ANXIETY
The alarm starts to go off,
You think you know the code
But when you enter it in
The alarm gets louder.
And then you can feel it
Inside your head
Thrumming against your eardrums
It leaks into your heart
And and it's squeezing your lungs
And you can't breathe
So you begin to collapse into the fetal position,
But then it stops.
It stops and a voice asks if you're okay.
They then ask for your name and the verbal password.
You give your name, and explain that you don't have the password and why.
They disconnect
The alarm continues for what seems like an eternity,
But it's only ten minutes.
You fight with yourself
Not to start crying.
You don't go outside until your roommate gets home.
You drive to bring your husband his cellphone.
You get lost for the third time today,
And when you call the line he called you on, to tell him that you finally made it,
They say he went away, back to where he was.
You sit in the car and cry, because he could have at least told you
He could have called to tell you so you wouldn't keep getting lost.
Besides the fact that his absence is taking more of a toll on you than you thought it would,
This breaks your carefully constructed but flimsy
Front of strength.
Then you get a call.
Same number.
You answer.
It's him.
He'll be outside.
He comes to the car,
Comforts you,
Even though you can't properly explain what's wrong
Without the fear of sounding
Immature
Or
Needy
Or
Clingy
Or
Helpless.
You drive home.
You don't want to go drive again tomorrow,
But you want to see him
And you want to be there for him.
So you'll go,
But you have to wear his sweatshirt to bed,
And you have to make sure to fluff his pillow
And you have to make sure all his clothes are neat and folded.
Because if none of that happens,
You're a terrible wife
And he won't come home.
Even though he will come home,
But what if he doesn't?
The what-if's flood your brain,
And you can't stop shaking.