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unit—
we even call ourselves a herd.
We plan our days around each other,
meet for lunch,
walk to dinner at the same time,
go to the student center for coffee
late at night.
    I think the best part
is when we sit together doing homework.
We don’t need to talk.
It’s just nice to be around people.
    My anxiety is better,
but it’s not great.
I’ve been taking Klonopin for almost a year
and my life has changed so much.
I have fewer panic attacks than freshman year,
but they are still there—
waiting for me
in the usual places.
    The dining hall is still the worst.
The second I walk in the door
and swipe my ID,
a switch goes off in my mind.
    As I walk around to find something to eat
or someone to sit with,
it feels like I am underwater.
My limbs are heavy.
Sounds are muffled.
    This swimming feeling,
combined with the dim light of the dining hall,
makes me feel faint.
The thought of passing out
makes me start to panic,
makes me wonder if I have had enough to drink
or if I have eaten enough
so my body can function.
    I imagine being on line to get some pasta,
my eyes rolling back in my head.
I can see myself passing out,
hitting the dirty tile floor with a thud
and waking up with a crowd of people standing above me,
thinking I am such a freak.
    One by one the girls all learn
about my anxiety.
    I don’t need to come out and tell them—
all they need is to be in the right place
at the wrong time
and see it happen.
    When Tara finds out
she says that it explains a lot—
that freshman year
I was distant
with everyone except Rebecca.
She would always see us
sitting in the dark, smoking,
writing in our journals.
She says that my unapproachability
and independence from the group
looked like maturity.
But now she says she understands
that I was that way
because I didn’t work well in groups.
She says that now
she tries to get me one on one—
that I am better that way,
more focused.
It means so much to me
that she would go out of her way
to see me alone,
so she can get the best of me.
    I have a dream
that I am walking in the woods
and I find a stone temple
with crumbling white pillars.
    I am standing inside eating tuna fish
and realize there are tiny bones in it.
I stand over a basin
and start pulling wads of dry tuna fish
out of my mouth.
It is endless.
No matter how much tuna I scoop out
there is always more.
    Nate and I talk,
but I am usually the one to call.
I hate that he does that,
but I have learned that I have two choices:
either accept it
or not be friends with him.
    I stare at the phone,
start to dial,
and hang up.
I do this over and over.
I don’t want to be the one to break first.
I don’t want to be the one who needs him.
It makes me feel like he doesn’t care—
that I am not as important to him
as he says I am.
But I always break.
I always call.
And when I do,
I forget
how hard it was to pick up the phone
when I hear his voice—
hear him say my name.
    When we talk,
he likes to hear about school
and all the projects I am working on
and how well I am doing.
I think he looks up to me—
with my focus
and direction—
because he doesn’t have that.
    At lunch Ann sits down with me
and I am surprised
at how easy the conversation is.
She says how intimidated she was
by me and Rebecca that weekend at Jennifer’s.
She says there was an impenetrable vibe about us,
but sitting here with me now,
she doesn’t feel it.
    It’s weird to hear this again—
to hear how I was perceived
by people before they got to know me.
Some of the girls thought I was a bitch—
aloof, distant—
but now they see the truth.
    The conversation shifts to guys
and I tell Ann
that Sean and I hooked up
a few weeks ago and she laughs.
She hooked up with him
at the very beginning of freshman year.
There is something about knowing this
that breaks a wall between us.
    Just before Halloween,
Rebecca and I are at a party in town.
When things quiet down,
a few of us move upstairs
to another kid’s apartment.
His name is Jeff
and I’ve never seen