I narrow my eyes on my cousin, who also happens to be my best friend, and I shake my head. I huff my irritation for a few moments before the ridiculousness of the situation overtakes me. Holly starts it with a light snort, and before I know it, we’ve dissolved into a fit of giggles. My belly aches, my chest tightens, and my lungs strain under the weight of my laughter. It’s lovely to be laughing again.
When Holly and I calm ourselves down, she clears her throat and shoves the stupid bowl of now-warm soup at me. At least it’s what used to be my favorite—broccoli cheddar. The creamy, cheesy substance is laden with bits of bright green broccoli pieces. Taking a deep breath, I focus in on what we’ve talked about and do my best to follow through. Remind myself how I used to feel about it, focus in on the smell, then the touch, and finally the taste, paying equal measure to each one so I can absorb the entirety of the experience. The first part proves easy enough. I can always remember what I once liked about something, whether it be a food, piece of clothing, song, or even a person. My memories are strong and fierce and sometimes—mostly, actually—fucking crippling.
The smell of the soup isn’t altogether unpleasant. Foods carry a slightly different scent when they’re warm than they do when they’re cold—a point Holly refuses to acquiesce on—and despite the fact that the smell isn’t unpleasant, I still find myself desperately trying to will away the disgust. It’s just soup. It’s just warm soup, is all. Holly’s brown eyes are patient, but her fingers are tapping on the kitchen table absently. I told her when she suggested this that we’d end up here. She was bound to become annoyed with me at some point, and it seems some point is now.
This is ridiculous.
Before I lose my nerve, I seize the spoon from the bowl’s edge and take a heaping spoonful. I pause for but a moment to meet Holly’s wide eyes and then unceremoniously shove the contents of the spoon into my mouth.
Shit. It’s hotter than I thought. My tongue burns and the roof of my mouth aches from the awful surprise. My face screws up from the assault, and I slap at the table maniacally. Holly shoves a glass of ice water at me. Its sides are wet with condensation. I think twice before wrapping my hand around it, but somehow I’m drawn to it. As beads of moisture slide down to the table, my brain is assaulted with all the feelings I try so hard to push down all the time.
I hate the memories of my tears wetting my face as that man shoves my face into the wooden desk. The room is so warm, and my skin is hot to the touch. Every violent push, every sadistic word, and every single sound from that night floods my mind. My memories start to slip back further in time to when I was in another dark place. Only back then I welcomed the heat in my veins that numbed the aching loneliness of losing Heath. Now, the very thought of the entire process—from scoring to finding a workable vein and all the way to the swollen, red-hot rush that would sweep over me makes me sick.
And to think I almost succumbed to that the other night.
Slowly, the burning in my mouth cools. I force the mouthful of soup down my throat and remind myself that the chunks I’m swallowing are broccoli and not my own vomit. Not a stranger’s fluids.
Instinctively, I grab at the damp glass and gulp as much of the water as I can before my poor stomach feels too full to consume another drop. The uncomfortable wetness makes my body tense up, but I don’t bother to release it like I’m prone to do. No, I’m here to make progress, and I can’t do that if I don’t confront what’s bothering me.
Across the table, Holly sits perfectly still and watches me with a nervous gaze. I vow to myself to keep my hand on the glass and eyes firmly fixed on my best friend for as long as it takes the irrational discomfort to subside. I’m going to get better. I have to. It takes probably five minutes, at least, for me to feel comfortable enough to set the glass down. My chin wobbles as I fight the losing battle of trying to convince myself that I don’t actually have to dry my hand. I hate how wet it is and after a minute decide I’ve made strides in other areas and that it’s not such a big failure to give in to the nagging need to dry my hand.
“This is major progress.” I let Holly give me the compliment and try to accept it as gracefully as I can. It’s not really that easy, so instead of verbalizing anything, I just nod my head. I took a bite of soup, haven’t thrown it up yet, and even held a damp glass without losing myself to the demons and forgetting where I am.
Yeah, I’m such a badass.
“Do you want to try working on touch now?”
No, I don’t. My issues with touching and being touched are worse than my temperature and moisture issues. Touch makes my other triggers look like silly quirks.