I'm A Thirty Something

I think I am having a heart attack.

I am feeling the weight of an imaginary building on top of my chest. Actually, it feels more like an invisible Sumo wrestler who is comfortably sitting above my sternum, adjusting his butt cheeks. Now it’s a piercing pain right above my stomach. Is this what it feels to get stabbed?

I try to breathe, but I can’t, so I wake up and go to the toilet. I pee and try to burp hoping it was just last night’s meal, but that doesn’t seem to work. I look myself in the mirror and acknowledge this is not a dream. My steps are deliberate yet I feel I am losing control inside some washing machine. I’m not woozy, but the ride is worrisome; it isn’t fun. I open my window, prop myself up against my biggest pillow and try to calm myself down. This too shall pass, Amr. (Are you struck by the thought that we sometimes delegate part of our conscious to look after the other, more troubled part?) I focus on relaxing all my facial muscles, based on a discovery I made a couple of years ago: even at my quietest moments, I catch my face all tensed up, leaving my head overworked – a good reason for my continuous headache. That subconscious frown / pout has to go. It’s incredible I have been wearing it throughout my six hour of sleep.

Feel that? The pressure is gradually easing. Streams of emotion are finding their natural way around and out of myself, no longer clogging my arteries. I exhale, deliberately.

I have to remember that I cannot chase for all the answers in my sleep.

I must have been seven years old when my father told me flat out, “Amr, you can’t be that sensitive; life will get too hard on you.” I used to cry a lot. It was not to manipulate anyone into doing something for me, nor to get attention. I only cried when I felt that life’s trickery betrayed my innocence. Many a thing that came my way came with a sense of injustice. Meanwhile, parents and teachers demanded perfection, and in turn, I grew up idealistic, setting myself up for disappointment. Today, the tears have long dried, but the disappointment continues. I’m a thirty something who thinks too much. He ignores injustice for the most part. He is trying to come to terms with what lemons life throws at him. He is trying to keep his calm, at least while awake. This is me making lemonade: It doesn’t have to be perfect. This is good. Accept it, or make the best of it. Now shut up, don’t overthink it, and get on with as little drama as possible.

But maybe that’s the crux of the matter: drama. That terrible feeling I had this morning is like the unbearable breast of a mother cow, aching to perform its role of giving milk. That incredible charge inside me needs to find its way out to some great stage or canvas. I’m crippled by the notion that my expressions will be less than perfect, that my canvas may have streaks I cannot justify. But as I write this, I realize that I have to make a choice: either take to the stage no matter how ugly my performance will be, or let this cost me my life.

I’m a thirty something whose clock is ticking. Never thought he’d have to make art to win time.