Pushing the Feeling of the Space into the Background

I take a sip from my travel mug as I make my way up the stairs to the third story of the campus building. I’m not particularly looking forward to this presentation, but such is life. The stairwell goes from the lobby all the way up to the eighth floor. The other stairwell reaches the roof, but the maintenance staff often keep the roof door open which serves to make their lives slightly easier and makes me not like walking up those stairs. One of the few advantages of the classroom buildings is that it limits my perception of the world. Thank you, good security measures for the doors. I generally try my best to ignore why we needed those installed a year before I got here. Because I decided back when my issues first started getting more impactful, adding stress to my life was probably not a great idea.

The doors to the third story push open, and without looking I become aware of everything happening on this floor. The doors, all shut. The one person standing in the hallways staring at a textbook. The TA in the small office space frantically doing something on the small, old computer there. The printer, with a page stuck in it, pushing against the jam. The pair of classrooms that currently have classes in them, each with around twenty of the chairs filled. Several people in each are dozing off, their heads slowly sagging then jolting back upright. One of the two professors currently lecturing is pacing back and forth, leaving his clicker on the podium, the other is seated. I try my best to ignore all of that. Thankfully, no one is in the bathroom or doing anything untoward right now. I pass through the doors, which click shut behind me, sealing my perception off from the stairwell.

On the one hand, I appreciate that. The less I feel, the less likely I’m bombarded by any strange or sudden sensations. The counterpoint to this is the problem of attention. My mind is used to having a certain volume of stimuli influencing it at any given time, and allocates its focus accordingly. Limit that volume, and the focus on each one heightens. Not a lot, but enough to notice that the TA keeps typing in the same thing on the computer, likely a code for the jammed printer. The professor who is sitting down is drumming his fingers in a musical rhythm as she talks, which most people only do when their focus is elsewhere. And the person with the textbook is flipping it between the same few sections, so probably studying or doing practice problems. Which are all thoughts that make me have to come in early on presentation days.

Heading over to the classroom, I enter it giving a nod to the studying kid. He nods right back. Looks like a lost freshman, but that isn’t my problem. I walk up to the podium, I pull out my notecards, and I begin to practice. Not the presentation. That I’ve practiced a few times. Not the timing, though that I haven’t actually done any reps of. No, I practice being in the room. The feeling on the chairs, the windows, the door, the desks. How things change as I walk slowly around, the positions and the times. I breathe and start to try and get a feel for the place.

Places like this, stable, contained, and consistent, are for me a lot like clothes are for other people. When you first put them on, and when you’re not used to the material or placement, you can definitely feel they’re there. But after a while, you get used to it. It’s not like you stop feeling the shirt, but it becomes a part of the background, not something you continually notice.

With each inhale and every exhale, as I walk slowly from one side of the podium to the other, to in front, and back to behind, the pressure stops being something new, becomes another part of the background. Filed away in my mind as something irrelevant. Like the walls and the floor and my clothes. Things that I feel but don’t interact with, at least not mentally. Though perhaps, I can’t help but wonder as I think about it, it might be a useful thing to try. I put that thought aside, compartmentalizing it and, as I do, realizing this isn’t the first time I’ve compartmentalized it. I really should talk through figuring out a controlled test for that with Will. But not today. He’s busy, and I’m going to have to work on my essay for class tomorrow. I close the compartment in my mind.

One last breath, I put my notecards back into my bag. I have a minute before the rush, maybe less. For an instant I feel the door opening, the bad stairwell. I begin to feel the stairwell, and the people down near the base of the stairwell, and the one person smoking on the roof. Before my feeling spills down the building and outwards, the door shuts and I’m once again cut off, my perception returning to the temporarily familiar. With one new addition.

I recognize my professor before they make it through the door. She’s walking with determination. Not my first class with her, so she wants to talk with me before my presentation. Or is hoping to get set up before I got here. I’ll see when she walks in. I want to make sure I look like I’m doing a normal thing. I pick up the clicker and walk it over towards the professor’s desk. Doctor Rai walks in as I put the clicker down. She does not close the door behind her. Instead, she says, “You’re here early Jonny.”

I shake my head as I turn to face her. “No earlier than usual for days I need to present, Dr. Rai.”

She laughs. “Oh, yeah. I forgot that was today,” she replies. I can’t tell if she’s lying or not. “I was hoping I could get all my tech set up for the lecture before you kids showed up.”

I nod. Makes sense. This month she has her presentation in the beginning of class, and whichever student is presenting their poem does so in the last ten minutes of class. I smile. “Sorry for interrupting then,” I say, stepping away from the front and heading towards the desks, “Just needed to do a bit of last minute prep.” The people in the pacing professor’s classroom are getting up to leave. The last hour of classes is beginning to end. The TA has stormed out from the office, likely angry with the printer’s not working properly.

As Professor Rai is getting her computer plugged in, opening up the powerpoint, the doors to the stairwell open again, and a pair of students enter the hall from one end. Another student enters from the other side as the rhythmic teacher’s class is starting to stand. The TA is heading into the other currently empty classroom. I believe it’s a history class over there. Wouldn’t know, as it happens at the same time as my class. Besides, APs covered my history requirement. Putting my stuff down at a desk, I give a wave to Ginny and Riley as they enter, followed shortly thereafter by Marcus. Riley replies with a smile and wave, and she walks over to the desk beside mine. “Ready for your presentation?” she jokingly asks.

“Never,” I jokingly reply. She’s premed and I’m prelaw, which means we both have been going through the same sort of courses to cover our General Education requirements: ones that look good on CVs without being too difficult to ace.

Ginny rolls her eyes. A year younger than us, she’s taking this out of actual interest in Latin. Or Rome. I think she said she wanted to do archeology or something like that. She doesn’t super appreciate us interfering in her space, but we’re both smart enough not to drag down any discussions. Marcus fully ignores us, heading to the back of the classroom. He doesn’t talk hardly at all, outside of the presentations he’s required to do once a semester. But last semester, he was the top of the class, which makes it seem like he’s more invested than he seems as he sits quietly in the far corner of the classroom. “Was your poem any good?” Riley asks as she sits down.

I shake my head. “Not really,” I admit, “But it had some fun poetic devices throughout, so that’s what I’m focusing my presentation on.” Ginny looks practically offended as she’s taking out her notes. Clearly I missed some element of the poem. Crap. That probably means I’m only going to get a B. Unless I can make it more engaging.

Riley nods. “Too bad.” As we sit down, I can feel the doors start to be held open. The flood, from both ends, as the two classes are leaving the floor while the new classes start to enter. While the barrage begins to hit and my senses begin to spill out and over the building flowing out into the world, I can hear Riley start talking again. “Oh yeah, with that Ethics midterm tomorrow, do you mind us all heading over to you and Will’s apartment? You guys have better snacks than Janice and Margret’s place.”

It takes me a moment to process what she’s asking. Not because the question is difficult. She’s just asking if Andy, Steve, Margret, and herself can show up at my apartment for a study night. The issue is the timing of the question. The doors to the bad stairwell have been open long enough that, as she’s asking, I’m beginning to feel the cars rushing by on the street, like a pummeling of waves while you sit on a beach. Not powerful enough to knock you around or push you over, but quite distracting if you’re trying to pay attention to something. I take a breath, shake my head, and shrug. Easier to just play it off. “Maybe. I don’t think Will’s doing anything, but unfortunately, his parties take priority because he pays slightly more than half of the rent. Specifically so that his parties take priority,” I say with a smile.

She laughs. It isn’t the first time I’ve made reference to that. Riley seems to laugh pretty much every time. Not sure why, but plenty of people have odd senses of humor. “Alright,” she says, “Are you going to check in with Will before class?”

I pull out my phone. He should be up, but probably not ready to answer any questions as he also has a class in a couple minutes. “Sure, but don’t expect me to know the answer until lunchtime. I’ll text the groupchat,” I reply.

She nods and turns to face the front. I shoot a text to Will, a simple ‘hey can I study group in the appt tonight?’ He will get back to me at some point, though I doubt it will happen before he looks at his phone at noon while figuring out how to snake a lunch without swiping. The rest of the class starts to file in. Fortunately, there are only fifteen of us, unlike the class of forty across the way with the frantic TA talking to his professor about the mixup. Professor Rai notices the time and turns on the projector to talk about her lesson. And shortly after she says her introduction. I can’t pay attention through the noise, someone has jammed the bad stairwell door open. Something stuck in there. Closing it would be risky, might get noticed, might break something that someone dropped there and cares about. Closing the roof door, that’s much more simple. I reach out mentally, wrapping myself around the legs of the chair being used to prop open the door. And I give a slight tug. It falls on its side. Likely making a noise, but there are no maintenance people in the stairwell right now to care about it. The door swings shut, pushing the chair further into the stairwell. And my perception, while larger than anticipated, is once more contained. I pull out my Latin textbook and my notes to pay attention once Professor Rai finishes going over the homework that I already know is right.