I hear scratching coming from behind me on the couch. I live on the third floor of an apartment complex, with nothing above me. Woods surround my tiny balcony and cover my living room and bedroom. The noise, it sounds like scurrying, and I think maybe it’s just a squirrel or a raccoon crawling on top of the roof. Whatever it is sounds like it’s running off the roof, leaving me wondering why it would be doing such a thing this late at night. I don’t know much about nature. I don’t know much about what happens in the dark.

Rather than worry about the sound, I distract myself by washing my dishes, taking a shower, and crawling into bed. I’ve lived alone for three years, and the solitude doesn’t really bother me anymore. But as I drift off to sleep, the noise, the creature returns. This time right above my bed. The sound jolts me, I sit upright, wondering if maybe it’s a critter that has somehow gotten into my apartment. But I tell myself that the noise is distant enough. I listen and try to pinpoint the location in my head. I realize it’s from the walls. Almost within the walls. As if the walls themselves are trying to paw their way out. I lean back against my pillow, close my eyes, and take deep breaths to calm my racing heart.

*

During the day, I keep busy. My morning routine happens in a blink of the eye. First the alarm, then my smart lights flicker on, next I make my morning cup of coffee. One thing after the other. Once I’m ready for the day, I try to sit still at my desk, perhaps to steal a few moments to read, journal, or even write. My heart rate intensifies, stimulated by the caffeine in my coffee. My phone goes off or my planner sits open, taunting me, and my moments of quiet are left behind.

Moments of some peace come when I eat my meals. But the food doesn’t sit right with me, and I find myself losing my appetite and eventually dreading having to eat again. I remember my mom saying when I was growing up, why do we always have to eat so much. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. I find myself skipping meals and surviving on granola bars. I consider that this isn’t a sustainable diet, but I do it anyway.

At night, I try to relax and let the day melt off of me. When I go to bed, I toss and turn. I think of my seemingly endless checklist and wonder when I’ll have a few minutes of peace. Then I guilt myself for feeling overwhelmed, aren’t there people doing so much more than I am right now? And haven’t I done so many hard things in the past? Surely, I can make it through another busy period in my life. My friend used to joke I’ll sleep when I’m dead. I consider this, as I lay awake.

*

One night, I hear the scratching and crawling again. In the dazed confusion of being awake and asleep, I dream of an animal, a squirrel, chasing me and running behind my head on my bed. I wake kicking and gasping for air. I haven’t had visceral nightmares like this since I was seven, right after my family moved. I’d wake up petrified of the dark and the new house we lived in, and I’d beg my parents to let me sleep in their room. I didn’t care if it was on the floor. After several nights of this, my parents eventually locked their bedroom door so I couldn’t come in to wake them up, in hopes that I’d end up soothing myself to sleep. Instead, I dragged my blanket right up to the locked door and slept on the hard carpet, burrowing into the blanket for comfort. Just the nearness of them was enough to calm me down. It would allow the panic to subside long enough for me to fall asleep. They’d find me in the morning, still in the same spot.

*

 During a chat over coffee, one of my friends comments on how I’m slowly losing it, and I laugh it off. That’s what you’re supposed to do. Give off the appearance that even though everything is falling down around you, you’re handling it well. Chaos looks good on you. I frequently contemplate the illusion I give off. I want to be stronger than that little girl who couldn’t sleep alone. I shrug, half smile, and keep repeating phrases like it is what it is and it’s fine, everything is fine.

My other friend tells me when we’re talking that she considers me an anxious person. This description haunts me for the following days, and I wonder if the fact that I’m obsessing over it means it’s true. I remember how I had a rough patch my first few years of college where I had to be on medication. I had stopped eating meals and lost almost ten pounds. My panic attacks were so intense and violent that my parents took me to urgent care, they thought I was having issues with my heart. It was just anxiety.

But that was all in the past. I’m grown up now. I’ve established a life for myself. I take pride in my work, my relationships, and where I dedicate my time. I should have it all together. Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.

*

When I get into bed, I start worrying if I’ll hear the animal again. The clawing, crawling, almost gnawing action of it is trapped in my memory. I consider that I should probably let maintenance know. The last time I had to call maintenance there were wasps that had gotten into my apartment. They didn’t come to help until the next day, and I had already fought off the wasps by then. I suggested that the wasps got into my apartment through a crack in the structure, and after looking around for only a few minutes, he looked at me like I was crazy. I fear the same thing will happen if I ask again.

Before the wasp incident, an electrician came to fix something in the fuse box. I chatted with him while he completed his work, his white hair falling into his eyes, his body weight making my floor creak. He kept asking me questions about my life, do you have a boyfriend? You live alone? Probably smart not to have a boyfriend. You in grad school? That’s right, you should get your education. It’s the most important thing. I can never know what men think, but in my head, I look like a small girl who cries wolf and makes their lives difficult, whose life is open for their commentary.

I decide I’ll wait before I call maintenance about the animal. Perhaps it will go away and find a new home on its own.

*

I begin to realize that caffeinated coffee is poison for my body, so I slowly start to cut it out of my diet. The withdrawals that hit give me headaches, a lack of focus, and a depression type feeling. But I find I’m able to eat again. When I look up the connection between caffeine and anxiety, I read that caffeine triggers the central nervous system, which gives the consumer a feeling of being alert and awake. But those with anxiety or panic disorder don’t need this extra stimulation. I think about how recently when I’ve had panic attacks, they’ve come right after consuming a coffee. During the paranoia, I have a strong sense of not being safe. They say in moments of stress or adrenaline you either react with a fight or flight mode. For me, I’ve always felt an urge to run, and when I get panic attacks, I believe that even my safest spaces are threatening to me.

I think about the squirrels that run across the road every day when I drive to work, how the moment they detect my approach they freeze. I watch them rely on instinct, should they continue to run across the road or turn back. I wonder in a normal squirrel's life span how many times they experience this moment of panic, just for wanting to move from one location to another. For trying to find a new home to rest in.

*

Now at night, I put my book on my bedside table and turn off the light. As I close my eyes and let out a deep breath, I hear the soft scratching above me. I roll over in my bed and let the darkness envelope me. I dig into my bed, creating a safe space. I don’t mind the noise anymore. I suppose some creatures you learn to live with.

-Abigail Reed

Abigail Reed is a third-year MFA in creative writing student located in Mankato, Minnesota. With a focus in creative nonfiction, her writing covers themes of the intersections between childhood and adulthood, girlhood, and mental illness. When not writing, Abigail enjoys knitting, embroidery, and jigsaw puzzles.