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 82 of 501 · 20 per page

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Simplemente no la quiero aquí, porque sé que Mick la quiere, ella necesita dinero, y esta noche hice que su situación en mi casa se sintiera inestable. Está molesta, ¿y si comienza a pensar que necesita mudarse? ¿Qué pasa si toma unas copas y decide que necesita ganar un dinero extra? Paso mi mano por mi cabello, sintiendo el gel que puse en él y recordando cómo me limpié para ella, incluso me cambié de ropa. Echo un vistazo al traje azul marino que compré el año pasado para la graduación de Cole, pero esta noche dejé fuera la corbata. Solo una camisa blanca abierta en el cuello, y unos zapatos negros. No sé por qué me lo puse, porque ahora me siento estúpido, pero creo que solo quiero que sepa que no soy un libro abierto, puedo ser diferente, aún puedo sorprenderla. Retrocedo para irme, rezando para que no me haya visto, pero la multitud en el club vitorea y brama, y mi atención se dirige al escenario donde un grupo de chicas están de pie en una fila. Están vestidas con cualquier cosa, desde jeans hasta faldas y tangas, con aspecto nervioso pero riendo y jugando. Un par de mujeres ya han comenzado el concurso, y parece que la voluntad de ganar trescientos dólares ahora exige medidas más extremas que en mi época. Dos mujeres ya están mojadas, una mujer mayor viene y les arroja jarras de agua mientras se meten las camisas empapadas y agitan sus pechos y luego se dan la vuelta, sentadas a horcajadas sobre el piso mientras mueven sus culos para la multitud rugiente. Vierten más agua en sus espaldas. Las cabezas de cabello mojado vuelan, y bien pueden estar jodidamente desnudas. Prácticamente lo están. Algunos de los chicos tienen sus teléfonos con cámara, y estoy bastante seguro que no está permitido, pero a nadie le importa. Estas mujeres no son principiantes, ¿verdad? Jordan no puede hacer esa mierda. ¿Puede? Justo en ese momento, un grupo de mujeres arrastra a una joven rubia al escenario y veo a Jordan resistirse, riéndose pero sacudiendo la cabeza con nerviosismo. Qué dem... No puedo escucharla, pero veo sus labios articular no una y otra vez mientras clava los talones e intenta alejar sus brazos de su hermana. Alguien por detrás se estira frente a ella y baja la cremallera de su pequeña sudadera blanca, y me lanzo hacia adelante, pero luego vierten una jarra de agua sobre su pecho, y me detengo, momentáneamente congelado. Sus ojos y boca se abren, y se ve como si estuviera conmocionada por el agua fría, indudablemente, mientras permanece allí con las manos extendidas y la sudadera colgando de sus brazos desnudos. Las puntas de su cabello están mojadas, pero sus capas largas y sensuales se revuelven alrededor de su rostro, y el agua fluye por su estómago, haciendo que su piel brille.

• 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)

  Agacha la cabeza, escaneando el suelo frente a él. —Recibí todas tus cartas. Gracias por las tarjetas telefónicas. ¿Quieres decir las que no usaste para llamarme? Sonrío, sin culparlo. Era una pequeña posibilidad, pero me alegra que recibiera todo. Siempre y cuando supiera que estaba pensando en él… —¿Cómo estás? —Doy un paso al frente y bajo la caja de herramientas, sacando un trapo de mi bolsillo trasero para limpiarme las manos. No habla y respira profundamente. Finalmente, levanta sus ojos azules. —¿Tienes cerveza? Asiento suavemente y lo llevo a la cocina. El aire acondicionado me golpea, enfriando el sudor en mi espalda, y mis nervios hacen que sea difícil respirar, peor en este momento no estoy tan nervioso como pensé que estaría. No está gritando todavía, así que es una buena señal. Abro dos botellas de Corona. La luz del sol de la tarde se desvanece de la mesa de la cocina mientras se oculta detrás de unas nubes. Toma asiento, y hago lo mismo. Cuando permanece en silencio, me doy cuenta que la pelota está en mi cancha. —Entonces, ¿eres feliz? —le pregunto—. ¿En la fuerza militar? Tuve tiempo para acostumbrarme a la idea, especialmente después que su reclutador me lo asegurara, pero necesitaba escucharlo de él. —Sí. —Baja su cerveza a la mesa, manteniendo su puño alrededor de ésta—. No lo sé, supongo que es lo que necesitaba. Ser desgarrado para que me reconstruyeran mejor. Espero para que continúe. —No puedo dormir hasta tarde —dice—. No puedo llegar ebrio. No puedo decir que estoy enfermo si me siento flojo ese día… apesta, pero tengo un trabajo y dinero en la cuenta. Una carrera. Eso se siente muy bien. —Finalmente levanta la mirada—. Tengo un futuro, y para alguien que nunca supo dónde demonios estaba su lugar en el mundo, es algo bueno que los militares decidieran por ti y te dieran dirección. —¿Estás seguro? —Levanto la botella, dándole un trago. Me encanta que esté haciendo algo con su vida, pero también quiero asegurarme que esté haciendo su propio camino. Continúa. —Ahí es donde Jordan y yo nunca tuvimos sentido. Ella sabía lo que estaba en su mente, y lo resentía cuando estaba con ella, porque yo nunca lo supe. —Deja escapar un suspiro—. Yo no era su igual, nunca lo suficientemente bueno para ella. Nunca sería lo suficientemente fuerte mentalmente. Algunos de nosotros simplemente no lo somos. Mi corazón se detiene ante sonido de su nombre, pero lo ignoro. No estoy seguro de que unirse a los militares fuera algo que realmente quisiera hacer con su vida, pero estoy seguro que no estaba encontrando respuestas en este pueblo. Al menos lo sabía. Fue lo suficientemente fuerte para dar ese salto. —Tú hiciste eso, ¿no es así? —pregunto—. Lograste pasar el entrenamiento. Estoy orgulloso de ti. Veo su manzana de Adán subir y bajar, y los músculos de su mandíbula moverse. Toma otro sorbo, todavía sin mirarme.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Se sienta un par de sillas a un lado, me mira y luego de regreso a donde estuve sentada cuando mi teléfono y vino se cayeron. —Puedes sentarte. —Apunta el asiento a su lado, probablemente dándose cuenta que también estoy sola esta noche. —Gracias —le dijo—. Solo iré… No termino. Retrocedo y tomo mi bolso, dándome la vuelta para ir a mi propio asiento cuando veo a un tipo y una chica entrar al teatro. Me congelo, viéndolos girar a la izquierda hacia la fila trasera del otro lado de la sala y tomar asiento. Mierda. Jay McCabe. El único otro novio que he tenido aparte de Cole, y hace parecer a Cole como un príncipe. Desafortunadamente, todavía le encanta lanzarme indirectas cada vez que tiene la oportunidad, y no hay forma en el infierno de que vaya a lidiar con él esta noche. —¿Estás bien? —pregunta el tipo de la luz del teléfono cuando no me muevo— . Prometo que no me propasaré. Eres muy vieja para mí. Le disparo una mirada, olvidándome de Jay y la chica por un momento. ¿Demasiado vieja para él? Observo su más de metro ochenta, la silueta de los músculos a través de su camiseta, y su abultado brazo derecho con una manga completa de tatuajes desapareciendo bajo su camiseta. He visto muchos tipos en el bar, y no se ve como ninguno de diecinueve años que haya conocido. Tiene que tener al menos, ¿qué? ¿Treinta? Resopla. —Estoy bromeando —señala, su boca se extiende en una amplia sonrisa que hace que mi rostro caiga un poco—. Si no quieres ver la película sola, eres bienvenida a sentarte. Es lo único que quise decir. Muevo mi mirada a Jay y a quien sea que está con él, pero luego un grupo de chicos de repente entra por las puertas dobles, haciendo mucho ruido mientras ingresan al teatro. Veo a Jay apartar la vista de la chica y mirar la conmoción, y me dejo caer en el asiento al lado del tipo por instinto, sin querer que Jay me viera. —Gracias —le digo al tipo a mi lado. Siento la presencia de mi ex en el teatro, y los viejos recuerdos regresan, recordando lo impotente que le permití hacerme sentir en un momento. Solo quiero una noche en la que no esté pensando en todo. Me echo hacia atrás y me relajo, pero entonces miro de reojo, la cercana proximidad de un tipo que no conozco sentado a mi lado de repente es como una ardiente hoguera e imposible de ignorar. Giro la cabeza, mirándolo con aprensión. —No eres un asesino en serie, ¿verdad? Frunce su ceño y me mira. —¿Tú lo eres? —Por lo general son hombres caucásicos y antisociales. ¿Un hombre apuesto aquí solo? Mmm… Arquea una gruesa ceja. —Y se ven como una persona normal —añade, con sospecha en su voz mientras me mira de arriba abajo.

• From Birthday Girl (2018)

  Termino la llamada y miro el reloj sobre la barra, viendo que ya es casi medianoche. Todavía dos horas, antes que mi novio piense que salí del trabajo y que necesito que me recoja. Y yo que pensaba que tendríamos una sorpresa esta noche, yo saliendo temprano. Mierda. Necesito arreglar mi auto. No puedo seguir confiando en él para que me lleve a todos lados. La música llena el aire a mi alrededor, los clientes ríen a mi derecha y uno de los otros camareros llena el refrigerador con hielo a mi izquierda. Siento unas punzadas de inquietud en la nuca. Si no responde, entonces está dormido o salió. Ambas cosas podrían significar que se acordará de mí después que sea demasiado tarde. No siempre es poco confiable, pero ésta tampoco sería la primera vez. Ese es el problema de hacer de tu amigo tu novio, supongo. Todavía piensa que puede salirse con la suya con cualquier cosa. Saco la camisa y la mochila del gabinete debajo de los grifos y meto el teléfono en mi bolsillo. Me pongo la camisa de franela sobre la blusa, la abotono y meto la parte delantera del dobladillo en mis jeans, tapándome. Me visto un poco sexy para conseguir propinas, pero no voy a salir de aquí de esta manera. —¿A dónde vas? —pregunta Shel, mirándome mientras saca una cerveza. Miro a mi jefa, su cabello negro con mechones rubios en la parte superior de su cabeza y una cadena de pequeños corazones tatuados alrededor de su antebrazo. —Hay una función de medianoche de Evil Dead en The Grand Theatre — contesto mientras cierro el gabinete y deslizo la correa de mi bolso de cuero sobre mi cabeza—. Iré a matar el tiempo y esperaré allí a Cole. Termina de servir su cerveza y me mira como si hubiera un millón de cosas que quisiera decir, pero ni siquiera sabe por dónde empezar. Sí, sí, lo sé. Desearía que dejara de mirarme así. Hay una buena posibilidad de que Cole no esté aquí a las dos de la madrugada, considerando que no contesta el teléfono en este momento. Ya lo sé. Podría estar completamente borracho en la casa de algún amigo. O podría estar en casa durmiendo, con la alarma puesta para venir a buscarme a las dos, y dejó su teléfono en otra habitación. No es probable, pero es posible. Tiene dos horas. Le daré dos horas. Además, mi hermana está trabajando, y nadie aquí puede irse para llevarme a casa. El trabajo es lento esta noche y me voy temprano porque soy la única sin un hijo que mantener. Aunque necesito desesperadamente el dinero de la misma manera. Agarro la correa del bolso sobre mi pecho, sintiendo que debería tener más de dieciocho años. Bueno, diecinueve ahora, casi olvido qué día es hoy.

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

  When I am wheeling a cart full of milk and bananas around the grocery store (SOCIAL SITUATION WHERE I FEEL ANXIOUS), it will become obvious that I am a weirdo (WHAT MY INNER CRITIC SAYS IS WRONG WITH ME). There are as many examples as there are ways to pretend to be absorbed in your smartphone: When I am speaking up at a meeting at work, it will become obvious that I am incompetent. When I am talking to the new intern, it will become obvious that I have no personality. When I am at Lauren’s birthday party, it will become obvious that I have no social skills. When I am on a first date, it will become obvious that I am unattractive. When I am at the job interview, it will become obvious that I am speaking with a trembling voice. When I am telling a story at brunch, it will become obvious that I am unable to express myself. When I am forced to make small talk with more than one person at a time, it will become obvious that my mind is going blank. So think about the last time you pulled at your shirt collar and thought, Is it hot in here? Fill in your Mad Libs here. Repeat as often as necessary. When _____________________________________, (SOCIAL SITUATION WHERE I FEEL ANXIOUS) it will become obvious that I am ______________________________________ (WHAT MY INNER CRITIC SAYS IS WRONG WITH ME). THE INNER CRITIC, BEFORE AND AFTER But the Inner Critic doesn’t just pop up in the moment. It’s present before and after a social moment as well. It’s there in the anticipation and in the aftermath. But don’t just take my word for it. Take my former client Loren’s: On this Thanksgiving Weekend, Loren is strangely thankful for the I-95 traffic in which he and his girlfriend, Sarah, now sit. Loren is exhausted. He’s been “on” all weekend, having met Sarah’s parents and sister for the first time, not to mention her grandmother, several aunts and uncles, and a multitude of cousins whose now-jumbled names all seemed to start with J. His cheeks hurt from smiling. He’s grateful that the fragrant pumpkin pie Sarah’s mother insisted they take back to campus doesn’t expect him to engage in small talk. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Do you think that went okay?” he asks Sarah. “I’m not sure if they liked me.” “Are you kidding?” says Sarah. “That went great. Everyone loved you. They were so happy to meet you.” “Really? I felt like I was too quiet. I should have talked more. But every time I thought of something, I felt like the conversation had moved on.” “Seriously? That never even occurred to me. You were so nice to everyone—I saw you and my dad talking for a long time during dessert.” “Yeah, he kind of cornered me,” says Loren. “We talked about beach cleanups and how plastic is choking the ocean.”

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

  Fast-forward almost forty years. Just after his fiftieth birthday, Jim hit a low point: after a long but fitful marriage, Jim’s wife packed her bags and moved in with another man, leaving Jim alone with his anxiety. “She used to call my anxiety ‘Your Thing,’” he remembers. “She would yell at me, ‘You need help!’ but when I finally saw a doctor, she hated the fact that I had to see someone.” After the divorce, Jim worked and ran necessary errands, but that’s about it. He would stay inside from the end of the workday on Friday until Monday morning. He read historical novels, somewhat because he liked them, but mostly because he was scared to do anything else. He would show up to the occasional family gathering—a christening, a wake—but from the moment the invitation came, two or three weeks before, he would start to worry and obsess about what he’d say, how he’d feel, how it would go. The day of, sometimes he’d cancel, fake-coughing into the phone, saying he was ill. Jim’s cousin Rosaleen noticed his absences and was concerned. She told him he had to get out or he would rot. She encouraged him to join a church, so he went to please her but stopped after a few weeks. Then she pushed a book club. “But you love to read,” she said when he shook his head. “You need to get yourself out of the house.” So he started going to the family lake house on weekends when no one else was using it. By himself at the lake, he’d people-watch but spoke to no one. Rosaleen rolled her eyes. This was not what she had in mind. Many of us have a Rosaleen in our lives. Encouragement for the socially anxious among us runs from the slightly patronizing (You can do it!) to the threatening (Do you want to die alone?). But in trying to remedy an underwhelming social life stunted by overwhelming unease, socializing because “it’s good for you” takes on all the appeal of eating your vegetables. Even if we have a nagging feeling that indeed we should “put ourselves out there,” the more others push, the more we dig in our heels. Plus, it doesn’t seem worth it. Why would we relent and go to a meetup, a party, or a volunteer event? To sweat bullets and feel awkward? We breathe sweet relief when we finally come home, thankful it’s over. But one weekend, Jim—Rosaleen’s admonitions in his head—reluctantly went to her house for an evening barbecue. As he sat on the couch in the living room, people circulated around him, chatting, holding paper plates of hamburgers and potato salad. Kids chased panting dogs and younger siblings. Someone walked behind him. The person stopped. After a beat, a woman’s voice asked, “What are you doing here?”

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

  The structure you choose might be formal and defined. For example, at a wedding you might create structure by offering to round up guests for photos or volunteering to ask attendees to sign the guest book. If you’re part of an organization, you might take on a leadership position so you have a reason to talk to every member, even if just to collect dues or verify their email address. If you’re a parent, you might volunteer to work the checkout stand at your kid’s school’s book fair, bake sale, or auction in order to practice talking to everyone who comes through the line. Even if there’s no predetermined job, you can still create structure by giving yourself an assignment. At a networking event, assign yourself the task of introducing yourself to three people. At the company holiday party, give yourself the job of chatting with your boss, your two closest colleagues, and the office manager. Or, like the women in the study, challenge yourself to get to know a new acquaintance as well as you can in five minutes. “But wait,” you say. “I get the general idea, but if I’m just playing a role, will any of it rub off on the real me? How can I get comfortable being myself if I set up all these constraints?” Good question. To answer, let’s go back to Johnny Carson. As a boy, Johnny was obsessed with magic—he would follow his family around the house, hounding them to “pick a card, any card!” He practiced his sleight-of-hand tricks in front of a mirror for hours. As a teenager, he started performing around his hometown of Norfolk, Nebraska, and he was good, good enough to earn three dollars—a monumental sum for a kid in the late 1930s—for his first performance at the local Rotary Club. But he wasn’t in it for the money. In another old Tonight Show segment, Johnny is ostensibly interviewing actress Bea Arthur. But for a moment, the roles reverse and he shares his own past. “I took up magic when I was young because I was somewhat shy and within myself,” he says. “And I thought that was a good way to go to parties. I read those ads: Be the life of the party! And get girls. Mainly I did it to get girls. Neither one worked well. But lots of people do that. They like to get up and perform. You can be the center of attention without being yourself, as such.” You can be the center of attention without being yourself. As Laurence Leamer, Johnny’s biographer, said in the documentary Johnny Carson: King of Late Night, “Johnny liked to be in control. Being a performer allowed him to do that. He was always performing, always learning, always developing his character, who was anyone but Johnny Carson.”