I am self-diagnosing for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

The first hint I had that I may be unable to function in certain hours of stress was in Target. From a few aisles over a sweet old lady was zooming around in her Target-approved shopping vehicle, and decided she wanted to turn around. As she switched into reverse there came a high-pitched repetetive beeping from the buggy. On the other side of the aisle, completely unaware of this, I immediately became siezed by a strange feeling. I'm sure my eyes were wide but my brain was completely unaware of the images being sent to it, all it could do was translate this high-pitched beeping into a positively blank and black mind. I froze and my breath caught in my throat, my adrenaline heating up my body instantaneously. From the back of my black mind came the thought that maybe I should run, ascertain from whence came this beeping and immediately retreat in the opposite direction, but there was a disconnection between the part of my brain that told me I should move my body and the part that actually made the body move. Flashbacks of being awoken from a comfortable sleep, or my concentration in front of the computer shattered by a screeching sound came in waves on my inert body.

Then just recently, after a calm lunch at home, my father experimented with the rape whistle on my mother’s keychain. I was in the middle of taking a sip of water and for a moment everything went black. Surely my mouthful of water was now soaking the front of my shirt and the glass I had been holding was shattered on the floor as both hands grasped my head. But no sound of shattering came and the front of my shirt was still completely dry, although I have no recall of the motion of swallowing. I slowly realized my full surroundings and the mischievous grin on my dad’s face.

“Don’t DO that to me!” I yowled.

It began approximately four years ago when such a sound began to invade my psyche. The first time it was innocent enough; I awoke easily and only drowsily wondered what was going on, then followed the instructions over the loudspeaker: “Please immediately exit the building.” My roommate and I nervously opened the door to droves of girls walking down the hallway and joined them, grabbing keys and sweatshirts and locking the door behind us. Almost a thousand freshman girls assembled across the street from the door, twittering and excitedly wondering if indeed the building would burn down within our first week of school. The fire trucks came and went with their sirens and lights like confetti in the night sounds and sights, and then we all shuffled back into the building, cramming up the elevators and stairwells but not particularly shaken by the event and looking forward to a few more hours of sleep. Easy, right?

Wrong. Soon fire drills, scheduled or pulled, were occurring monthly and, on really bad weeks, only days apart. During unplanned hours of the day or night, suddenly everything would be put into pause by this beep emitting from the small white disc near the ceiling of my room and flashing light from the hallway. All activity was stopped as hundreds of us marched towards the exits in droves. It rose from a simple interruption to an annoyance, and a loud one at that. Summer breaks created amnesias that only made the alarms less bearable after a return to the dorms. If I had known I would suffer such long-term effects of safety precautions I would have found an apartment right away.

None of it seems quite as bad as the Quads, though. The newest set of apartment-style dorms had the newest technology in beeping purgatories and would emit warnings at decibel levels and pitches nearing ungodly heights. After one night of 4 repeated fire alarms that sent students out to the curbs muttering curses more and more audibly, I began to live in fear. I would pray each night that no fire alarm would interrupt my sleep; after particularly exhausting days in which I needed sleep like nothing else I would be plagued by echoes of this infernal beep. The slightest noise awoke me with shock.

And now a high-pitched beeping will send me into the throes of my subconscious, envelop me in a darkness punctuated only by sound and panic. Yeah, I’m claiming PTSD. Especially when I actually do forget to swallow and mouthfuls of liquid go spilling down my shirt.