Ikea, My First Panic Attack, & A Bad Boyfriend

AKA “Port Jeff” Jeff.

Last week I did a thing that literally scared the shit out of me. Not in a, I-had-cyclospora kind of shit out of me, but in a, I-was-on-the-toilet-numerous-times-before-“showtime”-due-to-nerves kind of shit. You see, I’d never done a “slam”before. I didn’t even know what to write on the topic of FREEDOM OR FEAR. Actually, it wasn’t so much that I didn’t know what to write, and more of, I had too many things to write. How was I to pick just one?!

So, I chose a time when, like many women, I was ignoring my body screaming warning signs at me, but of course, I wasn’t listening to them. And what do we do when we don’t listen to ourselves?

We move in with bad boyfriends/girlfriends/theyfriends!

And sometimes we marry them. But that’s another story.
In Laughter,
LStL

I’m twenty-five years old, and FINALLY moving to New York City…
…with my boyfriend, Jeff.
Jeff grew up in Port Jefferson, for which I lovingly nicknamed him Port Jeff Jeff.
Port Jeff Jeff and I saved five thousand dollars each to make our dreams come true: becoming stars on Broadway.
But first. Furniture.
As the sliding doors of the gigantic warehouse open, my first thought is:
Dorothy, you’re not in Wal-Mart anymore.

Jeff’s been here before. This diasporadic discount destination, donning two elementary-school primary colors: Yellow. And blue.
I follow his lead like a good girlfriend should, as he pushes the cart down the aisle.

Did we need a sködis? A Kallax? Malm? Or Alex?

We inch our way through the first floor of this foreign land, the entry door getting further and further away with every turn down the yellow brick road of the muesli-munching matrix.

My heart rate increasing with every step. My palms begin to sweat.

I ignore my physical reactions. The latest in a series of blatant disregards where my body tells me something’s wrong and my mind refuses to listen.

Like three months ago. When I broke out in hives.

We were living with Jeff’s parents to save up for the move, when he came home from work, in the middle of the day, drunk. Having wrecked his parents’ car. Pacing the kitchen.
Sweating.
Mouth-breathing.
Like an animal.
His mother, simpering by the stove. “There, there, Jeffrey. It’s gonna be alright.”
His father, a preacher, just shaking his head at what God had given him for a son.
We’d been dating a year. And no one thought to clue me in that he was an alcoholic until now?
He promised to never drink again.
And I believed him.
Like a good girlfriend should.

The elevator door to the second floor opens, and he pushes the cart through. Again.
Did we need a brunnycklar?
Perhaps some, talrekar?

The deeper we pushed in, the quicker my breathing. My heart, beating in my head now, reminding me of a…Huey Lewis song. What was it?! I can’t remember the name.

Jesus. Am I having a stroke?!
The room starts to spin.
The faint smell of meatballs turning my stomach.
What was that song? And where was the damn exit?

“Jeff, I can’t breathe,” I cry.
Now I was the one sweating.
Mouth-breathing.
Like an animal.

I need to get out of here. And like a cornered chicken bound for Chick-fil-A, I dart, I swerve, looking for the way out.

But there was no “out.” There was only FORWARD.

What kind of architectural fuckwit designs a firecode-breaching floor plan like this?
I’m stuck in a Swedish prison, surrounded by psychopaths who can’t even pronounce what they’re buying.
Jeff somehow secures a paper bag and shoves it in my face.
I take a deep breath in. The bag collapsing in a crispy crumble.
I exhale. Ballooning it back out.
Again. And again.
While gathering myself on the saltsjöbaden sofa.

I get my balance, and we continue on the yellow brick road, in the form of vinyl floor stickers, pointing our way to freedom.

I hadn’t noticed them before. But they’d been there the whole time.
A forced path. A calculated decision, made to entice shoppers into impulse buys, right down to the dollar soft-serve cones after checkout. Your reward for completing the maze.

Port Jeff Jeff valiantly put his coat around me and walked me to the cafeteria, where I waited for him to get our cones.
I take a seat and notice my shoe untied. As I bend down to tie it, I feel a hard, square object hit my ribs.
Curious, I reach inside the pocket and find a flask, containing the unmistakable scent of ethanol.
Just then, “Heart of Rock n’ Roll” began to play on the in-store speakers. “That’s the song!”

The Wizard’s veil lifted. The truth of a man who couldn’t hide his addiction any longer was revealed. And I couldn’t ignore it, like a good girlfriend should.

That night, Port Jeff Jeff packed his things.
No fight. No flask. No tears.
Just Jeff. A duffel bag. And his mother on the phone, saying “There, there, Jeffrey. It’s gonna be alright.”
And just like that, he was gone.
I laid down on my byörksnäs. Listening to the pigeons coo outside my window in Queens.
Heart rate, slow.
Breathing, steady.
Saying quietly to myself, there’s no place like home.

In Laughter,
LStL

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LAUGHING MATTERS is a place for personal essays (and sometimes interviews) about the things we’re all thinking but don’t always say out loud. I try to tell the truth without making a complete ass out of myself. Sometimes I succeed. Most of the time I don’t. If you’ve ever laughed when you probably should have cried, you’re my people. ❣️

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