Under Rose-Tainted Skies(2)
And we’re going out.
Kill me.
‘Got everything?’ Mom asks, her voice all sing-songy. We’re acting normal. A short-lived facade when I open my bag and Operation Check Contents begins.
1. Phone to call for help if we have a car crash/get mugged/drive into the path of a tornado
2. Headphones to drown out the sound of people if we get caught in a crowd
3. Bottle of water for if we break down and get stranded in the middle of nowhere
4. Another bottle of water in case that other bottle leaks or evaporates
5. Tissues for nosebleeds, sneezing, crying, and/or drooling
6. Sanitizer to kill the germs you can catch from touching anything
7. Paper bag to breathe into or throw up in
8. Band-Aids and alcohol wipes in case open wounds should occur
9. Inhaler (I grew out of asthma when I was twelve, but you can’t be too careful when it comes to breathing)
10. A piece of string that serves no purpose but it’s been here since for ever and I’m afraid the world will implode if I don’t have it
11. A pair of nail scissors for any one of a trillion reasons, most of which conclude with me being kidnapped
12. And, finally, chewing gum to take away the sour taste I always get when the panic hits
Normal takes a nosedive into my bag, sinks beneath the copious amount of clutter, and dies a slow, painful death.
I nod; my mouth won’t move. My lips are numb. It’s already started and she hasn’t even opened the door.
‘Ready?’ Mom asks. Her voice is warped. Ready, a word that should only have two syllables, suddenly has fifty. I nod. Not too hard, because I’m sure any second now my head is going to fall off.
A crease as deep as space tears across Mom’s forehead. This is as painful for her as it is for me, and I can’t help thinking it would be so much easier if we just didn’t bother. But I’m not allowed to think that. Instead, I’m supposed to remind myself that we bother because if I don’t learn how to control my fears, I’m going to die cold and alone. Hidden in my room while strangers post messages of condolence on my social media and rabid cats eat my decomposing corpse.
Reassurance resides in Mom’s emerald-green eyes and the slight nod of her head. She claps her hand into mine and starts chanting the words that never help.
‘Just breathe; in through your nose, out through your mouth. Just keep breathing.’
When the panic sets in, the ground transforms into wet cement. My feet feel like they’re sinking into it as we tread our way to the car.
I keep my eyes fixed on my boots because seeing the vast space outside will finish me off.
I’m drowning.
‘Mom.’ I snatch her arm, hold it tight to my chest like it’s a buoy.
‘You’re okay, honey. We’re almost there.’
Insects are crawling under my skin. My bottom lip has fallen off. I don’t remember swallowing a golf ball, but it’s there, stuck in my throat, trying to choke me. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other as the September sun spews red-hot rays all over me. My steps are slowing; my knees are folding.
I’m fucked. At this rate I won’t make it to the car.
‘Keep breathing. Just keep breathing.’ Mom wraps her other arm around my shoulders, squeezing. She’s almost carrying me, which is good, because my muscles have liquefied and melted clean away.
What feels like a lifetime later, Mom pulls open the car door and hauls my ass into the front seat.
I deflate. Shrivel up in my chair like a lump of dehydrated fruit. Exhaustion hits like a Mack truck. And then, just because this panic attack hasn’t quite finished screwing me six ways from Sunday, the spasms start.
Dr Reeves calls them tics. Arms jump, legs twitch. A tortured heaving sound escapes my lips and makes my skeleton jerk. I can’t stop it. I have no control. My body does what it wants when the freak-outs take over.
At least I don’t pass out this time. Passing out is the worst, especially if there’s no one around to catch you.
Luckily, having no one around to catch me has only happened once. It was my very first panic attack and I was at school. Of course, back then I didn’t know what a panic attack was and just assumed I was dying.
It was the weirdest thing. Mrs Dawson asked me a question in chem class, something about the periodic table, and my mind went blank. Everyone’s eyes were on me, I could feel fire around my neck, and my vision started to wobble. Like when the heat rises off the desert floor and smudges the landscape, everything was out of focus.
The next thing I knew, I was waking up in the ER, a train track of staples running down my forehead. Six staples. Things got really bad from there.
I spend the next twenty-five minutes of our journey wrinkled up in my seat, too scared to look out of the window. Angry-girl music blasts through my headphones, but it does nothing to quiet the voices listing potential disasters in my head.
Mom pulls into a space outside Bridge Lea Medical Center, kills the car engine, and turns to look at me.
‘Are you going to come inside?’
‘I can’t do it,’ I tell her, my voice weak and squeaky like a mouse’s. I’m not being awkward. I’m done. Seriously. Beyond exhausted and numb from the neck down. I don’t think my muscles could take my weight.
Mom submits in record time. Doctor Motivator and his know-nothing mental-health special can take a hike. Forcing your crumbling kid to move is near impossible for any parent with a soul.