Ever since adolescence, there have been times when mental interference has overwhelmed me, knocking my thought processes out of balance. When my general stress level rises beyond the zone of comfort- during the final weeks of the semester at school, for example- anything from a television blaring through the concrete walls of my dorm room to a sideways glance from a stranger can trigger the collapse of rational thought. Thoughts and emotions are some of the things I enjoy most, but they can also fuel the bonfires of fear and helplessness I create. As my obsessions pile on top of one another, all initiative to act is quickly snuffed out. To fight obsession is to provoke it; to flee it is a direct invitation to be swept away entirely. The only real escape from this vicious cycle is to spend some time recharging and meet with a close friend to uncoil from the tense, constricted mood.
On the other end of the spectrum are times when the connection between thought and action is completely clear and I accept reality with all its uncertainties. Panic attacks are generally brought on by the anticipation of the next attack, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. However, moments of clarity come and go without warning. My obsessions, compulsions and morbid pessimism- along with a host of other psychic parasites- slink off into the background. There are no distractions; I am left alone to take part in the world in a direct manner, unhindered by the gut-wrenching terror of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. These moments of clarity are generally brought to my attention by the presence of another human being.
Late 2003 was one of the first times a clear state of mind came to my attention. Winter was around us and we abandoned the warmth of the Pour House, a twenty-minute walk down Main Street from McDaniel College, to explore Westminster. I was in the company of my friend Heather, a slightly scatterbrained, charming young woman who had lived in the area for the majority of her 23 years of life. I was much more willing to stretch my limited knowledge of the area in the reassuring presence of someone who knew every side-street and alleyway in town. We walked the graveyard circuit behind Main street, admiring the variety of stones with our hands in our pockets and warm breath against the cold air. When we came upon a small church lit by old-fashioned electric lamplight, she showed me a sarcophagus-shaped hunk of stone that was fissured down the middle and cracked in several places. According to legend, she told me, the stone marked the grave of a slave driver and as hard as they tried to keep the stone intact, every year it would break apart again. She had her doubts about the ghost theory and believed more firmly in the changes of the earth and underground currents.
Up until that point I had very little idea of the age of the town and knew nothing of its history aside from what I could grasp through its antiquated architecture. Despite the linear East-West layout of the main drag, I discovered that there are quite a few convenient back streets running along the town. The grid-like arrangement is reminiscent of the District of Columbia, where I was born and where I still manage to get lost. On the drives North to college from home I watched the trend of development, a shifting and growing gradient that is on the cusp of enveloping Westminster and all of Carroll County. I recognized the early signs of economic growth and ravenous construction of homes and office buildings that was so familiar at home and took interest in Heather's feelings about her changing hometown. "I can't wait," she said, "I may not go to the city but the city will come to me. It's changing already."
As we emerged from the back streets into the open space of Main Street, we began to drop the beat of our conversation and ease into silence. Each storefront was dark and the streets were completely empty; the only activity was a flashing street light. In the midst of moments like these, words become sparse and the desire to attribute vocal meaning to every experience gives in to the clumsiness of articulation. The conversational lull turned into a hush that blanketed everything as we became aware of the sensation, like a vague phantom at the corner of our vision. Heather deftly recovered her rhythm; "It's so quiet. It's almost never like this."
Don and I kept each other company during the summer of 2004 when I worked briefly at Johnson's plant store in Kensington, my old home town. Most of our fellow employees were post-menopausal women, and while our female coworkers were warm and fascinating people, we both appreciated the male company. Don, although he was middle-aged, had a stout and boyish look to him that slightly resembled the young Marlin Brando. There was a cool and cordial manner about him.
He had a thorough comprehension of the plant world. It took him seven years of working in the business to acquire this encyclopedic knowledge, but it made him an ideal salesman. Business rolled smoothly when Don was around and his charming personality reeled in many return customers. From time to time, Don would attract unwanted attention from older women who frequented the store. Not one to be rude, he simply kept alert and took convenient cigarette breaks when certain customers showed up.
Don had spent his earlier years bar tending, which explained his ability to tend to customers efficiently and quickly retrieve information from his expansive memory. Each morning he rolled up on his skateboard wearing dark shades and a teal Johnson's shirt. A day's work with Don was guaranteed to be filled with whatever odd-jobs he could find during the dead weeks of late August. His constant activity and stories that he meshed skillfully into our work eased the time by a little faster.
No one brought up why Don didn't have a driver's license, so he took the opportunity to drive the forklift any chance he could get. Whenever something in the front parking lot needed moving, he made sure somebody had the counter covered and went out back to "mount his stallion". Don was very sensitive and mature but he was also fond of distinctly male, 'Ren & Stimpy' style humor. Emerging from the back of the store, a cigarette hung from one side of his mouth as he skillfully maneuvered around the parking lot. He was serious about staying busy most of the time but he was always willing to spin a yarn, like the time he broke the speed limit going down a steep hill on his skateboard. "I was really afraid I was going to die that time." he said as he mimicked putting out his arms for maximum wind resistance. Don's eyes caught me off-guard every time I saw him without his shades on; they were clear sky blue.
One still Sunday I looked between the two A-frames from behind the counter. I looked past the drooping, late-season plants that waited to be sold from under the rain enclosure and saw Don looking up at the sky, a water wand dripping in his hand.
"Listen," he said. It was silent.
"It's like a ghost town."
We stood for a moment, waiting. There were no cars. There were no people. The wind blew gently.
It's taken me a good bit of time and the help of several friends to discover the tools I need to derail my runaway thought trains. Matt, a friend of mine who was a senior at McDaniel in 2003, inspired me to continue facing my fears. One notable occasion was a blustery day in January, the tail-end of a Winter of poor weather and sickness at McDaniel. A patchy mixture of ice and a crust of hardened snow covered the parking lot out in front of the freshman dorm. I was heading out with a group of friends for a late dinner at a Chinese restaurant in town. The sky was clear; its depth and arrangement of colors was beautiful, but my mind was churning away somewhere else.
I don't remember what exactly caused my distress that day but the worrisome thoughts took their familiar shape and structure. They have a tendency to build on top of one another until they reach a peak of severe agitation. As we walked along under the permanently lit lights of the freshman dorm, I tried to explain my situation to Matt. It didn't take him long to detect the disturbance in my mood. Mid-way through my explanation, he waved a finger in front of my face as if he were casting a spell. "Just don't think so much." he said, smiling knowingly. A swift reaction took place; my thoughts slowed down, quelled by his intervention. I carried on walking, calmly allowing my momentum and gravity to carry me down the hill, in awe of the simplicity of freedom.