A Day in the Life of a Paranoid

Flames shoot in all directions, not just up, but down, left, right, diagonal.  Various objects of affection careen out of the inferno like scorched animals, still carrying bits of fire on their tails.  There is my copy of The Complete Icelandic Sagas, churning its weighty way through the air, 700 of the 1000 pages already burnt to a crisp.  There on the left I see my Brahms recordings balanced on a charred wooden precipice.  They plummet into a seemingly endless abyss as their support finally gives way.  I feel a burning sensation on my neck and swat away a chard of a memory on a piece of glossy, evaporating paper – my wife and me on our wedding day.  The conflagration rages ever on, and Chopin’s Funeral March fades in, growing louder and louder, its ominous tones pounding their way methodically into my desperate soul.  Louder, louder, the dirge pulses and throbs, bursting in and receding again.  It grows harsh, cacophonous, in and out, over and over…

“Jonathan!  Turn off your alarm!”

My eyes open slowly as I fade into reality and I hit the alarm, grateful to find myself in my comfortable, unoxidized bedroom.  Safe, I lay back down to sleep a few more minutes.  I doze in and out again, dwelling in that place between waking and sleeping where dreams can be manipulated.  I masochistically bring back the image of my burning apartment and wallow in its depression.  I vaguely sense my wife walking around the room, bringing with her faint spines of peace piercing the raging fires of my dream.  I hear myself starting to snore, pulling me further into reality, and the fires begin to melt away, drifting as on a piece of paper in a gentle ocean swell, now near at hand, now distant, now near again, until the dream has vanished on the waning tide. 

I get out of bed and begin to go about my day.  I shower and eat, check my email, putter around the place doing nothing in particular.  I turn on the coffee pot while I get dressed for work, and I hear it gargling and purring from my bedroom.  The smell lazes its way through the rooms, finding me and lifting my spirits.  By now, all I remember of my dream is that it ended very peacefully.  Dreams only seem terrifying when you wake from them suddenly and permanently.

Now I am ready for work.  I have seen my wife out the door to her school, and I prepare for my own departure now.  I pour my coffee and prepare it, gather my few other effects, put on my coat, and head to the door.  Then I turn back around and make for the master bath.  “Is Ashley’s curling iron is off?”  I find everything in order and verbalize it, “Off.” 

I march back toward the door but make a stop by the kitchen.  “Off, off, off, off, off, off, off.”  That covers the coffee pot, the toaster oven, the four stove eyes, and the oven.  Now running a little late, I quicken my pace as I remember to check the library for any lights that are still on.  I find them off and take a shortcut through the guest bath on the way out, or so I tell myself, though really I’m checking to make sure Ashley did not leave any other hair paraphernalia plugged in there either.  “Good.”

Finally I walk out the door when I realize I have not checked the heat!  I unlock the door and find the dial in the hallway, turning it down a quarter of a degree to make myself feel better about the fact that it was already set where I intended.  I scan the lights on the stove one last time, just in case, and then head outside once more.  I lock the door and jiggle the handle in and out several times.  “Locked.”

I hesitate on my way down the stairs, torn between the idea of going back up to make sure I really turned off the coffee pot, but I force myself on.  Ten minutes after originally heading to my apartment door, I finally make it to the car.  Inside, I start the car and simultaneously start worrying that I didn’t lock the door completely.  But I know I’m paranoid, so I drive to work.

On the way there, I think of how much I dislike being this way.  I blame the American way sometimes, and its obsession with security.  Other times I settle on the notion that I’m just that way, buying into our culture’s perverse idea that we can pass the blame for any of our unsavory aspects onto our genes, stymieing personal responsibility.  On occasion, though, I make some lofty goal of eliminating my paranoia.  I give myself a pep talk, ending with a rousing call to action, a declaration that “I can do it,” and a loud battle cry as I charge against the menace of anxiety.  But then I have arrived at work, and I have to calm down.  The will to fight fades as I walk the path into work, and by the time I scan my card at the door, I have forgotten my determination to improve.

The day goes smoothly.  I give that big presentation on the work I’ve been doing for the last six months.  It goes well, and I’m glad to have finally finished it.  I am mostly free of paranoia while I’m at work, and after a tiring day, I return home. 

As soon as I step in the door, fears that had been lurking somewhere in the corners of my mind pounce upon me.  What if my numbers were off in that presentation?  What if I was mistaken about the entire premise of the project?  I could have made some tiny error that threw off the whole process.  Then I would have to go in and tell everyone who had heard my presentation that it was all wrong.  The foundation of the project was an error, and I just wasted six months of time.  My wife assures me I am being crazy, and I settle down to dinner, Jeopardy, and some reading. 

Bed time rolls around and I am fatigued from fighting with my mind.  I brush my teeth, read a little more, take my allergy pill, and then prepare to turn off the lights.  Picking up my alarm, I check that it is set for the right time, assuring myself that the alarm is set for AM, not PM, and that the current time says PM, not AM.  Then I turn the alarm on and off several times, just to confirm that the little symbol of a bell I see appearing is actually related to me pressing the alarm button.  I hit the snooze button, which is also the light, and then worry that by doing so I may have disengaged the alarm, just like snoozing does in the morning.  So I repeat the whole process again.  Finally, when I feel confident that all is well, I stare at the display for at least thirty seconds, looking for any sign that my confidence was ill-founded.  Then, doubly-confident, I put the clock down, turn off the light.  The peace of the night and the comfortable bed soothe me.  I sigh pleasurably, and roll over.  Maybe I can beat this worry after all.  Maybe I can slowly free myself from its net.  But then I wonder, “Hon, is your alarm set too?  Just in case?”