Tura, Lost at Sea

It feels like I am dying. I’m lying in bed. My head is swimming, my chest pounding a rhythm into the mattress. There’s no reason I should be feeling that way. I come to the conclusion, there in the dark, that something has gone terribly wrong with my heart. So I turn on the lights, knock tentatively on my roommate’s door, and ask him to drive me to the emergency room.

The doctor working the late shift eyes me warily. He knows what I’m after long before I do. After checking all my vitals, he assures me that I’m not going to die. I’m having a panic attack. And though I haven’t asked for anything, he reluctantly writes me a scrip for Xanax.

I feel profoundly stupid when I tell my bleary-eyed roommate that I was just suffering from anxiety. He says, “No problem,” and drives me home.