To tame a flea-ridden dog, you need to name it. OCD is mangy, covered in raw spots where she can’t stop rubbing her canines against the flesh. Anxiety is the one who grows legs and scratches at the door, begging to go but bloodshot with nerves. Depression is a wooly black dog, curling alongside me in bed.
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It was a series of vivid, terrifying visions of dropping my admittedly slippery baby on her soft avocado head, of accidentally swerving our family vehicle into the grill of a Volvo-manufactured semi truck full of Mountain Dew, of my child’s trailing blanket slipping into the spot on the mall escalator where the ground eats itself. It was a response to the stresses of a newborn. I repeat to myself that it was purely hormonal. When I list the mental health conditions under prior diagnoses, I avoid talking about my postpartum OCD. They are like silica gel packets hidden in my genetic gifts. I will never leave San Francisco of all the places I’ve lived, it has felt like the only place that fits me. It is an ugly suggestion, one that provokes a strangled bark from deep inside of me.
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My therapist once and only once suggests I move from the city. I imagine the regulars on the 7th floor trapped in this tin coffin without power, slowly starving over the days following the earthquake. I check which button is worn down the most, the floor most likely to be filled with people scrambling to escape. Usually the cars that pass are the color of tapioca, smog, or newspaper ink, but sometimes they will be red like blood or calamitous fire.Īt the hospital on the way to a mental health appointment, I reluctantly find myself in an elevator. I suspect it happened the last time there was high-intensity shaking in the City by the Bay.
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There is a long crack in the wavy original glass on the angled eastern window. I also predict the weather, avoiding checking the temperature and wind figures each morning before dawn until I test my own pattern observation.įrom behind the thick yellow velvet curtains that I draw tight across our hundred-and-fifty-year-old bay windows, I watch the busy San Francisco one-way and guess which color the next car will be. I keep a journal of what I expect my colleagues will wear: Olivia will come in a pink beanie because there is a chill in the air on Wednesday, Nana will wear Mary Janes with lacy anklet socks, the kind I wore to catechism class when I was learning to argue with God. I find myself testing my inherited prediction abilities. A handful of years later, the candles at the altar Auntie Lisa kept for Saint Francis of Assisi tipped over, lit her house on fire, and killed her cockatiel. Her dreams told her a sister’s house would burn. When I was a child, my mother convinced me our family had the gift of foresight. Instead, I am transfixed with the probability of earthquakes.
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There’s war, immense and urgent suffering.
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The frequent, rising king tides threaten to deposit flopping pink salmon on the doorstep like a Postal Service baby, surreal and unlikely but historically congruent. Each summer the California skies turn the color of a rusted cast iron from wildfire smoke. It started up again with something innocuous: An extra pair of fuzzy slippers under my side of the bed in case the world ended at midnight.