Anxiety

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

Page 44 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  —¿Estás segura que lo único que quiere es que limpies y cocines un poco? — insiste—. Los hombres, sin importar la edad, son todos iguales. Yo debería saberlo. Sí, puedes callarte ahora. Puedo cuidar de mí misma. Si los novios de la escuela secundaria y trabajar en un bar no me han enseñado eso hasta ahora… Pero vuelve a hablar, entrando en mi espacio y deteniéndome. —Solo escúchame por un segundo. —Su tono se vuelve firme—. Es una casa bonita, un vecindario seguro, y sí, puedes ahorrar un poco de dinero. Pero no tienes que quedarte aquí. —No es la casa de papá y Corinne, así que al menos hay eso —le respondo—. Y no puedo quedarme contigo. Agradezco la oferta, pero no puedo estar en el sofá, en el camino de todos, y ser capaz de estudiar con un niño de cuatro años tratando de ser un niño en su propia casa. Tengo una clase de verano los jueves, así que necesito algo de espacio para trabajar. —Eso no es lo que quise decir —replica rápidamente—. Podrías haberte quedado en ese departamento. Podrías haberlo pagado. Abro la boca, pero la cierro de nuevo, dando la vuelta para meter las hamburguesas en el horno durante unos minutos. No otra vez. ¿Cuándo se va a dar por vencida? —No puedo, ¿de acuerdo? —le digo—. No quiero. Me gusta mi trabajo, y no trabajo donde trabajas. —Por supuesto que no. —Me mira con aburrimiento—. Está por debajo de ti, ¿verdad? —Eso no es lo que dije. No pienso menos de mi hermana por su trabajo. Alimenta y viste a su hijo. Se tragó su orgullo e hizo lo que tenía que hacer, y la amo por eso. Pero, y nunca se lo diría, no es una carrera que hubiera escogido si hubiera tenido otras opciones. Y aún no me he quedado sin opciones. Cam ha estado bailando en The Hook desde que tenía dieciocho años. Al principio, era solo un trabajo temporal para mantenerse, después que su novio la dejara y también a su hijo. Pero hacer malabarismos con la universidad y su hijo llegó a ser demasiado y, finalmente, dejó la escuela. El plan era retomar el rumbo una vez que Killian comenzara el jardín de infantes, pero eso será pronto, y no creo que tenga planes inmediatos para dejarlo pronto. Está acostumbrada al dinero. Y hace casi un año, su jefe me ofreció un trabajo de camarera allí, y desde entonces ella ha estado detrás de mí, molestándome para que lo tome. Después de todo, podría ganar más que suficiente para mantenerme, y tal vez tampoco tenga que sacar tantos préstamos estudiantiles. Unos años y eso es todo, había dicho. Estaría fuera. Pero sé que servir es el trabajo, que su jefe hace que tomen las chicas, mientras las convence para que comiencen a bailar en el escenario. Y no haré eso. Tampoco veré a mi hermana hacer eso todas las noches.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  No voy a volver. —Te fuiste sin cerrar la cuenta antes de irte la última vez —dice Grady, sacando dinero de su billetera—. Aquí está tu propina. Desliza un par de billetes de veinte por la barra, cierro el refrigerador y me río entre dientes, mis ojos se sienten pesados por el cansancio. —Grady, ni siquiera se me ocurrió —le digo—. No te preocupes por cosas así. Estoy feliz de que estés aquí. Lo cual es cierto, me evita tener que forzar conversación con alguien más mientras estoy trabajando. No coquetea, ni hace comentarios groseros y le gusta mi música en la rocola. Dejo el dinero y recojo su botella vacía, destapando la parte superior de una nueva y poniéndola frente a él. —Oye, ¿puedo tener dos Buds? —dice alguien, poniendo dinero en la barra. Me dirijo hacia allá, escuchando sonar el teléfono y veo a Shel tomarlo. Abriendo el refrigerador, saco las dos Buds. —¿Jordan? —repite Shel en el teléfono. Miro hacia ella, dejando las dos cervezas frente al tipo. —¿Quién está llamando? —pregunta. Mantengo mis ojos en ella, mi respiración se vuelve superficial mientras tomo el dinero del tipo y cobro sus bebidas. —¿Pike? —dice. Me dirige una mirada y sacudo mi cabeza. Es tarde, me fui desde la noche anterior y estoy realmente sorprendida de que no haya venido a buscarme, haciendo sus demandas insistentes como de costumbre. —Sí, no está aquí —miente Shel—. Su turno terminó. Intenta con su teléfono celular. Cuelga, probablemente sin esperar a que él diga nada más y definitivamente sin saber que Pike ya ha llamado a mi celular varias veces hoy. Sin embargo, no dejó mensajes y no envió mensajes de texto. Se acerca a mí. —¿Que está pasando? —Nada. Inclina su cabeza, sin creerme. —Luces agotada. —Aparta mi cabello con gentileza colocándolo detrás de mi oreja mientras limpio la barra—. ¿Has comido algo hoy? —Estoy bien —le digo—. Solo cansada. —¿Cole te está causando más problemas? Suspiro, sintiendo que mi estómago se vuelve tembloroso. Quiero hablar con alguien, pero estoy harta de ser la chica con problemas de tipos. Estoy cansada de que Shel se preocupe por mí y no quiero que lo sepa. Ya piensa que Pike es un idiota y por alguna razón, odio eso. No quiero darle más municiones. —¿Por qué te está llamando su padre? —me presiona. Evito su mirada, dejo caer el trapo de cocina en el cubo de agua caliente y tomo uno nuevo, limpiando las mismas botellas de licor que ya limpié esta tarde. Siento sus ojos en mí. —Jordan, ¿en qué te has metido? Mi barbilla tiembla y las lágrimas pican en la parte posterior de mis ojos. —Nada —digo, todavía sin mirarla—. Estaré bien.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Pero creo que sé lo que iba a decir. Cuando me enteré que iba a ser padre. Pike Lawson no se ve lo suficiente mayor para ser padre de un hijo adulto, así que tuvo que haber sido muy joven cuando Cole nació. No más de dieciocho o diecinueve años. ¿Lo que lo pondría en unos treinta y ocho? ¿Más o menos? —Simplemente no podía comprender el hecho de que estaba renunciando a siete años de mi vida —continúa—. Pero siete años fueron y vinieron muy rápido. Asegurar un buen futuro requiere de una inversión y un compromiso, Cole, pero vale la pena. —¿Lo valió para ti? —cuestiona su hijo, arrancando un trozo de la hamburguesa, presionando ligeramente el costado de mi muslo. Es un gesto sutil que de hecho me gusta, a pesar de la tensión creciente en la habitación. Es su forma de hacerme saber que puede estar enojado, pero no lo está conmigo, y odia que probablemente me sienta incómoda en este momento. El padre de Cole toma un sorbo de su botella y la deja calmadamente en la mesa, su tono ahora es más duro. —Bueno, he tenido el dinero para pagar tu fianza de la cárcel —indica—. La última vez. Y la vez antes de esa. La mano de Cole se tensa alrededor de mi muslo, y mi cuello está tan caliente de repente que desearía tener una liga para mi cabello. Miles de preguntas dan vueltas en mi cabeza. ¿Por qué no se llevan bien? ¿Qué sucedió? El padre de Cole parece bueno, por lo poco que sé de él, pero Cole ha levantado un muro entre ellos, y su papá tiene casi tan mal genio como su hijo. Con la hamburguesa en mano, Cole aparta su plato y echa la silla hacia atrás, soltando mi pierna. —Voy a comer afuera —dice, soltando mi pierna—. Ven con nosotros si quieres, nena. Y deja los platos. Los lavaré en un rato. Abro la boca para hablar, pero me detengo, apretando los dientes. Bueno, esto será divertido. Cole se da vuelta y sale de la habitación, y momentos después escucho la puerta principal cerrarse de un golpe. Se escuchan voces amortiguadas desde afuera, y suena un claxon por la calle, pero de repente hace tanto silencio en la cocina que dejo de respirar. Con suerte Pike Lawson se olvidará que estoy aquí. ¿Cómo se supone que viva aquí? No puedo tomar un lado si van a hacer esto. Pero Pike habla, suavizando su voz. —Está bien —asegura, y lo veo mover su cabeza hacia mí por el rabillo del ojo—. Puedes ir con él si quieres. Giro mi cabeza, me encuentro con su mirada y le enseño una sonrisa tensa mientras me encojo de hombros. —Hace calor afuera —contesto. Ya estoy ardiendo con la tensión de aquí. Además, los amigos de Cole no son mis amigos, y afuera no será mejor.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Tampoco he hablado con Cole desde ayer, pero por alguna razón, eso no me molesta. Así es como funcionamos. Se fue ayer, para ayudar a un amigo con su auto, y para cuando llegó a casa yo estaba en el bar. Dormí hasta tarde esta mañana, más como un esfuerzo por evitar a Pike en casa, y solo desperté una vez cuando Cole dejó un beso de despedida en mi mejilla antes de irse a trabajar. He tenido un nudo en el estómago toda la mañana. ¿Por qué diablos estaba Pike tan enojado? Pensé que nos llevábamos bien. No hice nada malo. De hecho, estaba cortando su maldito césped, y lo siguiente que supe fue que estaba regañándome como si estuviera tomando el sol semidesnuda en el jardín delantero mientras niños de seis años andaban en sus bicicletas por la calle. Es tan volátil. Muy diferente a su hijo, que nunca se toma nada en serio. Salgo del auto de Cole, uno de sus amigos le dio un aventón esta mañana así yo podría ir a la biblioteca. Agarro la lonchera con el almuerzo de Pike que dejó en casa y echo un vistazo alrededor del sitio de trabajo. Está más ajetreado que la última vez que estuve aquí. Los trabajadores se mueven de un lado a otro, usando cascos de seguridad, con cinturones de herramientas de cuero marrón colgando de sus caderas, y el polvo se levanta por los camiones que entran y salen del área. Los martillos golpean el acero y hombres con botas sucias y jeans rasgados están sentados a horcajadas en las vigas, suspendidas en el aire, mientras hacen lo que sea que hacen para convertir los materiales en un edificio. No muchos llegan a ver los huesos desnudos. Me pregunto por qué Cole no trabaja para su padre. Este empleo tiene que ser bien remunerado. Después de todo, conozco a algunos de estos chicos. Mantienen a sus familias con este empleo. Mi mirada deambula, buscando a alguien accesible con quien dejar la lonchera, pero también estoy un poco alerta buscando los tatuajes de Pike. No quiero verlo, de verdad. Mi plan, cuando vi que había dejado su lonchera en casa esta mañana, era hacer una buena acción, entregarla, y dejar la pelota en su cancha para superar la discusión al tener que buscarme y decir “gracias”. Quiero superar cualquier incomodidad entre nosotros. Caminando por la suciedad y los escombros, me dirijo hacia la estructura y veo a su amigo, Dutch, inclinándose para recoger algo justo adentro. Me nota y se levanta. ―Hola, Dutch. ―Sonrío―. ¿Está Pike? Sus ojos se deslizan hacia la bolsa térmica negra en mi mano. ―¿Su almuerzo? ―Lo dejó en la mesa de la cocina. ―La levanto ―. Pensé en dejarlo mientras estoy haciendo recados. ―Eso es amable de tu parte. ―Pero no toma la lonchera. En cambio, lanza una herramienta en una caja y me hace un gesto―. Vamos, te llevaré.

• From The Surrender: An Erotic Memoir (2004)

  What do the K and Y stand for? According to Johnson & Johnson, which has been manufacturing the jelly since 1910—their service reps were very friendly on the phone—they don’t stand for anything, just arbitrary letters assigned by the original research scientists. But they have come to mean plenty. TRACELESS Now that I have fallen into both sin and love, my scribbled daily testimonies serve to keep my anxiety of loss just barely at bay. With him I live on the ledge of the abyss. The terror that this experience might end competes with the even worse terror that it might be lost forever. Because he and I are not fused, except during sexual contact, I must constantly confront the spaces between us. He never overstays his welcome, and thus cultivates an air of scarcity, an erotic component of powerful and paradoxical consequences. On the one hand, the element of instability is clearly an essential factor, perhaps the central factor, in generating the total thrill of each and every encounter. The lost heat that monogamous couples constantly mourn is always there for us. And yet this unpredictability also leaves me with ample time and space for the insecurities of love to blossom. Thus I doubt, I question, I worry and heap indignities upon myself for which there is neither evidence nor refutation. The lingering voice of convention is always attempting to diminish and deride my own transcendent experience. And yet I have never tried to control him in order to avoid this anxiety; I have always known that he is not an extension of me but a clearly separate human being. Besides, I am well aware by now that if a man exhibits too many signs of attachment I lose interest and the sex becomes laden with obligation. Desire is sexy, a show of free will; attachment is the enemy of free will. A-Man, with his scarcity, has become the first man to keep me poised at that delectable point where I both thrive and suffer: always-in-desire, never-having-enough. It is easier to want something than to have it—and so often when you do get the thing you’ve wanted so long, you’re busy with numerous substitutes. With him somehow the wanting and the having combine, simultaneously. He is my very real yet eternally impossible fantasy: a man I can respect. Living entirely in the moment, he leaves no traces. He is here when he is here. He is gone when he is gone. Others linger when they are gone, like a bad smell, even when they were never really here in the first place. He is the most present, and as a result, the most emphatically, painfully absent.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  For your own learning, maybe getting bullied taught you that peers are mean and critical. Maybe you learned never to ask for help because, your parents warned, people would think you’re weak. Maybe living in a Western culture that idealizes extroverts taught you, as Susan Cain puts it, that your quiet temperament fell “somewhere between a disappointment and a pathology.” However social anxiety worked its way into your brain, you somehow learned to believe that people would judge you and find you lacking. And of course, just like Jim hiding from Deena, you learned to avoid. Maybe being the center of attention as a kid made you so uncomfortable you’ve avoided it ever since and never had the opportunity to learn you could handle it just fine. Perhaps you bolt at the end of the meeting to miss the ensuing small talk, feign illness so you don’t have to go to the holiday party, or stare at your phone whenever you feel nervous, all of which inadvertently keeps you stuck. You don’t get the chance to discover this social stuff isn’t as bad as you think and maybe, just maybe, you got this. Second, with introversion, solitude makes you feel good. But with social anxiety, it just makes you less anxious. It’s a fine distinction—feeling less anxious feels good, too—so let’s look a little closer. Introverts gain energy by being alone, one-to-one, or in a small group of trusted confidants. If you’re an introvert, being in solitude is refreshing and recharges your batteries. By contrast, with social anxiety being alone makes you less anxious, which might feel good, but it’s more a sense of relief than contentment. You may tell yourself, “I don’t care,” about missing the reunion or turning down the invitation to karaoke, but deep down, avoiding people leaves you lonely or filled with regret. But the drive to make anxiety go away is strong. So you may avoid events you’d otherwise love to attend because you’re worried about making a fool of yourself, getting rejected, or feeling awkward. We might say to ourselves, “Parties freak me out,” “I’m worried I’m going to say something stupid,” “I always feel like I have nothing to say,” while the non-anxious introvert simply says, “It’s not my scene,” “It’s not my style,” and then invites a friend over to hang out the next day. Third, social anxiety thrives on perfectionism. We’ll cover this one in chapter 13, but here’s a sneak peak. With perfectionism, far from fifty shades of gray, you think your social performance is black or white. As you see it, only a flawless social showing can stave off harsh criticism. You’re either perfect—you come off as witty, articulate, and cool as a cucumber—or you’re a stammering idiot whom everyone sneers at and turns their backs on. And that kind of pressure is paralyzing; we think we’ll be rejected unless we come off as the paragon of effortless social banter, which instead just makes us clam up.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  This is important: Derrick assumed the empty gym was the result of his social skills. And indeed, when self-consciousness gets the best of us we may think our empty weekend, empty calendar, or empty bed is the result of our lack of social skills. We think there’s some rule we don’t know, some magic we’re not privy to. This brings us to the fifth myth: I have lousy social skills. Getting sucked into social anxiety makes us say things like “I don’t know how to make conversation,” “I’m not very good at small talk,” “I have nothing to say,” “I always end up doing something stupid,” or, like Rosie, claim not to know how to be normal. Skill is part of the equation, but it’s small. There are basic rules that Western culture has created, like greeting with a smile and a firm handshake or, say, not giving unwanted shoulder rubs to female world leaders at a G8 summit. Now, it is possible your skills are underdeveloped due to avoiding social situations. You may be rusty, but you’re not hopeless. As with Derrick, it’s not I don’t have it in me. If anything holds you back, it’s anxiety, which simply keeps you from accessing your skills. Think how you behave around those with whom you are comfortable. Are your social skills still lacking? Probably not. As with Derrick, most often the apparent disappearance of our social skills is the fault of the Inner Critic. If you’re actively worried about coming across as creepy or weird or awkward or idiotic, the Inner Critic is going to berate you into a lot of false positives. Or, like Derrick (or Rosie or Vivian, for that matter), if you put a lot of pressure on yourself for things to go perfectly, you’re guaranteed to feel stifled. Then the resulting inhibition feels like you don’t have skills. It feels like we have no idea what to do, feels like we have nothing to say, feels like we’re going to screw up or do something stupid. But the feeling that we have no social skills is the result of anxiety, not the other way around.1 * * *

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I loved to stroll about the Empire - the handsomest hall in England, as Walter had described it, the hall to which Kitty had longed so ardently, so uselessly! for an invitation - I loved to stroll about it with my back to its glorious golden stage, my costume bright beneath the ungentle glare of its electric chandeliers, my hair gleaming, my trousers bulging, my lips pink, my figure and pose reeking, as the gay boys say, of lavender, their import bold and unmistakable - but false. The singers and comedians I never looked at once. I had finished with that world, entirely. All, as I have said, went smoothly; then, in the first few warm weeks of 1891 - that is, a year and more after my flight from Kitty - there came a bothersome interruption to my little routine. I returned to the knocking-shop after an evening of rather heavy renting to find the old proprietress missing, her chair overturned, and the door to my chamber splintered and flung wide. What had happened I never found out for sure; it seemed that the madam had been taken or chased away - though whether by a policeman or a rival bawd, no one professed to know. Anyway, thieves had taken advantage of her absence to steal into the house, to frighten and threaten the girls and their customers, and help themselves to anything that they could lift: the oozing mattresses and rugs, the broken looking-glasses, the few rickety bits of furniture — also my frocks, shoes, bonnet and purse. The loss was not a great one to me; but it meant that I must go home in my masculine attire - I was wearing the old Oxford bags, and a boater - and attempt to reach my room at Mrs Best’s without her catching me. It was quite late, and I walked very slowly to Smithfield, in the hope that all the Bests might be abed and sleeping by the time I got there - and, indeed, when I reached the house, the windows were dark and all seemed still. I let myself in and stepped silently up the stairs - horribly mindful of the last time I had crept, noiselessly, through a slumbering house, and all that the creeping had led to. Perhaps it was the memory that made me blunder: for half-way up I put my hand to my head - and my hat went soaring over the banister to land with a thud in the passageway below. I came, cursing, to a halt.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  There I counted on getting information of any place that such a country girl as I might be fit for, and where I could get into any sort of being, before my little stock should be consumed; and as to a character, Esther had often repeated to me, that I might depend on her managing me one; nor, however affected I was at her leaving me thus, did I entirely cease to rely on her, as I began to think, good-naturedly, that her procedure was all in course, and that is was only my ignorance of life that had made me take it in the light I at first did. Accordingly, the next morning I dressed myself as clean and as neat as my rustic wardrobe would permit me; and having left my box, with special recommendation, with the landlady, I ventured out by myself, and without any more difficulty than can be supposed of a young country girl, barely fifteen, and to whom every sign or shop was a gazing trap, I got to the wished for intelligence office. It was kept by an elderly woman, who sat at the receipt of custom, with a book before her in great form and order, and several scrolls made out, of directions for places. I made up then to this important personage, without lifting up my eyes or observing any of the people round me, who were attending there on the same errand as myself, and dropping her curtsies nine deep, just made a shift to stammer out my business to her.

• From Best Erotica & Sexual Deviance Narratives Ever Written (2024)

  She advised her nephew that she was writing to Paris to beg the Duc de Sonzeval to waste not a moment to take up the matter of the recently deceased uncle's inheritance for if no one were to appear to claim it, there was litigation to be feared; she added that she had requested the Duke to come and give her a complete account of the affair, in order that she might learn whether or not she and her nephew would be obliged to make a journey to Paris. Too skillful a physiognomist to fail to notice the embarrassment in his aunt's face, to fail to observe, as well, some confusion written upon mine, the Count smiled at everything and was no less on his guard. Under the pretext of taking a promenade, he leaves the chateau; he lies in wait for the courier at a place the man must inevitably pass. The messenger, far more a creature of the Count than his aunt's trustworthy minion, raises no objections when his master demands to see the dispatches he is carrying, and Bressac, once convinced of what no doubt he calls my treachery, gives the courier a hundred louis, together with instructions never to appear again at the Marquise's. He returns to the chateau, rage in his heart; however, he restrains himself; he encounters me, as usual he cajoles me, asks whether it shall not be tomorrow, points out it is essential the deed be performed before the Duke's arrival, then goes to bed with a tranquil air about which nothing is to be remarked. At the time I knew nothing, I was the dupe of everything. Were the appalling crime to be committed Ä as the Count's actions informed me later Ä he would of course have to commit it himself; but I did not know how; I conjectured much; what good would it do to tell you what I imagined? Rather, let us move ahead to the cruel manner in which I was punished for not having wished to undertake the thing.

• From Between Us

  Sociologist Arlie Hochschild’s landmark book, The Managed Heart, first brought attention to a very similar problem for workers in the service industry. Hochschild explored two opposite ends of the continuum of “emotion labor.” On one end, flight attendants were to be warm and caring with their customers. “Our smiles are not just painted on,” proclaimed one airlines company, trying to sell not just the flight attendants’ smiles, but their true feelings. As another company put it: “Our flight attendants’ smiles will be more human than the phony smiles you’re resigned to seeing on people who are paid to smile.” On the other end, bill collectors enforced payments with their anger. In collection agencies, “[o]pen aggression was the official policy for wringing money out of debtors.” In both industries, companies worked hard to cultivate the emotions needed on the job. Strikingly, both industries targeted feelings, not just displays of emotion. Flight attendants were taught “to see the passenger as a potential friend, . . . and to be as understanding as one would be with a good friend.” Bill collectors were taught to think of their customers as “loafers” and “cheats.” The companies’ understanding was that the best results were reached if emotions came from the inside out. Despite companies’ best efforts, however, many a flight attendant could “not bring themselves to think of an airplane cabin as their living room full of personal guests [because] it seemed too much like a cabin full of 300 demanding strangers.” And some bill collectors felt empathy rather than disdain for their debtors. While meeting the demands of the job at a superficial level, they would have “a sense of being phony or insincere,” and ultimately fall victim to burnout.

• From Going Clear (2013)

  It has been the source of many telling personal stories, as well as documents leaked by church insiders. Rathbun and his wife, Monique Carle, have suffered constant harassment, along with surveillance by private investigators, because of his open challenge to Miscavige’s authority. In researching this book, I conducted hundreds of interviews, the preponderance of them on the record. I have always been sparing in relying on anonymous sources, but writing about Scientology poses a challenge for a reporter. A number of my sources were fearful of retribution by the church—in particular, legal harassment and the loss of contact with family members. Many key individuals have signed confidentiality agreements that enforce their silence. I owe all my sources a great debt of gratitude for their willingness to speak to me despite the risk to their own well-being. Paul Haggis plays a unique role in this book. He never intended to talk publicly about his experience in the church. That he opened up to me, knowing the church’s reputation for retribution, is a measure of his courage and his forthrightness. This book is dedicated to my colleagues at the New Yorker, and so my list of debts includes the many people there who assisted me in writing the profile of Paul Haggis (“The Apostate,” Feb. 14 and 21, 2011) that became the starting point for my research into Scientology. I had talked previously with David Remnick, the editor of the magazine, about an article on the Church of Scientology. David appreciated the legal hazards, but I don’t think either of us realized the amount of time and resources the piece would ultimately require. His commitment was all the more meaningful coming during a period when the magazine was under the same financial stress that other print media were experiencing. My editor at the New Yorker, Daniel Zalewski, has shepherded me through many articles, and his steadiness and advocacy are always deeply appreciated. Daniel’s assistant at the time, Yvette Siegert, cheerfully flew to St. Louis as our deadline approached to fetch L. Ron Hubbard’s military records from the archives there. Lynn Oberlander, the magazine’s lawyer, was a stalwart ally, undaunted by the legal team arrayed by the church and by certain celebrities who were mentioned in the article. Ann Goldstein, the magazine’s copy chief, did her usual careful and respectful job. Nick Traverse and Kelly Bare labored to put the thousands of pages of documents on the Cloud—a highly experimental procedure at this old-school magazine—so that we could all have access to the same material simultaneously. I want to pay particular tribute to the New Yorker fact-checking department, headed by Peter Canby. Jennifer Stahl was the lead checker, spending six months full-time on the piece; her scrupulousness was inspiring, and she commanded the respect of everyone who dealt with her.

• From The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian (2007)

  And most especially because I was a Spokane Indian playing against his old friends (and enemies). A local news crew came out to interview me before the game. “So, Arnold, how does it feel to play against your former teammates?” the sports guy asked me. “It’s kind of weird,” I said. “How weird?” “Really weird.” Yep, I was scintillating. The sports guy stopped the interview. “Listen,” he said. “I know this is a difficult thing. You’re young. But maybe you could get more specific about your feelings.” “My feelings?” I asked. “Yeah, this is a major deal in your life, isn’t it?” Well, duh, yeah, of course it was a major deal. It was maybe the biggest thing in my life ever, but I wasn’t about to share my feelings with the whole world. I wasn’t going to start blubbering for the local sports guy like he was my priest or something. I had some pride, you know? I believed in my privacy. It wasn’t like I’d called the guy and offered up my story, you know? And I was kind of suspicious that white people were really interested in seeing some Indians battle each other. I think it was sort of like watching dogfighting, you know? It made me feel exposed and primitive. “So, okay,” the sports guy said. “Are you ready to try again?” “Yeah.” “Okay, let’s roll.” The camera guy started filming. “So, Arnold,” the sports guy said. “Back in December, you faced your old classmates, and fellow Spokane tribal members, in a basketball game back on the reservation, and you lost. They’re now the number one–ranked team in the state and they’re coming to your home gym. How does that make you feel?” “Weird,” I said. “Cut, cut, cut, cut,” the sports guy said. He was mad now. “Arnold,” he said. “Could you maybe think of a word besides weird?” I thought for a bit. “Hey,” I said. “How about I say that it makes me feel like I’ve had to grow up really fast, too fast, and that I’ve come to realize that every single moment of my life is important. And that every choice I make is important. And that a basketball game, even a game between two small schools in the middle of nowhere, can be the difference between being happy and being miserable for the rest of my life.” “Wow,” the sports guy said. “That’s perfect. That’s poetry.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  There’s really nothing to biopsy at this point . He reads the concern in her face. You don’t have cancer if that’s what you’re thinking. So relax … How can he be so sure without a biopsy? Are you stressed-out? he asks. What, is he kidding? Of course she’s stressed-out. She’s a junior at Harvard, isn’t she? [image file=Image00006.jpg] CAITLIN CALLED from L.A. on a blustery winter day. “I couldn’t take another minute in London. It’s been so gray, so damp. I thought I’d never feel warm again. I’m visiting Sharkey. He’s so involved with whatever it is he’s studying he barely has time to see me, which is just as well because you’ll never guess who I ran into out here.” “I can’t imagine.” “Tim Castellano.” “Tim Castellano!” She hadn’t thought about him in years, not since high school. The story broke just a couple of months after the summer they’d baby-sat Max. It made the cover of People . Tawny brought a copy home from the supermarket. “Did you have any inkling while you were working for them, Victoria?” “No,” Vix had lied, thinking of the hardness inside his pants when she’d thrown herself over the seat and landed on his lap. “Imagine having an affair while your wife is pregnant … and walking out on her the day you bring the baby home from the hospital. Despicable . I’ll bet this ruins his career.” It didn’t. He’d left TV behind for feature films, while Loren’s career just fizzled. Vix had brought the magazine to school to show Caitlin. “An eighteen-year-old model?” she’d cried. “He left Loren for some eighteen-year-old from New Zealand when he could have had me?” “Aren’t you glad he didn’t?” “I just wanted to have sex with him, Vix. I didn’t want him to leave his marriage. And I still think he’d have been a good one for my first. At least he’d have known what he was doing.” Vix thwacked her across the butt with the magazine. Caitlin said, “Someday I’m going to finish what I started with him.” And here she was, six years later, finishing what she’d started. “I didn’t have to seduce him or anything,” Caitlin told her. “All I had to say was ‘Remember me?’ and he said, ‘How could I forget, Spitfire?’ So we met for a drink … I was wearing white, everybody wears white out here, and one thing led to another.” “So how was it?” Vix asked, angry at herself for caring. “Actually, the first time was fantastic … we were both so hot we hardly had a chance to take off our clothes … and God, Vix, he’s got an incredible Package … but once I’d satisfied my curiosity … well, we didn’t have that much to say to one another. Two weeks was more than enough.” Vix looked out the window. It was still snowing. And she had a cold that wouldn’t go away. She also had two papers due.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  Okay, your turn. So let’s add to that Challenge List again. Now that you’ve done some smaller-scale stuff with your brave pants on, nudge yourself along to some things that scare you a little more, and this time get rid of the very things you think are keeping you safe. If you’re worried that your hands shake, your life preserver might be to drink only from a bottle, not a cup that might shake and spill. If you’re worried about blushing, you may wear one of your many turtlenecks. If you’re worried about running out of things to say, you may only go to parties with your partner. So drop the life preserver, pour your beer in a glass, and leave the bottle behind. Put on a V-neck shirt, blushing be damned. Go stag to a party. Or all three. Whatever your life preserver, leave it at home and see what happens. Try it out. Or as a wise, short-statured social anxiety therapist once said, “Do. Or do not. There is no try.” Below, fill in some new challenges, along with the safety behaviors you’d like to drop. Then, as Dr. Richard Heimberg, the aforementioned father of social anxiety research, said to me when I asked the secret to overcoming social anxiety, “Go forth and do.” 5. My challenge (what I would be doing if I weren’t anxious): ____________________ Safety behavior(s) I want to drop: ____________________ 6. My challenge (what I would be doing if I weren’t anxious): ____________________ Safety behavior(s) I want to drop: ____________________ 7. My challenge (what I would be doing if I weren’t anxious): ____________________ Safety behavior(s) I want to drop: ____________________ * * * Nice work. As Dr. Seuss might say, you’re off to great places; you’re off and away! We’re almost up to the hardest stuff on your list. As you cruise into the home stretch, you may wish to psych yourself up with a pep talk—perhaps some self-affirmations. But affirmations often get a bad rap, evoking cheesy, overly earnest sessions with the bathroom mirror. The interweb makes fun of affirmations: “I become better each day in every way. Unless there is a Golden Girls marathon on, and then I’m not leaving the house.” Or, “I honor and express all facets of my being, regardless of state and local laws.” We make fun of affirmations because they feel tacky and dumb. But worse, they feel like a lie. If we try, in desperation, to psych ourselves up for our Challenge List with affirmations—I got this! I’m gonna be awesome! Yeah!—we are left feeling deflated. Why? Because we don’t believe them.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  She hadn’t taken her head from Walter’s shoulder, and she had not glanced towards me, at all. Finally Walter gave a snort, and waved the blustering manager away. He turned to me. He said, ‘Nan, I am taking Kitty home, at once. There’s no question now of you going on for your final number; I’m afraid, too, that we must forfeit our supper. I shall hail us a hansom; will you follow with Flora and the gear, in the carriage? I should like to get Kitty back to Ginevra Road as swiftly as possible.’ I hesitated, then looked at Kitty again. She raised her eyes to mine at last, very briefly, and nodded. ‘All right,’ I said. I watched them leave. Walter took up his cloak, and - though it was far too large for her, and trailed upon the dusty floor - he placed it over Kitty’s slender shoulders. She clasped it tight at the throat, then let him usher her away, past the angry manager and the knot of whispering boys. By the time I reached Ginevra Road - after having gathered our boxes and bags together at Deacon’s, and delivered Flora to her own house in Lambeth - Walter had gone, our rooms were dark, and Kitty was in bed, apparently asleep. I bent over her, and stroked her head. She did not stir, and I didn’t like to wake her to perhaps more upset. Instead, I simply undressed, and lay close beside her, and placed my hand upon her heart - which beat on, very fiercely, through her dreams. The disastrous night at Deacon’s brought changes with it, and made some things a little strange. We did not sing at the hall again, but broke our contract - losing money on the deal. Kitty became choosier about the theatres we worked at; she began to question Walter, too, about the other acts that we must share the bills with. Once he booked us to appear alongside an American artist - a man called ‘Paul or Pauline?’ whose turn was to dance in and out of an ebony cabinet, dressed now as a woman, now as a man, and singing soprano and baritone by turns. I thought the act was a good one; but when Kitty saw him work, she made us cancel. She said the man was a freak, and would make us seem freakish by association ... We lost money on that deal, too. In the end I marvelled at Walter’s patience.

• From Tipping the Velvet (1998)

  I’m the girl who asked you to supper, then left you standing, without a word, on Judd Street? ‘I’m a friend of Miss Derby’s,’ I said at last. Florence blinked. ‘Miss Derby?’ she said. ‘Miss Derby, from the Ponsonby Trust?’ I nodded. ‘Yes. I - I met you once, a long time ago. I was passing through Bethnal Green, on a visit, and thought I might call. I brought you some watercresses ...’ We turned our heads and gazed at them. They had been placed on a table near the door and looked very sad, for I had fallen upon them when I swooned. The leaves were crushed and blackened, the stems broken, the paper damp and green. Florence said, ‘That was kind of you.’ I smiled a little nervously. For a second there was a silence - then the baby gave a kick and a yell, and she bent to pick it up and hold it against her breast, saying as she did so: ‘Shall Mama take you? There, now.’ Then the man reappeared, bearing a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter which he set, with a smile, on the arm of my chair. Florence placed her chin upon the baby’s head. ‘Ralph,’ she said, ‘this lady is a friend of Miss Derby’s - do you remember, Miss Derby that I used to work for?’ ‘Good heavens,’ said the man - Ralph. He was still in his shirt-sleeves; now he picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and put it on. I busied myself with my cup and plate. The tea was very hot and sweet: the best tea, I thought, that I had ever tasted. The baby gave another cry, and Florence began to sway and jiggle, and to smooth the child’s head, distractedly, with her cheek. Soon the cry became a gurgle, and then a sigh; and hearing it, I sighed too - but turned it into a breath for cooling my tea with, in case they thought I was about to start up weeping again. There was another silence; then, ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name,’ said Florence. To Ralph she explained: ‘It seems we met once.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Miss Astley,’ I said. ‘Miss Nancy Astley.’ Florence nodded; Ralph held out his hand for mine, and shook it warmly. ‘I’m very glad to meet you, Miss Astley,’ he said. Then he gestured to my cheek. ‘That’s a smart eye you have.’ I said, ‘It is, rather, ain’t it?’ He looked kind. ‘Perhaps it was the blow, as made you faint. You gave us quite a scare.’ ‘I’m sorry.

• From How to Be Yourself: Quiet Your Inner Critic and Rise Above Social Anxiety (2018)

  However, imminent threats to bodily harm aren’t the only kind of threat for which the amygdala sounds the alarm. Change the snarling dog to a snarling stranger and our sirens blare just as loudly. For those of us vulnerable to social anxiety, the stranger doesn’t even have to be snarling—she simply has to be a stranger. Indeed, the last time the Kagan lab followed up on Jennifer and the other inhibited and uninhibited kids, rather than twenty-one months old they were twenty-one years old, the same age I was when I sat sweating in Professor Garcia Coll’s seminar. But this time around, into the MRI scanner they went. The goal was to peer into their brains, to see what structures and functions, if any, might differentiate the inhibited and the uninhibited. In order to test this, the team created a slide show of sorts—a parade of faces, shown one after another on a screen. In the scanner, grown-up Jennifer and others saw portraits of stranger after stranger flash by. But then some of the faces began to repeat themselves. The same portrait might be shown two, three, or more times—eventually, strangers no longer. When they saw these familiarized faces, the kids’ inhibited and uninhibited brains reacted the same way, which is to say, they didn’t react. But when a truly novel face suddenly appeared on the screen, uninhibited kids’ amygdala remained calm while the inhibited kids’ amygdala lit up like a pair of headlights. A new person—whether a stranger with a pink puzzle or a portrait in an MRI scanner—was threatening, according to their inhibited amygdala. So are those of us prone to social anxiety doomed to walk through life with blaring amygdala-induced alarms? Not always. Put your hand on your forehead as if checking for a fever. Directly beneath your palm is your prefrontal cortex, the part of your brain responsible for, well, responsibility, and higher-order thinking in general. It plans ahead, works toward goals, makes decisions, and suppresses unacceptable, NSFW urges. What’s more, specific areas of it can talk the amygdala down from its social freak-outs.2 It can help your amygdala realize that your boss is grumpy because she’s under a deadline, not mad at you, that there are other fish in the sea even if your date just wasn’t that into you, or that lots of people like you even if your amygdala is screaming otherwise.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  De todos modos, probablemente el volante sea de Cole. Pero por reflejo, le doy la vuelta y veo la escritura en la parte posterior. ¡¡Haz ese $, chica!! Arqueo una ceja. ¿Esto es de Jordan? Es de The Hook. ¿Su hermana le dio esto? Jesús, ¿qué le pasa a esa chica? ¿Quién animaría a su hermana menor a participar en un concurso de camisetas mojadas, por el amor de Dios? Aunque por otro lado, no es esta noche y ella lo desechó, así que eso es algo bueno. Pero ahora estoy ansioso. Me gusta la chica. No quiero que sienta que tiene que hacer mierdas como esta para ganar dinero. No los estoy echando de mi casa, ¿o sí? Arrojo el papel y froto mi cuero cabelludo, exasperado. A Dutch le gusta meterse con la gente, especialmente conmigo, pero sí durmió en una mesa de billar porque era demasiado orgullosa para pedir ayuda. No toma las mejores decisiones. Gruño, sabiendo que ahora no me voy a relajar. Deslizando mi teléfono en mi bolsillo, tomo mis llaves y apago las luces antes de salir de la casa. Subiendo a mi camioneta, enciendo el motor y prendo la radio lo más alto que puedo soportarlo para distraerme de la preocupación acumulándose en mis entrañas. Solo tuvo que llamar e inventar una mierda, ¿cierto? Aunque parecía más entretenido que angustiado, por lo que probablemente estaba fastidiándome. Solo quiere que salga de la casa. Toma menos de diez minutos llegar a Grounders y encuentro un espacio de estacionamiento a la vuelta de la esquina, no demasiado lejos. Puedo escuchar la música desde aquí y me pregunto si las ligas locales tuvieron algunos partidos de béisbol esta noche y todos siguen celebrando. Portándose mal. Sacudo mi cabeza, abriendo la puerta. La chica no sabe el significado de la palabra. Es tan buena como el oro. Respirando profundamente, abro la puerta y casi hago una mueca por el ruido. Es difícil de creer que, esto exactamente fue lo mío alguna vez. Addicted to Love resuena a través de terribles bocinas y las mesas redondas y altas están repletas de clientes. El bar está lleno, ni un solo taburete vacío y miro alrededor, viendo que las cabinas también están llenas. Algunas mujeres hacen cola para ir al baño, la mesa de billar está rodeada por espectadores y el aire es humeante y cargado. Ya puedo sentir los ojos sobre mí. Asiento hacia Calista Mankin mientras sus ojos se iluminan y me saluda, y veo a James Lowry por el rabillo mi ojo. Ambas personas probablemente solo las he visto cinco veces desde la escuela preparatoria y ya me siento incómodo. Mi mirada finalmente cae sobre Jordan mientras se para frente a la rocola, las páginas dan vuelta frente a ella mientras escanea la lista de reproducción a través del cristal. La multitud es densa, pero veo la parte de atrás de su cabeza. Reconocería su cabello en cualquier parte.

• From Summer Sisters (1998)

  “Will he be enough for her? Will the island be enough? Or is she just playing some game?” “I don’t know that either.” Abby dropped the flashlight on the bed and took Vix’s hand. “How about you … will you be all right tonight?” “I’ll be fine.” “And tomorrow … at the wedding?” Vix nodded. “Don’t worry.” Abby kissed her. “That’s my girl.” AbbyWHAT CAN SHE DO ? You have to be happy for your children even when you don’t understand their decisions. Lamb is as surprised as she is, but pleased. Of all the choices Caitlin might have made over the years, this one doesn’t seem so bad to him. And it’s close to home. After the tragedy of losing her friends, after the monastery, this feels like a positive step. Besides, he reminds her, Vix and Bru broke up years ago. He’s sure Vix has given them her blessing. [image file=Image00006.jpg] PHOEBE SPOTS VIX across the room and waves her over. She introduces Vix to her current boyfriend, Philippe, who’s French, older, dignified. “Tacky, n’est-ce pas?” she asks, pulling the T-shirt over her head. She bends over, letting her hair hang to the floor, before quickly straightening up and flipping it back. Then she belts the T-shirt over her long denim skirt. With her Santa Fe silver Phoebe still looks stylish. Vix isn’t thrilled about wearing the T-shirt either since she’s carefully chosen a dress with an eye-catching neckline. Looking good tonight is important to her. But she can’t be a spoilsport. Dorset, Lamb’s sister, is the only one who refuses to don the shirt. No one argues with her. Bru’s extended family greets Vix—the uncles, the aunts, all those cousins, including Von with a very pregnant Patti and two little girls, one of whom is wailing. “What do you say, Vix?” Von asks. “Wasn’t sure you’d show.” “Please … I’m the Maid of Honor.” She tries to keep it light. No bad feelings on her part. After all, she’s the one who’d said no. She’s the one who wasn’t ready. And that’s exactly what she’ll tell anyone who asks, as if saying it will make it easier to take. “So, how’s it going in the Big Apple?” Von says. “It’s lively …” She starts to say more, then thinks better of it. Why try to justify her decision now, especially to Von? “More lively than here, I’ll bet,” Patti says. “Bitch, bitch, bitch …” Von gives Patti a look of such contempt it makes Vix cringe. Patti shoves the screaming toddler at Von and heads for the women’s room. Vix follows. “You just don’t know,” Patti says. “He’s always like that … pissed off at me for living.” She goes into the single stall while Vix applies lip gloss and brushes her hair. “Everybody goes crazy on this island,” Patti continues, from inside. “ ‘Just take me to Boston a couple of times during the winter,’ I beg him. You think he cares?