I'm having an anxiety attack. I am not normally given to anxiety attacks. Depression, yes, anxiety, no. People who are just depressed, and not really anxious, seem calm to others. Often they're the calmest, people in the room

Case in point: When I was a teenager I was hospitalized for depression for about 3 weeks. This was years ago when it was still permissable to smoke ciggeretts in hospitals. As a result, a lit ciggerette had gotten tossed into a wastebasket in the television room of the wing of the hospital where we, the depressed, the anxious, the addicted, or just plain too stressed out had landed and were wandering around trying to think of what to do next. By chance, it was all depressed people in the television room that morning. Some news was on. I took a chair to see how long I could stand to watch it before I started crying - for years I thought everybody cried about the news, or that there was something wrong with people who didn't. Here I was learning that you weren't supposed to care that some species of bird had gone extinct, forever gone, that some promising world leader had been assasinated leaving behind a wife and shell shocked looking daughter my own age and indistinguishable from my classmates except for the scarf over her head, and that pre-school children had burned to death in a fire in town. Normal people, I learned, heard all of this and just sipped their coffee, ate their bagel, and went to work without so much as a sigh - though it did seem to be permissable to shake one's head and say "what is the world coming to".

But the point is, this trash can was on fire....

I noticed a little smoke coming up from it, and a slight flicker of a flame. At the same time a fellow depressed person in the chair next to me said, matter-of-factly, "The trash can's on fire."

"Oh."

"Ciggerette" somebody observed.

A young man who considered himself mostly a drug addict got up, and crossed the room not hurrying, but quickly enough for his long hair to flow behind him. He looked at the fire in the wastebasket ( by now, alarms were going off) looked at a half full pot of coffee that was permitted to brew in the t.v. room, picked it up and carefully poured it into the trash can.

"You got it." said someone else coming up along side and peering into the wastepaper basket, "It's out."

" 'g-job man." someone else said, and he nodded. He was an addict of few words.

Chances were that anybody who was in the t.v. room at the time the remains of the fire were discovered might be blamed for starting it, so we all, nonchalantly wandered out. On my way back to my room I saw the doors to the wing swing wide and a gaggle of people come running in, the men sliding on the slick soles of their wing tips. Their hair and clothing was desheveled, they were wild eyed. Two of them had fire extinguishers. One was holding his like a weapon, the nozzle pointed outward like a gun. A woman held hers over her head, as if she expected to have to bludgeon the fire to death. "It's on One West!! It's on One West!" they were screaming. They were shouting other things to one another too, but nobody could make any sense of it, because everyone was shouting and talking: nobody was listening.

As they cleared the doors of the Psychiatric Ward all I could think was, Boy, it looks like these people are in the right place I stepped forward and said, quietly, that the fire was out, it had been in the t.v. room, there was no damage. However, I was an Insane Person, so they just ignored me. Half of them ran, flapping their arms like birds, toward the nurses station demading to know where the fire was, the other half took off down the hall making alarming noises, scaring the stressed, the anxious, and the alzhiemers patients, yelling about evacuation proceedures.

So, it took one depressed drug addict to put the fire out and save anybody from getting hurt, and the nursing staff about 3 days to undo the trauma to the emmotionally frail, unsure, and already frightened patients which was caused by the "normal" professional staff. I was actually a little concerned about becoming normal myself

Turns out I didn't have to worry.

But, I was telling you that I am, in fact, anxious, not depressed. Nervous, jittery, feel weird. It's because I have to go to a graduation party. Parties, in general, make me feel nervous....but it's just the normal kind of nervous an introvert feels when meeting new people in loud situations. This is worse.

This is a graduation party for Angela and The Hub's oldest neice. She is 18 years old and has graduated from high school. Naturally, I feel old - probably because I am old, or at least getting there. Then I am sad, because I wish so much that Angela was here to see this, to give sage advice. She was always able to give sage advice her whole life, even though she died when she was 29, she was still wise. Instead, the poor Graduate is stuck with me, who is liable to say anything under the stress of being at a party, in the role of "Aunt". Then I'm humbled by the sweet good nature of the Graduate and her younger sister. Those girls have always loved The Hub as their uncle, accepted me, and included me, drawing me by the hands into their rooms to share the newest slightly frowned upon C.D. and pepper with questions about nail, skin and hair care ( all this before I ever sold Avon. How these chicks ever got to think of me as an expert I've never quite grasped, except I always did wear makeup - the full complement - in public. But that's only on account of I look like an albino with reddish blond hair somehow tacked on if I don't) They want me on their team at family games, they laugh at my jokes. They're much nicer to me than I was to anybody as a teenager.

And that's the other thing. Yes, she's a teenager, but she's also an adult now. She can do anything. 18 year olds frequently WILL do anything. Look at the stuff I did when I was 18. I moved out into that scarey basement apartment with the roaches the size of small dogs. I took a commuter bus into the city to work every day, and eventually left the roach motel to rent a room in a house down there. I couldn't understand why nobody would pay me a living wage in spite of the fact that I had done a certificate program as a dental assistant ( a job I absolutely sucked at). Now I understand that none of my potential employers could grasp the fact that I really was on my own. Because, when I look at the Graduate, I still see a kid, somebody who, while competent, is in need of support and guidence. But I didn't see myself that way when I was her age. Chances are, she doesn't either.

So I have to go to a party, meet new people, have my makeup on straight to say nothing about figuring out what I ought to be wearing to this thing, explain to strangers how I am related/not related to the Graduate, keep my wits about me in case anyone wants me to try to say anything intellegent and /or get involved in a board game, make sure I don't fall over during any game of volleyball or badmitten that might ensue, not cry if anybody talks about Angela, and not pass out if the Graduate announces that she is joining the armed services.

Holy Moses, I'm exhausted all ready. But that's better than being anxious.