A gasp catches in my throat, and I fall against the wall, my hands pressed to my heart and the side of my face like a stereotypical damsel in distress in old timey films. A little overdramatic, for sure. It’s nothing. Just my mind playing tricks on me, as per usual. There’s nothing there. No one is out to get me. I’m just paranoid because I fill my brain with stories of lonely, single women being sliced and diced twenty-four seven. I’m prone to episodes like this, where I scare the shit out of myself over something silly.

My heart beats rapidly inside my chest. I try and force myself to relax, but it’s no use. My nervous system is convinced I’m in danger.

I do the exercises Jenny taught me. The first time she taught these exercises to me, I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. But then I started doing them myself, and it’s admittedly helped a lot.

I start taking notes of my surroundings.

Five things I can see. The staircase. My dog. The frayed strings of my sweatshirt. My bare feet. My toenails, which are in need of a trim.

Four things I can touch. Um. This floral wallpaper that’s peeling a bit around the edges. My face. My heart is thrumming underneath my hand on my chest. My hair, which I’m remembering I still haven’t washed, even though it’s been a couple of days.

Three things I can hear. My blood whooshing in my ears. The ticking of the old grandfather clock in the foyer. Rx sucking on his favorite elephant toy, oblivious to my emotional duress.

Two things I can smell. I’m so bad at this one. I smell… air? The insides of my own nostrils?

One thing I can taste… My tongue?

I breathe and tap myself gently on the back of my hands, trying to self-regulate my emotions and calm the hell down.

I can be present. I am more than my anxiety. That’s what Jenny always tells me. But I’m not sure I believe her. Am I more than a raw bundle of nerves? I don’t know who I’d be without my anxiety. Someone who can go to the supermarket and hold their head high no matter what they put in their cart. Someone who can drive a car without being scared it’s going to crash every five minutes. Someone who can go into a bar and confidently order a drink and flirt a little with the bartender. Someone who isn’t alone. Or at least, if they are alone, it’s entirely by choice. Not because they’re too nervous to be around people.

Yeah, doesn’t sound like the Mal Finch I know. If Jenny wants me to become a different person, she’ll have to give me a lobotomy.

Besides, Rx would be out of a job if I all of a sudden started acting like a normal human being.

I don’t have much hope of becoming someone who doesn’t have generalized anxiety disorder, but I do want to be someone who can function despite my mental illness. And Jenny has been helping me with that. But I can’t help but be self-critical. If Jenny were here, she’d congratulate me on talking to that guy at the dog park. She’d say it’s progress. I say that it’s pathetic that simply leaving my house to go to the dog park feels overwhelming.

Gradually, my heartbeat slows.

There’s no one else here. The only shadows are the ones in my head. I live in my head all the time. It’s bound to make me nervous. I’m literally afraid of my own shadow.

The bad parts of my mind; my overactive imagination, turns shadows into serial killers, like the ones on my podcasts.

Fake it till you make it, Jenny always says.

Okay, I can do that.

“Come on, Rx,” I say loudly, inflating myself with false bravado. “Let’s investigate, shall we? I’m not scared. Are you?”

Rx follows me, elephant in mouth, as I creep down the main hallway of my vacuous and dark old house.

I’m reminded of a picture book we were presented with in elementary school. In a Dark, Dark Room. That book used to scare the shit out of me. It was way too scary to be reading to second graders.

In a dark, dark wood, there was a dark, dark house. And in that dark, dark house, there was a dark, dark room. And in that dark, dark room, there was a dark, dark closet. And in that dark, dark closet, there was a dark, dark shelf… and so on.

I shiver.

I flip on a light switch and stand as still as possible, listening for the sound of movement.

There’s nothing, save for the pattering of Rx’s toenails on the floor.

I proceed through the house, checking under every bed, behind the shower curtain, inside every closet, anywhere I can imagine someone hiding.

I find nothing. Only a spider in the shower, which I kill without any problems because I am Mal Finch, and I am brave.

“This house is clean,” I tell Rx, quoting one of my favorite creepy films, Poltergeist.

Rx cocks his one ear that actually stands up. The other one is permanently flopped over. It’s pretty cute.

“Come on,” I say. “It’s time for dinner. I’m buying.”

I head for the kitchen and pop in a podcast on my phone. The host’s voice immediately fills the room.

I pour Rx’s food into his bowl and set it down.

“Bon appétit, my friend,” I tell him. “A meal fit for a king.”

I open my cupboards and consider having popcorn for dinner. I could pour a bunch of parmesan on top. That’s protein, right?

The theme song for my podcast begins. It sounds like a mash-up between the Halloween theme and The Twilight Zone theme song. It doesn’t do much to help my nerves.

I’ve read articles about people with anxiety who enjoy thrillers and horror stories, both real and fictional. There’s something about having the power to choose the darkness that you engage with. I could turn this podcast off at any time. Even though the crimes described are very much real, they’re not happening to me. There’s a little bit of distance I can put between the gory subject matter, so it doesn’t disturb me or give me nightmares.

Usually. This evening is an exception.

This house really is too large for me. So much empty space. Too much space for my morbid imagination to run wild in.

I do love this house, though. Even if I truly only use about a third of the space. My parents insisted that one day that space would be filled with children, a happy result of a loving union between me and a male suitor. I didn’t tell them that I don’t know if I want kids. I don’t even know if I want to get married. Other people seem happy doing it, but I can’t imagine myself walking down the aisle. It feels like a fantasy.

Besides, how am I supposed to fully trust another person? How do I know that he won’t turn out to be a psychopath with multiple bodies hidden in the trunk of his car? There’s no way I could ever fully rule out someone’s potential for being a psychopath. That’s why psychopaths are so good at hiding in plain sight.

In some ways, this house feels like a bribe. Like if I don’t fall in love, get married, and produce spawn, it’ll be taken away from me. I wouldn’t put it past my parents to do something like that.

I wave thoughts of my family off. It’s distracting me from my podcast. I completely missed the intro.

I rewind a few seconds to catch what I missed while my thoughts were wandering.

Suddenly, the house phone rings, a shrill sound that makes me jump a foot in the air.

Old fashioned phones are so loud.

It’s my own fault for agreeing to leave a phone that’s decades old attached to the wall. I thought it was kind of cool. An antique. It hardly ever rings. I don’t make a habit of giving my cell phone number to people, and so there’s an even smaller list of people who have my house phone number.

I look at Rx, who looks at me. Then I look through the window at the house across the street.

They don’t have any curtains or blinds drawn up yet.

Which means they could look out and see me looking at them.

Or they could look out and see me while I’m not looking at them.

They could watch me without me ever realizing it…

I don’t even know if they’re fully moved in yet. The house could be empty right now. Or, maybe someone snuck in and is squatting there until the new neighbors come in.

They could be watching my every move right now.

It could be them on the phone.