In Here

2004.

Steam creeps up the glass door of the shower until I am completely enclosed. The heat pours over my body like a warm embrace. It is so cold out there. In here is where I come to be alone and hide, not only from the world, but from myself. Some days are easier than others. Some days I can be rational and control my fear, reason with my anxiety, and conquer the panic. Today is not one of those days.

The drumming of the water against the shower wall becomes a distant drone, a quiet constant to remind me, I am still here. I don’t like to feel sorry for myself. I know I am fortunate, and I could be dealing with far more serious obstacles on a daily basis, but I can only tell myself to keep my chin up for so long. I need my break down time.

My therapist tells me that heat boosts serotonin levels. Maybe that’s why I feel safe in here. She also tells me to take deep breaths to help calm down. How am I supposed to do that when I don’t even feel like breathing? I’ve been told, by many people, that this is normal. That more people than I would expect suffer from phobias, and panic disorders. I guess that’s supposed to make me feel like I can get through this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

In side these plastic shower walls I’m allowed to be small, scared, and hopeless. My mother doesn’t have to see my tears, and I in turn don’t have to see hers. Years and years of my constant need for security, comfort and safety have left her weary and defeated. In here I don’t have to look at the medicine bottles. Little white capsules that my psychiatrist claims are filled with happiness and reason. The bottles scare me, am I not good enough on my own? I don’t like needing medicine to make me whole. He says they will help, so now I just have to wait.

I close my eyes and think of a simpler time. I remember from a high school psychology class that water, subconsciously reminds us of the womb, therefore of safety and comfort. With this in mind I slowly shift my weight to the side and lower myself onto the bottom of the bath. My cheek pressed against the cold plastic, I pull my knees up under my chin.

Holding myself in fetal position I let the warm water run down my body; surround me. I forget the world, while I try to forget myself. The temperature is slowly cooling, and I know soon the hot water will be gone. I pull tighter around my legs wondering how small I can become, and if I am so small, maybe everything else will seem smaller too.

Inevitably the cold breaks through telling me it’s time to pull myself up again. I stretch my hands over my head, and let the icy water bring me back to my senses. Breakdown time is over. I flip the shower control to off, and with the water, off go my self-pity, and feelings of hopelessness. I wipe away lost tears, take a deep breath, and lift my chin up.