Page 15 of Darn Knit All

Theo

This cake is incredible!

Mai

You say that about all the cakes I make

Theo

Well, this one is the new peak of awesome. 10/10 would eat again

No one talks about how much work it is living with anxiety. Oh, sure. They’ll tell you how tiring and emotionally draining it feels to operate in a constant state of heightened emotions. But no one talks about being up until 3am the night before a big meeting to research five different routes in case the one you take is congested or closed for repairs.

Plan B? More like plans A through triple Z.

You know who needs to be running emergency service departments? Anyone with high anxiety. We plan for all contingencies.

I looked down at the cell phone clutched in my clammy hand, trying to breathe through the near-overwhelming panic that clawed up my throat and constricted my chest.

Dear Ms. Sakamoto,

We are pleased to invite you to participate in Perfect Fit, a realityfashiondesign competition series hosted by Michelle Conliam.

You’ll be challenged to design cutting-edge creations which will be judged by our panel of expert designers, Minerva Devillian, Alison Louis, and Erike Baretti.

The email continued but I couldn’t, my anxiety hitting a level of fear I hadn’t experienced in years.

Huddled on the dressing room floor of Bloom Boutique, I faced myself in not one, not two, but three mirrors—each reflecting a woman on the edge of a breakdown.

My black hair fell from my ponytail to frame my face in a frizzy mess of strands. My cheeks were flushed, and my dark eyes were wide, the pupils dilated. My skin had turned aclammy, mottled color, while cold sweat dotted my brow. My chest rose and fell with quick, short breaths as I struggled to regain control.

I’d never had a breakdown in front of a mirror before, and a part of me—that wasn’t freaking the fuck out—found the entire experience endlessly fascinating.

I’m going to strangle Theo.

My stomach clutched and clawed as I forced myself to slow my breathing.

I am safe. I am in a safe space.

My therapist’s words whispered through my ears, her voice gentle and encouraging.

Ground yourself, feet flat on the ground, hands on your legs or the floor.

Through sheer force of will I moved into a sitting position. With my back resting against the cool wall of the stall, I raised my knees to plant my feet and pressed my palms to the carpeted floor.

Take a breath, hold for a beat then recite three things you can see.

I sucked in a gulp, holding the air in my pounding chest, doing as she’d taught me.

Normally, I could hold off the worst of it, putting on a brave face and batting away any suggestion of concern with a smile. I knew how to mask my anxiety behind over-performance and apologies, hiding my fears behind a laughing façade until I could crumble alone.

Today, those masks had failed, allowing a torrid flood of emotions to crush me.

“White walls, silver mirrors, a pink chair.”

I sucked in another breath, forcing myself to continue to name what I could see in the room.

“A glittering chandelier, a white door, a silver clothes rack.”

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