I recall a certain project in middle school where we were assigned to create a book (composition book decorated to look like a real book) and fill it with stories and poetry. This was a time in which I was obsessed with the Twilight series so you can bet that photos of Edward Cullen were glued to the cover. Though also scenes from classic films such as Gentlemen Prefer Blondes being pasted on the back as well. I swear this movie is not why I went blonde.. I think. This book would then be a tool of learning and creativity. Writing was not something I had explored very much in my childhood. I went straight for the make-believe full on productions with my sister instead. Why not act it out instead of just writing about what things could be.
So, I followed the assignment and began adding in miniature poems following new techniques we would learn each day. A slide rhyme?? You can rhyme a word that doesn’t exactly rhyme but almost? How does that work?? A slant?? Okay now we’re getting crazy. Is this allowed? What? You want me to draw my poem? And bend the words all over the page? How does that make any sense. But, I soon grew to love it. I remember one poem I wrote called “Emerald Green.” I don’t remember much, but something about writing that one poem stuck with me. I felt like I created something good. This was what real poems are like. It was almost freeing.
Since then, I would occasionally jot down ideas, well more like pad down into my notes app, for poem ideas. I stopped for some time, simply because it wasn’t something I could use for anything I thought. They were just words on a page no one would ever read. Which may be a comforting thing for some people. But to me it just felt pointless. Until the events of my previous post occurred. I contracted as sudden anxiety disorder and had to find way to distract myself. I was going into my final semester of college in a mere few weeks, how would I get through this?
The very first class on my very last first day of school, was creative writing. But to get there, I had to get on a packed elevator. This had never been an issue for me ever in the past. This is coming from someone who would hide in half sized lockers in high school and pop out and surprise my friends. So, tight spaces were not an issue for me. I finally arrived after making all the “local” stops on the elevator and was released. Our very first assignment was to write a story about our journey to school that day. I nearly broke down writing about it then and there. Here is the final version of the story I wrote:
My last first day of class. Ever. Providing I am happily placed in a comfortable job somewhere located in the Financial District and have a lovely one bedroom place of my own located not too far from my workplace. Because clearly I have issues with estimating how long it actually takes me to walk to the train and due to the imaginary mystical 6 train that can have me anywhere in 5 to 10 minutes. I was running late. I arrived on campus with 10 minutes to go in order to find a never explored area of the west building. I already planned out my route to the elevators which would take me up to the sixteenth floor, but never imagined the mental journey it would take me on. A woman with a cart of boxes was the goalie waiting for both elevators, claiming with her body that whichever one showed up first was rightfully her’s. A few other students, eager to arrive to their first class on time, casually walked in front of me pretending to not understand my box cart friend’s rule of cutting in elevator lines.
The minutes rolled by and my new found anxiety started making its way in brief waves of heat down my neck to the middle of my back. My last first class and I already am setting up the end of my college career for failure. 11:08. Two minutes until class. Then finally, an elevator arrived. We piled on, box cart goalie first, and made our way to the many floors to follow. There were only 5 of us to start. Not bad. Then as each floor ticked away, another few would cram on. One crammer decided that the boxes on my goalie friend’s cart made a nice resting place for her to text her friends. She didn’t even notice the goalie’s sheer aggravation. As each new body squished onto the elevator a tenseness in my throat grew tighter. I recalled the breathing exercises my mother showed me during my first panic attack just a mere three weeks ago. Pull a deep breath in and blow it out. The girl to my left glared briefly at me while I swiftly exhaled. It’s all going to be fine. We’re at the tenth floor already. Only the tenth floor? It’s fine. I swallowed hard.
I was quickly regretting my shirt choice for the day. Light colored, absorbent, and thin. The heat rose with the elevator. I couldn’t even distract myself with playful puppies on Instagram due to my not being able to move my arms in this sardine can. We rattled around until the fourteenth floor and released a few of our prisoners. By the sixteenth floor only three of us remained and I could make my escape to freedom. Only then to make my way down the hall and open the door to a 10’ x 12’ conference room with every seat filled making extra chairs crammed around the walls necessary.
What a year this will be.
Sophia Canfield 