My day began with a flashback. It caught me unaware, arriving moments after opening my eyes. I had been fighting flashbacks on and off for about a week. Using my coping skills, I felt I had won this battle and headed off to work – tired, sleep-deprived, hopeful.
I arrived at my desk, chucked my jacket and gear bag onto the chair next to my desk, sat down and logged into my computer. A dull cacophony filled the air. I ignored it and opened up several programs I needed for my daily work.
I checked the “news” email. It’s the main email the public uses to send press releases and other items to the paper. It’s my responsibility to forward the emails to the right reporter. Forward to Jerry. Forward to Jerry. Forward to Jerry. Delete spam. Forward to Lauren. Forward to Jerry. Forward to Spike. Delete spam. Forward to Jerry. Forward to Jerry. Delete spam.
Jerry receives a lot of forwarded emails this time of year. He organizes Family Album, which means a lot of emails about graduations and honors. Forward to Jerry. Forward to Jerry.
The song started playing. It was coming from somewhere in the ad department, which is to the left and forward left of my desk. The folks over there were playing a lot of music today. It’s not supposed to be allowed, but it happens anyway. It’s distracting to all the reporters. Someone was playing that song.
I tried to ignore it. I yelled across the office for people to turn the music off. I was ignored.
The music kept playing. The lyrics from the song repeated in my head.
To an outside observer, I may have looked like I was spacing off and not working, but there was a battle raging inside my head.
I’ve learned over the years to keep as much of the battle as I can inside of me, lest anyone think I am crazier than I feel at the moment the flashbacks occur.
A mélange of headlines from new laws passed in Alabama and other states ran in bold print in front of my eyes. Certain words were larger than others. “No exceptions for rape or incest. Jail time.” I closed my eyes to make them go away. I ended up in 1984.
I was fourteen again, sitting alone in a hospital room. That song was one of several I had to keep me company. The days in the hospital flashed by. Each piece of a larger trauma replayed itself in vivid detail. “You’re not really here,” I told myself. I repeated the words to myself several times.
I looked down. The cassette player was not in my hand. My left hand was resting on the keyboard at work, my right hand on the mouse. I shifted back and forth between now and 1984. I kept telling myself to click the mouse.
It must have been ten, maybe fifteen minutes, I don’t honestly know, before I composed myself. I stood up from my chair and looked at my colleague Lauren. “I can’t be here. I have to go. I have to go to my car.”
My editor walked out of his office and said, “All right. Let’s meet.” It was already 9 a.m. I had been at work for an hour and had done no work. I already had my coat on and my bag slung over my right shoulder. I looked at Lauren and said, “I need to go.”
We all walked into the conference room for our daily meeting. I provided the information about the article I was going to write. I didn’t hear anything anyone else had to say. I stared at my pen and spun it around on the table.
When the meeting was over, I walked over to the whiteboard and moved the magnet signifying “in” next to my name and moved it to “returning at 11 a.m.,” before also writing, “in my car.”
Cars can be a problematic place for me and I have laundry list of things to perform in my mind before getting into one. As I got into the passenger seat and closed the door, I took a deep breath and locked the doors. I was safe and comfortable.
Some focus and functionality returned to my brain. I removed the Star-Herald iPad #3 from my bag, opened my notes, and started typing the article in the hope of meeting deadline. The song kept creeping back in, but I shook it off. With no office distractions, my focus was on the work that needed to be done.
About an hour later, I took a break and snapped a picture of where I was sitting to send via text to a friend. I’m not good at asking for help. Most days I’m not even sure how.
Her office is across the street from mine. She offered a chair for me to work. She has extended the offer before. I insisted the chilly air and drizzling rain are not a deterrent for me and tried to get back to work.
My cell phone rang. The message upended my day. Today, I needed my schedule to remain as it was planned. I tried to remain composed and return to my work. Instead, I screamed, “Fuuuuuuuck!” I wanted to punch something, but didn’t want to break my stuff. I took a deep breath and grabbed my phone. My friend’s offer was still open.
Her office is always quiet. I got back to work on my article and she continued with her work. When the article was done, I emailed it to myself at work. My friend was still working. I sat in her chair and silently cried.
I looked down at my hands in my lap. A tear fell on the lens of my glasses and hovered a few moments before it dropped onto my arm.
I waited as long as possible before I took a tissue out of the box on my friend’s desk. My options were limited – drip snot all over myself or get a tissue and blow my nose.
We started to talk, but not about what was going on in my head. I kept that inside. It’s difficult for people to hear, to fathom, to understand.
My friend knows when I am ready, I will speak. Today was not the day. Our conversation moved toward the things that come out of your nose. It was not the most adult conversation, but it was what I needed – a stupid, silly conversation. It helped get me back on track, if only for a little while.
“Did you have a nice four-hour nap?” my editor jokingly said when I returned.
“Yes,” I said.
After cutting and pasting the story into the computer system at work, proofreading it, and turning it in, I realized I didn’t know what I wrote. Notes became words. Words became sentences and paragraphs, but did they make any sense?
Reporters forget the banal stories, but this wasn’t supposed to be one of those. The story was important and I didn’t know what I wrote.
There was no time to think about it. Another meeting was at hand. The words spoken at the meeting put me back into a downward spiral. When it was over, I logged out of the computer and went home. It was only Tuesday, but I had already logged four hours overtime. I couldn’t be there anymore that day.
At home, I spoke with my husband, who I had also been texting to on and off all day.
I couldn’t get the song out of my head. I tried to explain. I failed. He still tried to understand.
I curled up on the couch and took a nap, which quelled the madness in my brain.
This is a long road I am on. I don’t know how long the journey will be, but everything happens slowly. It could be years before I reach the other end. I’m not sure when that will be or what it will look like. I only know I don’t see it yet.
Some days I have to fight as hard as possible to live half of an ordinary life. I’m still trying. It may wear me down, but I keep fighting because I don’t know how to do anything else.
I’m fucking trying.
Leslie Jordan
Thinking of you!