Let it Out

         I was a senior, my adviser had given me a office-space in a lab in the basement of the building where I was to do my research. I shared it with another student, a PhD student from India.

         The expectations from classes and my own research had me living in the basement. The Indian PhD student was in the same boat. At times we would sojourn out at two in the morning to a 24/7 grocery store to buy food to fill our mini fridge we had. We took turns on who was two buy the staples: bread, honey, coffee, chips, cheese to make nachos, milk.

         Late at night I was stressed the most, when the thoughts disturbed me the most. Was there homework due tomorrow? A paper? A project?! Should I sleep? No sleep?You don't deserve to sleep! I became like a caged animal. I would pace and to circuits around the room's tables and chairs, mumbling a never ending list of things to do underneath my breath. I would began popping Hot Tamales candies as if I they were Xanacs. I was panicking, and a quick pep talk from my office-mate wasn't doing the trick, plus she had her own worries.

         Typically at night,my office-mate's parents would call from India. The basement was death for reception so she would go topside to continue her string of reassurances. Yes, eating right. No, not to much cheese. Even if it was a different language I still knew the conversation I had my own with my mother every Thursday.

         I was alone, finally. I quickly hooked up my iPod to the speakers and I pressed 'play'. Finally, my soul sighed, and I felt some of the pressure lift off my chest as the first sweet notes drifted out of the small scuffed speakers. I increased the volume until it filled the room. I did an impromptu box step with an invisible partner. I didn't care if it didn't match the music, embarrassment didn't exist in my reverie. Then the words started to drift out of my throat.

         The music was upbeat, the bass inspiring the torso to wiggle and twist and the lyrics began: Some say an end can be a start/ Feels like I'm buried yet still alive/ Its like a bad day that will never end/ I feel the chaos around me. I danced and sang through the rest of the song, then the album. Feeling my panic fading away with each note.

         I sang to the calculations until they solved themselves and then coaxed the desired simulation results to appear. You sing like a siren/ Your voice breaks my heart/ And when you are crying/ You tears are like wine.

         One night upon returning from topside, she said, “I heard something all the way upstairs.” She gave me an curious look.

         I froze. When I finally said something all I could think of was, “What do you think it was?”

         “Oh I don't know,” she said coyly. “I just heard something from down here up there.”

         The dread that had just subsided and slipped back in like the tide. I waited for her to finger me, but she didn't.

         Singing made the hard times into better times. It wasn't all that bad going through it, life was manageable, even liveable. But it didn't prepare me for The Gauntlet.

         The semester was coming to a close, I wasn't even thinking about summer plans, I had to get through The Gauntlet first. Everything as due, everything. All of my work throughout the year was all colliding in a single week, like thirty trains recklessly careening on tracks that met at one single crossroad and they all had lost their breaks. My calender for the month was bleeding with marks, circles, slashes, and for the days upcoming to that week I had one word written over and over again, 'die die die die'. People who would visit the office would always look over at my calendar and turn to ask my office-mate, “Is she okay?”

         It was spring, and the world was exhaling with life, but I felt as if I were about to die. My panic attacks were spilling into the days, until it seems like I was living in constant dread and hopeless. I wasn't alone and sometimes after class I would find my office-mate laying on the floor with the lights off with a sad love song drifting out of the speakers. “I feel like dying,” she said. It was noon, but it already was looking like it was going to be a long night.

         Then one day, she opened her eyes and looked at me upside down, “Lets go for a drive.” It was a bad idea, we had to much work to do, but at the time it was the only thing we could manage to do, that or die right there on the floor. I didn't need to be asked twice, I dropped my bag and within moments we were bounding our way down the hill to my car in the bright sunlight.

         We drove and music filled the car, I loved this song my mouth silently formed the words, and then I quietly spoke the words elongating the syllables to match the cadence. I was still painfully aware that I wasn't alone.

         “Its okay,” my office-mate suddenly said.

         “What?”

         “You actually have a really good voice,” she said.

         “Hmm,” I murmured, still pensive. I didn't know what to do with flattery, mainly because I could never entirely believe it. But the itch was getting stronger with each stanza.

         Then I saw the first research satellite dish appear over the crest of the hill, we were getting closer to the university and my resistance broke down. I sang from the gut, feeling my throat go hoarse as I let it all out.

         “That felt good,” she finally said.

         “Yeah, it did.”