Introspection: a red splat in cornflower blue.

Or, how I almost became one at the age of 14. After about nine months of agony I managed to pass off as normal angst in 8th grade it came blowing way out of proportion when I graduated. Days before graduation I tore up my hands clawing at a wall and my desk in a desperate bid to keep myself attached to reality. I slipped into a flashback that kept me still and frozen, locked into place by horror. When reality set back in, I shook. It was like I'd been punched in the face, stomach, and golf-clubbed again. My fingers bled. The nails were ragged.

My summer should have been spent working and relaxing. While I did work, I didn't relax at all.

Days after graduating, a strange, new, and horrifying feeling took over.

I was going to die. How, I didn't know, but I knew it would be imminent. I didn't know what I had had a name of its own, but I knew that it was the most out-of-touch I'd ever been with the world. When I was normal I knew that I was safe, but when I felt I was going to die, no one could convince me otherwise.

Through the panic attacks and manifestations of PTSD I managed to maintain a somewhat stable facade. I managed to think of all kinds of excuses to stay around the house, which was the only truly safe place. But excuse after excuse wore thin and I would get dragged out to grocery shop, clothes shop, car shop, and to just get me out of the house. I hated these excursions. I hated the shower curtains, the clothes that still hung on me (I'd lost 20 pounds due to being sick), the stupid dealerships and the cars and the bags of lettuce and dressings.

All I wanted to do was stay alive.

When the first attack hit at work I almost jumped out of a window. While displaying my ever-so-stable face I shut myself in the bathroom. As my heart raced and the building seemed to crumble around me I filled the sink with water. Taking only the time to whip off my eyeglasses I plunged my head into the basin. It always worked in the movies, right?

I'd forgotten about the body's shock response. My hair flipped water all over the tiles, the ugly flocked wallpaper and the stupid matching towels. I couldn't go back to the office like this. My whole ruse would come tumbling down. And I couldn't let it - how good I looked in my little cornflower blue buttondown, cuffs turned up ever-so-slightly with the little-bit-big black jeans (negative sizes don't exist) and the everpresent black shoes. Not a hair out of place. Brand-new black eyeglasses. Earrings all lined up.

So I opened the window. It took some forcing. When I'd finally raised it enough to permit the passage of a body I perched up on the sill, anchored by my bony hands gripping the window and my rubber soles hanging on for dear life. If I could safely fall I could run out of the alley and into the street and away from death. I could feel my thin shoulderblades poking at the shirt, straining to break free. I saw myself hitting the alley below like James Bond and making my getaway.

I also saw a meaty splat in a cornflower blue shirt. I looked down and my stomach dropped. With an inward cry I fell back into the bathroom. I waited for death but it never came.

Throughout the summer I tried to subvert the panic attacks. I stopped reading the newspapers. I ceased listening to the radio. I shunned the New York Times magazine that I'd been reading since I was 12. Even the end piece - my favorite part. I even stopped watching the Ten O'Clock News with Dennis Richmond, a nightly tradition ever since I'd been young. It would be difficult to give up, but by removing triggers I could guarantee safety.

Yet somewhere, there was always a radio turned too loud. A newspaper headline staring up at me from the gutter.

The attacks would come more often. They'd last longer. I'd try to escape them. I would run. There was one day when I almost ended up in the windshield of a brand-new Mercedes. Another day I ran all through San Francisco, depositing myself by the Bay Bridge. But I had outsmarted death. I had survived for the day.

I don't think I've ever feared for my life in any situation more than I have in those four months of hell.

Eventually I couldn't take it any more. After running all over San Francisco and having strangers feel the need to check my arms for track marks and comment on my weight and getting tired of trying to outsmart death, I couldn't take it any more. I got help for what had been troubling me, though sometimes I think the lady was more interested in telling me about the plight of the girls my age in the Albany school district. She was surprised about the physical scraps I'd been in and how my friends and never spread rumors and how I'd never been reduced to a sobbing heap over something someone said about my manner of dress. Not many 14 year old girls showed a prediliction for open buttondowns over tank tops. She told me about Tony Soprano and how he told his therapist what she wanted to hear - not exactly lying, but not telling the whole truth either. Maybe she gave me ideas, but I really think everyone does that when they're uncomfortable.

Four years later, I'm about to graduate high school and I'm doing well. Bumps were hit along the way, but that's life. My nails have long since grown out and scars have long since flattened and healed, but it will always be with me. Since I lost my job I don't wear my cornflower blue shirt that much, but sometimes I take it out and look at it and feel sad, but triumphant.

Some days I still wonder if death is waiting for me behind a light pole, but for now, I've kept on walking.

Done