Something That Happened.

I finished my prior post with the phrase, "Pills, thrills, and bellyaches." Well, I don't want anyone to read too much into that one; it just came to me as I was finishing off the post. It's actually the title of an album by the Happy Mondays, and unlike those infamously intoxicated blokes, I'm not a regular pill-popper; I only ingest the lowest dose of Tafil (Mexican Xanax) whenever I'm feeling particularly anxiety-ridden, such as when my heart begins its revolt, jumping out of my chest and compelling me to lay down in order to restore my composure. During those moments, which often stretch into minutes or hours, I find the only way to gain relaxation is through exercise, meditation, masturbation, or sleep. Yet these aren't always readily available options - for example, when one is riding a crowded bus in L.A. on a swelteringly hot day in August on the way to a Check Cashing place in a scary neighborhood, all the while accompanied by someone you love who is very ill (who has a disease of the brain, in fact, an illness which confuses its bearer, rendering her hopelessly challenged by all conflicts, great and small) and who couldn't be expected to understand your anxiety since you don't understand it yourself - under these circumstances, one can not be expected to quench anxieties' appetite through sleep, meditation, exercise, or other. There is no place to sleep on a bus in which one is standing for lack of seats; any attempts at the silence of meditation are disturbed by the jostling of passengers and the turbulent, noisy progression of the bus. Exercise is futile: beyond the meaningless stretch, there is no hope for exercise in a space occupied by three but intended to provide room for one; I don't believe I have to provide explanation for the challenges of onerism on a crowded bus.

So you escape the bus and all the stares and whispers of its passengers ("Look at that guy..." "...clutching his chest..." "...heart attack or something..."), and find yourself sprawled on the sidewalk near the corner of Venice and Sepulveda, the heat aggravating your anxiety, your heart quickening as you lay your head in the shade - that tiny area of darkness under a bush, rare to find in a business district at noon. Your companion asks what's wrong, her awareness of your condition escalating from fear to terror, you replying that you just need a moment's rest, a moment to breathe and relax, yet your companion doesn't let you relax, she doesn't understand, she's terrified and thinks you're having a heart attack, and you can barely speak enough to explain the situation for each word steals away more of that much-needed oxygen, and it wouldn't matter if you could speak anyway because she still wouldn't understand and chances are it would confuse the situation even more. Salespeople from a nearby car dealership approach and inquire, and you try to explain that you'll be fine, you're probably having a panic attack or something, but they insist on calling 911, and before you can protest they have gone to make the call, and you feel ridiculous and scared at the same time, managing to gather yourself enough to rise and follow them into the dealership to stop them from making the call but it's too late, the ambulance is on its way, you'll be hearing sirens soon. A month or two later, after another few attacks, you find yourself driving to T.J. one afternoon with your companion, explaining that you are going on a little road trip. You've brought your girlfriend along for moral support, and the three of you walk through the maze of gates and succumb to a restaurant barker who encourages you to buy tacos and cervezas, and you walk past a guard into a pharmacy where your girlfriend negotiates with the clerk in spanish while you keep your eye on the guard, wondering whether he'll make a move, and a phone call is made to a pager, and a doctor arrives, leading you to a building down the street for a consultation in a small, dark room above a restaurant.