Tonight's Poet Corner: A Note To My Latest Panic Attack

A Note To My Latest Panic Attack
by Belinda Roddie

A note to my latest panic attack that was
meant to be brief, but if brevity is the soul
of wit, then I sold every piece of it to the
Devil for deep breathing exercises and
cognitive behavioral therapy:

Dear P.A.
(can I call you P.A. for short?
I'm calling you P.A. for short) -
Damn, dude, where did you come
from? You think you could give me
a little more notice next time, maybe
alert me during an open hour so I can
pencil you in? Or is the scratch and
sniff of graphite more triggers for you?

Or does the mere thought of a text
reminder set your teeth on edge,
make the hairs on your arms stand up
ready for orders, twists your spine
into a Tesla coil, sending alternating
currents of dread and irrational sadness
signals through every taut and trembling nerve?
I didn't think you'd show up here: Uninvited,

as usual, sitting cross-legged on my chest,
unable or unwilling to take a seat beside me
and squeeze my hand as a warning. You stretched
every synapse between your fingers. Kneaded
them into numbed noodles like a baker handles
fondant. Strung them into a harp to strum as if
the notes would create a decent memory. And
you did this in the middle of the fucking

Gender Sexuality Alliance meeting. Seriously,
like I would actually want or need to have an anxiety
attack in a room in which I should feel safe enough
to wear my rainbows on my sleeves. To eat pride
like cake and brush my teeth with gender non-conformity.
To celebrate the fact that Lando Calrissian is for real
Shaquille O'Neal genderfluid because holy shit, I do not
get a whole lot of nerdy role models in my same
wheelhouse. This was not the place or time

for you to show up, my man. You should have hung
back, let me bask in the glow of so many colorful
pulses on a long, neon synthesizer spectrum. Instead,
you seized me by the collar, yanked me down the stairs
with a sweaty hand, and set me down hard on a worn
down swivel chair where all I could do was put my
head down and swallow the cold air from the open window.

Where so many students were talking. So many voices,
like needles, stabbing into my ears, when normally,
they are mallets, adding percussion to an old yet mellow
marimba that plays into my addled, musically mental mind.

It's hard enough as it is, P.A. The questions. The constant
knocks on my closed and locked door at lunch. The regret
that burns into me but simultaneously requests solitude,
when I could have an open area for kids who need to
see and speak with me someone who shares the same
shade of shadow. And my peers: Christ, the last thing I
needed after a chemistry lab exploded was another teacher
implying that your arrival signified selfishness. You make
me look selfish, P.A. You make me look stupid. Stupid.

Stupid.

So do me a favor: Send an email. Give me a call. Leave
a post-it note on my whiteboard, for God's sake. Just
don't strut into my workplace like you fucking own
the joint. I don't need you. I never need you. But I
especially don't require your shambling, shaking presence,
your nailbiting and your postulating, your what ifs and your
worst case scenarios - when I am in the middle of
trying to make a goddamn difference.