We walked back home, and Charles did his best to sound comforting and alleviate my anxieties.
He slept soundly while I paced the apartment, my paranoia growing by the minute. I did not rest for a minute. I ran out of cigarettes at some point and waited for daylight to break to buy more. I decided that I wanted to visit the Poseidonia hotel to visit the family of my dad’s wife. I told Charles so and went ahead. We’d agreed to meet later during the day. I started walking and noticed the city was awfully calm and empty for a Monday morning. Joan had mentioned that police were watching citizens for the most minor infractions, so she said to be careful. I’d wait carefully for the pedestrian lights to turn green. I’d make sure to avoid closed-off intersections. I was walking towards the touristic area, which Joan had said was being purged from all the mob business, both Cypriot and Russian. Many Greeks had returned to open businesses, and the new mayor was excellently cleaning up the city. It felt clean and fresh with a different energy. I arrived at Poseidonia and saw a Passat similar to my dad’s that had been next to the Hariri convoy when it exploded in 2004. The Poseidonia felt empty and closed. Something was wrong. I got scared and kept walking. My feet were burning up. I couldn’t wear my shoes anymore. I tossed them. My hands had swollen up, and my fingers were aching. I started removing my rings and throwing them away. I arrived at the Four Seasons, and felt like a safe place. I went in and asked for asylum. Help me, I begged, help me. I am going crazy, my feet hurt, and I can’t breathe, and something is wrong, but I don’t know what. They got the doctor who took my tension, it was low, and I had tachycardia. He said to rest. They got me slippers, and I sat outside. I ordered cigarettes and a frappe and just sat there crying my eyes out. I looked around and felt something was wrong. The hotel was empty, shy of a few people. It felt like a convention, a political convention. I looked around and saw two men talking. They seemed vaguely familiar. I got scared, convinced that I had walked into a hornet's nest, and decided to leave. But how would I go? I could not walk in hotel slippers. I crossed the street and bought flip-flops, then asked Alex to send me the number of her driver. He picked me up and dropped me off by the square where we had dinner last night. I wanted to find Joan and Laura at work, but I needed help remembering the address. I called my brother just because I needed to hear his voice, to feel his calmness, to remember who I was and how I was raised to make the right decisions and avoid danger. Everything around me felt dangerous. I called the driver again and asked him to take me to Joan’s. Charles had said the key would be in the pot near the door. But the key was not there. I ran away, scared, trembling, and panicked. I started walking but did not know where to go. I walked left, then right. Followed the signs that my paranoia was dictating. Greeks are friendly. Russians are a menace. Tattooed men, you may follow. Avoid buses and the sea. Jews are the most dangerous node to avoid. But downtown Limassol is full of them. I reached another square and nearly had a breakdown in front of two Germans. Finally, I found a man I could trust. He was Greek and sold hats. His arms were full of tattoos I could identify with. Please call me a cab; I need to reach the airport. Thankfully, I had everything I needed with me. I left behind a suitcase with some clothes, but it was no big deal. We’d find a way to get it back to me. I just needed to get to the airport on time. To leave the island in time. Before the explosion. I was sure an explosion was going to happen. And I had enough explosions in my life. No more terror. But the only terror around was me. The only thing exploding was me. I was a walking bomb, ready to blow up at any time. And I had to get off the island as fast as possible. Mario, my taxi driver, was kind enough to talk to me during the entire trip to the airport. He helped me make sense of my anxieties even though he did not know me. He was kind and gentle, and compassionate. He drove me fast enough, and I made it in time for my flight. I was going home. I was going to be safe. I asked for medical attention because I felt sick. A Russian-Lebanese stewardess took care of me. The medical doctor said my tension was low and I should eat and rest. I finally turned my phone on and saw it exploding with worried messages from people trying to find me. I answered each one of them as calmly as I could. I told Eli I was unwell and needed medical attention when we’d arrive. Finally, I was on the flight home and still felt unsafe. I thought the plane was full of Jews, and they were coming to infiltrate our country and explode us from the inside. Insanity. I was reaching it. I was there. Finally, the plane landed. I sprinted through customs to Eli and tried to explain. We called a friend who is a doctor. He advised me to sleep and go to the hospital tomorrow. We drove home. I panicked. I was scared. I did not know if I could sleep. Eli helped me out of my clothes and into the shower. My feet were black from walking barefoot in the street. I showered, and we went upstairs. We smoked and talked, and I started to calm down a little. But I could not sleep. I even called Al, my ex-boyfriend who happened to be a psychologist, to France and asked him to help. I could not sleep. I could not use the bathroom. I was scared. I was helpless. I felt threatened. The cleaning products. The food. I needed to purge the house of everything that could harm us. There was a trade war, and we were being poisoned by our consumption and habits. I needed to clean it all out. I needed to be ready to escape at any moment, so I packed a bag with my diary, passport, and critical paper. I needed to be prepared, just in case, we had to flee. In case a war suddenly erupted. I went upstairs and started packing the escape bag. And then I sat down and smoked, and smoked, and smoked until the sun rose, and it was time to go to my mother’s.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorI was born in 1986 in Lebanon. I'm still trying to find my passion in life and in the meantime I'm learning to navigate my bipolarity and redefining stability. Archives
February 2024
Categories
All
|