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I’m so confused right now.
I look to Marc, sitting on the couch next to Ali, who is finally concerned as he mouths a couple of words to me, though I can’t tell what he’s trying to say. Eli’s erratic breathing continues to swirl through my speaker and into my ear.
“What?” I silently mouth to Marc as I look at him, lost.
He grabs a page of my notes from the coffee table as he frantically scribbles his message down for me.
‘Panic attack?’ his words read as he holds the paper up for me to see.
I instantly close my eyes as Eli’s hard-earned breaths flood the line. Of course, that’s what’s going on, and I should’ve known that. Yes, his breathing is short, ragged, and staggered because he’s trying to catch his breath. He probably feels a pressure so tight on his chest that he’s convinced himself he can’t fill his lungs with air.
Because of outside influences, I had convinced myself that Eli was with another woman, which caused me to assume what I heard on the other line was sexual. I’m so mad at myself for letting my mind wander. Eli has done nothing to deserve having me question his faithfulness. In reality, he’s suffering as he’s clearly trying to catch his breath on the other end.
I would let out a sigh of relief, but I don’t feel any relief as I listen to my man struggle on the phone.
Taking him off the speaker, I frantically make my way to the stairs and head to my dorm room, leaving my friends and books behind. I would take the elevator to be quicker, but I’m afraid I’ll lose the connection if I do.
“Eli?” I ask again when I hear another sharp gasp of air.
“Where are you?” I ask as I reach my hall, running down the corridor to my door.
He doesn’t answer, but instead, the strained pants continue as he tries to suck in air, unable to calm himself down.
“Are you in your hotel room?” I ask, hoping to get his mind off the pressure he feels in his chest that’s causing him to be short of breath.
“Yeah,” he says in a shaky gasp.
Taking a seat on my floor, with my back against my bed, I close my eyes and listen to him. It hurts my heart to hear him this way. I’ve never seen or heard Eli in a moment of utter weakness, and it’s the worst feeling knowing that he’s in so much pain, and I can’t be there to help him. Eli is the epitome of strength, whether it be his body, talent, or his commanding presence, but right now, I can tell he feels small.
“Can you describe it to me?” I ask. “Your hotel room.”
After Eli told me about his panic attacks that day at the pond, I spent some time researching ways to help him. Because, of course, my first instinct, when faced with a problem, is to study.
I think I remember reading somewhere that describing your surroundings can take the focus off whatever is causing your anxiety and shift it towards something else. Or I could be making it up, I don’t know, but I’m desperate here. I’m trying my very best to avoid telling Eli just to breathe because that’s exactly what he’s attempting to do.
“How many beds are in your room?” I ask as the line stays silent for a moment while I wait for his response.
“Two,” he states on a short suck of air.
“What color are the walls?” I look around my room, searching for ideas of what to ask, but having no idea if this is actually helping him right now.
“They’re gray.” I hear him fill his lungs a bit more.
I got two words out of his last response instead of just one, and his breathing seemed a touch steadier. Maybe this is helping, or perhaps I’m making things worse. I’m so out of my fucking element here.
“Can you describe the pictures on the walls?” I look at the framed photo of Eli and me that Mary took. I printed it out and placed it next to the picture of my parents sitting on my bookshelf.
“There’s a...sunset,” Eli says while taking a longer and deeper inhale. “And a street sign,” he adds on the exhale.
Words. More words. Less sucking of air. I think we are getting somewhere.
Listening, Eli inhales deeply, slowly and steadily releasing the exhale. That sounds better already. I wish I were there with him. I wish I could hold him. He once told me that he hadn’t had a panic attack since we met, that I calm him. Which is really sweet, but I have no idea what it is about me that does it for him. Otherwise, I would use whatever it is right now.
I need to keep his focus off the anxiety he is feeling and distract him with something, anything. But, as I look around my room, I’m all out of ideas for questions about his surroundings. I decide to be a bit narcissistic as I ask, “And what color is my hair?” knowing it’s one of his favorite physical things about me, and hoping that maybe, just maybe, thinking about me will bring him the peace he needs.
Eli lightly chuckles on the other end. It’s my new favorite sound as a wave of relief washes over me.
“My favorite color,” he says, followed by another deep, steady breath and a slow exhale.
