Disturbed Lincoln

1

Clyde recommended a book. Two days later, he lent me his copy of the book to borrow. I spent the past thirty minutes trying to read it but I simply can't. My eyes glance over a few sentences, but right in the middle of one, I'll realize that I'm not reading, but instead thinking about something completely irrelevant. My eyes move across the page with a mind of their own, while my thoughts proceed to spiral into an impertinent line of worry. My frustration grows in the form of tension that constricts the back of my neck. Now my neck is bothering me and I can't focus on anything but the tension. I'm getting even more stressed, so I give up and close the book.

It's like this daily, and that's not the worst of it. I fear pretty much everything, and the things I don't fear, I create for myself a reason to fear them. One example I can recount happened yesterday when I was looking out of my window. It was raining so terribly that it made everything beneath it look like a mist or a blur. While I was peeking out through the curtain, I saw a dark blob across the street from my house. It was still, so I assumed it was just a large rock or something else explainable. My perception changed quickly, however, when the distant shadow hastened out of view. It moved so quickly I mistook it for a spider crawling on the window I was looking out from, but placing my finger over it as it scooted off, I felt nothing but glass—evidence the thing was outside.

There was no wind blowing it to the side. I know because I briefly exited my home to see if I could spot the creature once again. Unfortunately, it seemed to have disappeared elsewhere, so I gave up—like I always do—and went upstairs to lay in bed. I was panicked that whole night, scared that whatever it was that dwelled outside would soon creep in and attack me. That kind of paranoia lies within me and is vicious. Anything can cause it to arise, and sometimes, I don't believe it has to be something real. It could be hallucinations, sure, though it wouldn't be paranoia if I didn't feel compelled to believe. As extreme or unusual a sight can be, it doesn't matter, because my mind is enticed by the anxiety.

I live with several sisters, all of whom are so unique. I don't know how personalities can differ so greatly although raised under the same roof by the same parents. It would make sense to have a goth, a fool, and a brainiac be the offspring of separate parents, but here our two parents raised us all, and by some mystery, we all turned out immensely different. After I pushed Clyde's book aside for another futile try later, my sister came up behind me. Her voice gave away her identity immediately. It was Lola, one of my youngest siblings.

"Whatcha reading?" she asked in a drawn-out singing voice. "Nothing now. Aren't you supposed to be at school?" She scoffed. "Aren't you?" I didn't feel like feeding into her sarcasm, so I replied factually. "I didn't feel well, so I didn't go. What's your excuse?" I asked her. "Oh, I don't have one. I snuck out of the car before they left. I have maybe thirty minutes until they notice. I'm using my time to play will Mr. Spots and Jumbo." She presented them both to me, lifting up two miniature horse figurines with stiff plastic hair. "Nice to meet you both," I said. She smiled and walked off, leaving me with my erratic thoughts. I tried drowning them out either a short prayer, but it only made them force their way into my conscience even harder. I can't stop thinking, and when I think for too long... it can be dangerous.

My mind—perhaps the general anxious mind as well—is always searching for a conclusion. Countless what-ifs lead you down a path that inevitably arrives at an undesirable dead end. Once you get to that dead end, your mind will refuse to turn back. Let's say you're terrified of getting sick. First, the path may begin with a sneeze. An innocuous thing to any average person, but to the easily perturbed mind, it rapidly jogs down the path to insanity. "I sneezed. Am I sick? What if I am sick? Do I have a fever? I feel a little warm, maybe I do have a fever. Am I going to throw up? Would people see me throw up? Would I be throwing up for days? Will it hurt? Will it stop? When's it going to happen?" As you can see, it's a game of leapfrog, where every jump lands on hotter and hotter coals.

This is how it is for me, daily, and not one family member of mind understands. The lucky ones have not had to deal with this for the past few years, and rather they get to enjoy going out with friends, partying, and binging their favorite series; and here I stand, helpless, only strong enough to live, and shaking just at the thought of it. That's when I heard the door slam closed. Wow, I was in so deep I didn't even hear it open. "Lola," my mom screamed, "get down here right NOW!" She sulked down the stairs petulantly, and as she passed me, she gave a mischievous grin. I rolled my eyes and they left, and the crackling of the gravel as the car drove down the driveway sharply pierced my ears. That sound of grating and scraping and rolling and knocking around echoed in my ears. Long after the sound hit me, it resided in the dark caves my ears bore entrance to. With every repeat, the noise got more and more distorted, until it didn't sound like gravel, but somebody's agonizing screams.