Left Drowning(2)

So I add frigid to the list. To that stupid mental inventory I try so hard not to keep. An increasingly large list of all of my flaws. My inadequacies. My failures.

There has to be a list of my successes, too, doesn’t there? Or at least my… adequacies? I try to focus. All the f*cking liquor makes it hard, but I try. This is important.

I’m a not-terrible student.

I shower regularly.

I know a lot about tides.

I will eat nearly anything, except for raisins.

Christ. I refocus. I may be drunk, but I can do better.

I have mastered the art of melancholy.

I have my doubts about whether this can even vaguely be considered a “success.” I think again, determined to find something I’ve done that is worth recognition.

I lived.

The laugh that escapes my lips is awful. The bitter sound echoes throughout my sparse room. “I’m a regular f*cking Harry Potter!” I shriek. “Fuck!”

I sit up and kick off my shoes. My phone is still in my hand, and I look dizzily at it.

I never give up on my brother. That at least should go on the “success” list. Without thinking about or planning what to say, I grab my phone and call him.

“Jesus Christ, Blythe. What do you want?” James grumbles.

“Sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you woke me up. It’s three in the morning.”

“Is it that late? Well, you’re in college, too. Thought you’d just be getting home.” I wait, but he says nothing. “How’s school? How’s the leg? I bet you’re getting stronger every day still.”

“School is fine, and knock it off with the leg questions, all right? You bring it up every time I talk to you. Enough. It’s as good as it’s going to get, which is shitty. Stop asking.” My brother yawns. “Seriously, just go to bed.” The clear irritation, the disgust, in his voice sears through me.

“James, please. I’m sorry.” Damn it. I can’t disguise the drunken edge to my voice. “We never talk. I wanted to hear your voice. See if you’re okay.”

He sighs. “Yes. I’m as fine as I can be. You sound like a disaster, though.”

“Gee, that’s nice.”

“Well, you do.” James pauses. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like this crap. You know that. Can you just… Can we do this another time?”

“I’m so sorry for everything. I need you to know that. To really know that. Things can be better for you. I want—”

“Don’t. Not now. Not again. We’re not having this f*cking conversation again.”

“Okay.” I stare out the window into the dark. It’s late September in the wee hours, and I know what is coming. Nothing good. The same as it is every year. “Sure thing, James.” The ridiculous attempt at conveying a cheerful, nonchalant tone makes my voice crack. “We’ll talk soon. Take care, James.”

So that went well. Not that I should have expected better. Inebriated middle-of-the-night calls are sort of destined to fail. I know because I’ve made them before. What’s tragic is that after each dumb call to my brother, I resolve that the next one will go more smoothly. What sucks is that sober calls during the day aren’t any better; they always result in exchanges that are stilted and uncomfortable.

I sigh heavily, then turn on the flashlight app on my phone. I love that not only does it make normal white light, but it lets me select whatever damn color I want. I set the phone down on my bed, and it illuminates part of the room with haunting blue electronic light.

As I stand and shuffle to the small sink, my body feels drained of all its alcohol-fueled energy. It takes a few tries, but I eventually shove my long, messy hair into a knot on the top of my head. A few curls fall from the tie and hang by my face. I can’t look at myself because I cannot stomach looking at a girl who has so little hope left, who is inexcusably weak. I am humiliated by my own inability to do better. I vow to spend at least the next twenty-four hours booze-free.

The water that comes from the tap is ice cold. Minute after minute goes by as I collect handfuls of water and toss them over my face. I don’t stop until there are no more hot tears to wash away.





CHAPTER TWO


Important Gestures


Six o’clock on a Saturday morning is not exactly my preferred time to wake up. I glare at the clock. Well, there is nothing to be done. I am awake. My choice is either get up and deal with the day or stay in bed and spend the next several hours being sucked into the unpleasant and familiar vortex of racing thoughts, panic, depression, and listlessness that has dominated my life for the last four years. Better to get out of bed. As I blink into the dark, I am again hit with how tired I am and how little fight I have in me.

My lack of fight was clear enough yesterday when I met with my fifth, and presumably final, academic adviser, some woman named Tracey. A woman who seemed to think that reviving my career at this liberal arts college might be easy. She clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. Or maybe she forgot to factor in that I only have eight months to drag through until graduation.

I take a deep breath and wiggle my toes. At least I am not hungover, since I’ve stayed true to my vow and gotten through a whole twenty-four hours without drinking. It’s a nice change of pace. After that disastrous phone call with my brother two nights ago, I’m filled with regret over what I’m capable of while drunk. Not to mention how horrifying it was to meet with my advisor while dealing with the hangover of a lifetime. I’m quite sure that I left a pool of alcohol-laced sweat on the seat of her office chair.