Here's a little piece I wrote, not part of the book.

“At least you’re not psychotic, only neurotic”, my Italian friend says on FB chat. Not sure it’s a good thing though. I kinda miss that detachment from reality that psychotic people have.

The anxiety attack of the day started when this morning I sent an email to a special person, wishing him a “wonderful week”. That was 9:44 am and I didn’t start panicking  until 11. This person lives in symbiosis with his phone, always checking his texts, emails and FB. Now, we are not FB friends (for reasons that have to do with my neurosis), BUT I can see his activity. And he had no activity going on since yesterday. No activity on FB, he doesn’t answer my email (while usually it takes him 5 to 10 mins to answer): something bad happened!! My negative thoughts always win over any other possible explanation. No no no, something bad must have happened.

My Italian friend tries to calm me down. “Maybe he’s busy, he’s with his family, he’s shopping”. See, nothing of these scenarios would have stopped him from answering his phone. Once he answered when he was donating blood. Another time he texted me when he was on the dentist chair. No no, something bad happened and I’m panicking. My heartbeats races. And I inevitably start to cry. At first I think his mother died. But he would have texted me. So, the only option is that HE died. And since we really don’t have close mutual friends, I won’t even know until after the funeral. I won’t be able to share my tears and pain with his friends and family because nobody will tell me he’s dead. My friend in chat suggests me to go for a walk. Maybe it’s a good idea. But I’ll check the obituaries first, you never know, I might find his name.

I turn off my computer, after frantically checking 75 times his FB (still no activity).

I look at myself in the mirror and I only see two puffy red eyes, imploring for mercy. No way I can cover that mess with a concealer, so I just apply some sun lotion (gotta prevent skin cancer)  and I walk out, into the hot Californian sun.

In a couple of blocks I am on Hollywood Blvd and I make a pact with myself, not to check my phone and emails at least for 30 minutes. Usually I always break the pact, but this time I HAVE to make it. I breathe deeply, and it smells like garbage. I walk towards the mall and the huge wave of tourists is already making me feel even worse. I pump up the volume of my iPod, hoping to isolate myself from the noisy crowd. But I’m still thinking: he’s dead. I won’t see him or talk to him anymore. Gone, like that. Not even the time to say goodbye. I’m trying to remember the last thing we talked about. It was probably something about the tragedy of getting old. I guess he won’t have to worry about that anymore. I take the staircase at the mall, maybe on the upper floor there’ll be less tourists. My anxiety is killing me slowly, I can’t live like this anymore, always worrying about things. In front of me there’s a girl with shorts and a pair of huge legs with cellulite. So I ask myself: would I like to be free from anxiety but have all that cellulite? Hmmm, not sure about that.

And it hits me: it’s genetic. I’m like my mother. I am my mother. A person with anxiety and depression, but nice legs. Thanks mom. That’s scary. I tried my entire life not to become like my mother and here I am: I don’t drive, I don’t like crowds and I have anxiety attacks. This is awful. And sad. Awfully sad. And he must be dead ‘cause he’s not answering my email (yeah, I checked a couple of times on my phone).

I’m walking in the mall, I see people eating and laughing and I wonder: how can they? How can they eat and laugh when HE died? I decide that it’s time to go back home, before more tears come. My iPod is playing Mariah Carey now, and it’s so pathetic that I smile, suddenly. I look around:  Batman is probably melting inside his costume, a Japanese kid wearing a Marilyn Manson T-shirt, and that sounds wrong somehow, and the usual homeless lady is enjoying her ice cream. Nope, I wouldn’t like to be any of them. Maybe I will just keep my neurotic personality, still thinking though that being psychotic sometimes would be better.

PS He is alive!!! He is alive!! He just didn’t see my email.