Don't Dare Panic

I get up this morning and go take a morning piss. It's just five after Six. No one is up except for John. His bed is empty. I wander into the bathroom, take a leak, then wander back into the dorm. I sit on the edge of my bed. I'm not sleepy. I know what it is that I must do. I make the bed, powder my balls, put antiperspirant under my arms. I pack my gear, sling it on my back and wait for Seven O'clock. Seven O'clock, when I'm allowed to leave the premises. It came none too soon, and in moments I was on my way to Starbucks.

The sun had just begun lighting the day. Outside the streets were blocked off by the police to make way for the mile long block party. Lafayette street was completely devoid of vehicle traffic. I walked over to the Broadway Starbucks, right around the corner and down the block. Not far. But upon arriving, I found it to be closed, with several patrons standing outside waiting for the doors to open.

New York in the early morning is another city altogether. It is pristine, empty, clean and silent. I like New York a little like this. I love its hustle and bustle better. The doors of the Starbucks open and we all file in. I order a sensible breakfast, coffee and an apple fritter. I find a seat in the corner. A most unique seat, because I can position it away from prying eyes, almost putting my back into the corner and facing the laptop the other way. Of course you know what this was for. Working on my porn reviews. I loaded in the movie and started watching. All of the precautions that I had too was, in fact, for nothing because the Starbucks remained empty through my entire two reviews.

But below the surface, beneath the skin, there was a restlessness in my soul. The walls to the Starbucks felt as if they were closing in on me. I was slowly drowning in my seat. Now I know what this is. It's an anxiety attack. A mild one. My breathing became labored, coming in short gulps, which make you lightheaded quickly. I was on the verge of forcing my fist into my mouth to keep from screaming. But instead, I fell back on my training from Dr. D, the relaxation techniques. I stretched my legs fully, sat back in my seat, closed my eyes and began to relax. By degrees I did, calming down enough to sit up and begin packing my gear. I blame that panic attack on skipping my LAMICTAL during the overnight. I know that one has absolutely nothing to do with the other, but what the fuck! I'd rather live under the impression that I am doing something about them, and that I'm not just a victim of these attacks.

I played with the unsettling thoughts that were in my mind just before the attack, and what might have triggered it off. I was thinking of five years from now. What in God's name will I be doing five years from now? Will I still be out in the streets? Still be in the fucking Box, waiting for them to find adequate housing for me? Will living in a Starbucks be the lot or the rest of my life? I doubt my course of actions now. I think that the promises that I have made to myself are all lies.

I go into the Box to get my meds, and the light kit for the SHOUT OUT and then head back out. Saturdays are pretty depressing in the Box. You have scores of men with nothing to do, since there are no 'programs' for many of them to go to. So they lie fallow in the beds, sleeping late, lounging around during the day, watching movies on mini -DVD players, or in the rec area. They are aimless wastrels. The offscouring of society. They are one rung above skeksis, and they know it. That's why I'm so grateful for the SHOUT OUT. It gives me something to get busy for. On a Saturday, I am not the living dead. I'm glad for that.

This kind of living, this kind of existence is like having a mouthful of Ashes.

It's like dying slowly.

It's NOT for me.

Hobobob