Claustrophobia

I glanced around the room as I entered, eyeing the stale white walls that enclosed the grid of desks. None of them matched or bore resemblance; each had a different wood flat-top with a variety of paired chairs. I jiggled my wrist so that my watch fell from beneath the long sleeves of my pea-coat, noting that I’d arrived nearly twenty minutes early. There was one guy sitting front and center with small white ear-buds plugging his ears, his head bobbing to the beat of his music. I gauged the distance from the door to the front-left corner seat and pressed my thumb to the pill container that lived in my pocket.

After some contemplation I headed towards the cream-colored desk. If the guy noticed me he made no sign of it. I lowered myself into the chair, testing out the flexibility of the sea-green plastic seat. I sighed in relief when it didn’t flex backwards, allowing me to put all my weight into it without using my stomach muscles to keep myself upright. I set my book-bag onto the desk and fished out a small three-ounce water bottle while simultaneously grabbing the pill-box out of my pocket. I popped it open, casually glancing at the guy to see if he was watching me. When I saw that he wasn’t I picked out two of the tiny yellow “goods” as I’d taken to calling them, and in one swift motion dropped them into my mouth and took a single sip of water to wash it down.

A few moments passed before more students began to trickle in and take their seats. I tensed when a couple girls chatting loudly passed by me, fearing they’d choose the seats surrounding mine, but they kept walking and chose the far back corner instead. Realizing I’d been holding my breath I exhaled slowly, not wanting to draw attention to myself. The roster online showed the class being small in comparison to the other sections, but as I surveyed the room it seemed like there wouldn’t be enough seats for everyone.

“Hello, hello, hello, my young Journalists!” A woman in her early-thirties squeaked as she danced into the room. She had short blond hair that was pushed back behind her ears by her wire-rimmed glasses that sat perched atop her head. “Welcome to Intro to Journalism! Or as I like to call it, the gateway to happiness.” She gave a wide smile, her bright teeth almost paper white, and dropped her pile of books onto the table at the head of the class. “My name is Elena Jeanette Whiteside, but please just call me Elena.” This woman is crazy, I thought to myself, of course I chose the loud one. Why couldn’t I have gotten lucky and picked some old man who has a low, calm voice. “I’m sure you’re all looking around wondering why we have so many students in the class. I see a few of you are left standing. Well one of the usual instructors for this course just gave birth to a beautiful baby girl and is taking a pregnancy leave for the rest of the year. I chose to take on her students as well as my own because I couldn’t possibly imagine robbing some students of this wonderful class.”

The guy who’d been there before me raised his hand. “So how many extra people are we talking about?” I stared at Miss Whiteside… Elena… with dread.

“A little over 70. We will be moving to the lecture hall in order to accommodate everyone. Not everyone is here today because she sent out an email letting her students know the situation, so we’ll have our orientation as planned in this room.” She flashed another dazzling smile before burying her face into her briefcase.

Not everyone is here today? There has to be at least fifty people in this room right now. I focused on my book-bag, following the intricate design that embedded it and tried to pull myself out of the room. “Can someone close the door please? The noise in the halls at this time can sometimes be overwhelming.” You’re overwhelming. And so is this room. And these people. Why are there no windows? Even the door doesn’t have one.

I closed my eyes and tried to pictures myself somewhere open. I heard the three girls whispering in the corner, talking about ditching their next class so they could go shopping. “Jason is going to be there so I have to look hot. He’s probably bringing that b***h with him.” A voice with some sort of accent stated. “Who, Sierra?” A softer voice asked. “Who else? She’s such a skank.” I grinded my teeth and tried to tune them out. They reminded me of why I didn’t have many girl friends.

The familiar feeling of being trapped washed over me. I tried to focus on what Elena was saying but I couldn’t think of anything but the box room closing in on me. It’s too small. Why is it so small? Why are there no windows? I recalled what my therapist had told me, “When you begin to feel anxious, separate yourself from the situation and identify what it is that is causing those feelings. Make yourself understand that you are in control.” I wonder if the door locks from the outside? What if class went over time… it is late night… and someone mistakenly locked us in? How in control would I be then? Taking some deep breaths I tried to concentrate on my breathing without drawing attention to myself. The last thing I wanted was someone to notice me.

“Amitola Benetoli? Does anyone know Amitola?” Elena piped, shaking my breathing exercise.

“Here,” I mumbled.

“What an interesting name, Amitola. Where is it from?” Oh God, here comes the questions; the probing curiosity that stems from when I introduce myself.

“It’s Native-American, call me Amy please.” I felt myself redden. Please stop. Please stop. Read the next name. Stop talking to me.

“How compelling! Do you know what it means?” Here it came; the overwhelming anxiety no amount of reasoning could fix. I could feel my heart pounding beneath my coat. I was almost positive that the small golden chain I wore around my neck was rattling against the feather charm that dangled from the end. Please stop.

“Rainbow,” I stammered, realizing when she stared at me blankly that it hadn’t come out clearly. “I mean my name, it means rainbow.” Please stop. Move on. There are forty more names to call. Why is she focusing on me?

“Beautiful, thanks Amy. Kenny Cameron?” She continued to read down the list of names.

I felt as if everyone was staring at me. I should have picked a seat in the back, then they couldn’t stare at my back. The small room began to throb and the walls inched in. My throat felt constricted and I wondered if enough air was leaking in beneath the door for all of these people to have enough oxygen. A hot flash struck me and I began to sweat, but I couldn’t take off my coat; if I did they could see me. I want to hide. I want to run away and hide. I closed my eyes to make the feeling of entrapment go away but when I opened them the walls had creeped closer. I glanced, panic-stricken, towards the door across the room. Why did I choose the farthest seat? There are people all along the wall, I can’t make it there without asking them move. And everyone will turn to look at me.

 “She’s so ugly, look at her!” The whispering girls giggled from the back. “I can’t believe she wore that.” They are talking about me. I shouldn’t have come. I can’t breath. There isn’t enough air in here. I looked at the door again, my mind racing. In haste I grabbed the water from my desk and stuffed it into my bag. I can’t stay here. I am going to hyperventilate. It’s too small. There should be windows. I stood up and nearly ran to the door, choking on the lack of oxygen.

“Amy? Are you OK? Where are you going?”

I pretended not to hear her and stepped over the backpack blocking my passage. As I passed the three girls I noticed they had a gossip magazine opened to the “They Wore THAT?” column. Frantically I pushed through the door, desperate to escape the confinement. I didn’t breathe until I stepped foot outside the building, gulping the air as if I’d almost drowned and this was my first moment above the water.