never get tired of that story,” said Tom.

“Thanks for telling us that again, Grant,” said Sylvia, “very generous.”

After hearing that, and seeing no reaction from the group, I knew I was home. I could be honest.

“Greg,” said Sylvia, “are you feeling comfortable enough that you want to share with us. Tell us what brought you here?”
 

“I’m a murderer.”

The group immediately stopped eating and stared. A couple of people dropped their chopsticks on their plates. The woman close to me held her spiderweb of rice noodles between her sticks, it hovered in front her mouth without any sign of going in. I realized I had misspoke.
 

“Wait, no. I’m not a murderer. I said that wrong.”

A few of them relaxed.

“I killed a man…um…I killed a man…with…”

Sylvia spoke up. “Well, Greg, why don’t you tell us the story so we can understand what you mean?”
 

“I killed a man with my negligence.”

“So you feel responsible for an accident?”

“Yes.”

“What did you do, Greg?”

“I work as a traffic reporter and I didn’t tell a man about a car in his way. He died because I wasn’t doing my job.”

A couple of people’s hands went to their mouths.
 

Tom held up a hand. “Was it a bad crash?”

“Well, someone died, but it wasn’t the worst I have ever seen. The really bad ones are when people are trapped in a burning car. That’s the worst. The firefighters can’t even break you out of the car. If they break the window, oxygen will rush into the car and the explosion could risk everyone around. They just have to wait. The people who drive around the scene say they can’t forget the sound of hands slapping against the windows of the burning car for at least a couple of weeks after that.”

I looked up from the table. All of them had their mouths hanging open. One person had left.
 

Sylvia cleared her throat, “So…um…you have been feeling anxiety…since this crash you feel responsible for?”

“I always feel anxiety but now I see the ghost of the driver. He appears to me covered in blood with chunks of meat missing from him. He appears standing in a large pool of blood and screams at me. He says that I was responsible for what happened to him.”

I looked up again. Half of the group was gone. Tom was getting up from his chair. “That’s really too bad, Greg,” he said as he threw a few dollars down on the table and hurried away.
 

The few group members that were still there stared at me for a few seconds more before also getting up and walking out. Only Sylvia remained at the table and she was writing something down. She tore a paper from her notebook and handed it to me.
 

“You need one on one help,” she said, “call me at this number.” The she left too. I sat alone again but this time at the table that was supposed to be the light at the end of the tunnel.

I sat dazed. I had never felt so abandoned.

11

Well that didn't work at all. The Metro train wobbled side to side with its high speed. The lights in the tunnel screamed and streaked though the windows. The speakers bubbled with announcements of the next station. I didn’t really register any of it.
 

I sat on the bench seat utterly defeated. The dangling rope from the helicopter that would pull me to safety turned out to not be strong enough to support my weight. I was alone, the meeting and this solitary ride home confirmed it.

I had looked for hope and only found empty chairs and the retreating backs of people whom I had turned to for help. ‘Be Well’ had done nothing to release me from my prison. The train felt like a conveyor belt, destined for the metal teethed gears.
 

The train rushed forward underground. Then, it was outside. The sun was still burning in the sky, and the world beneath was hot as murder.
 

There would be no relief. There was no hope. No light at the end of the tunnel. No prayer that the end of this torture was in sight. The doors around had closed. Buried alive and I had just come to terms with the uselessness of beating on the coffin.

I was tired of feeling this way, about the ghost, about my entire life, and I reached out for help. The world had offered its full throated rejection in return. Not the theoretical rejection that had been as constant as my shadow. This was the real stuff. I reached out for help and the answer was no. The fact that this had happened in a group of people only reinforced that the rejection was personal.
 

The train squealed to a stop at the Vienna station and I sat motionless. The Metro official shook my shoulder to break the trance. “End of the line, sir.”
 

I gathered my feet beneath me and sauntered out of the car. The rays of the sun attacked the bare skin at the top of my head. I felt my skin roasting, drying and peeling in the radioactive breeze. I stepped off the train and walked toward the concrete steps that would carry me to the parking below. I fished the fold of paper from my pocket and thumbed it open. The name ‘Sylvia Barrio’ was scrawled with a series of numbers beneath it. I bunched the paper into a ball and bent my elbow to toss it in the trash.

I stood on the platform a moment, with my arm crooked like a child making a shadow swan on the wall. I was frozen with indecision. I had faced my fears but the rejection I received ate at me inside like an aggressive form of cancer. Should I stick my neck out again, only to risk further injury? You hide inside yourself as a form of protection. To protect yourself from precisely what happened at ‘Be Well’. If you have information about me, you can hurt me. Did I really want to expose myself to that again? I put my hand and the paper in my pocket. I decided to hang onto it. It was the only hope I had left, and it felt a little early to kick out the stool.
 

I twirled the wheel out of the parking garage and toward I-66 West. I got on the on-ramp and sat. The line of cars ahead of me sat stubbornly attempting to join the larger traffic that would take me in the direction of home.
 

Of course I thought about suicide back then. It would be a stretch to suggest that I ever stopped thinking about suicide. But only occasionally I would enter the planning stages. That was for the especially bad days. Today was one of those days.
 

The cars inched down I-66 before finally starting to loosen. I hurdled the car toward home, found the street and within two turns was there. The neighborhood buzzed with Sunday afternoon activity. There were children playing in yards. Fathers gathered in garages away from their wives to compare stories of their virile past. Families congregated in back yards where the smoke from grills lifted lazy into the sky.