I would sob if I could get some air, but all I can manage is the shallowest of breaths. I am slowly submerging into quicksand, and any sudden movements will only speed my demise.
My eyes move around the room from where I now lie on the floor. It’s a perspective I haven’t tried before. Every flaw is exposed down here. The spots where the strip of wood molding has pulled away from the wall. The dust bunnies trapped under the bed. A balled-up sock. The banged-up rungs of my desk chair. A tiny earring back, made all the more mysterious because I hardly ever wear earrings and don’t remember dropping it. A spot low on the wall that missed its second coat of paint.
At full height, standing tall, everything seems perfect. It’s not until you sink down low that you can see the flaws. From my perspective, it’s hard to see anything but the flaws.
I take it all in until my gaze finally comes to rest on the crack of light below my door, where I can see into the hallway.
I blink once every hour, or so it seems. A pair of shoes appears outside my door. My mother. She doesn’t knock, though. Just stands there for a minute. My light is off, so she must assume I’m asleep. Her shoes linger a minute, then tiptoe away. The hall light goes off.
It’s completely dark now. It occurs to me that I must be uncomfortable, lying here on the hard floor for so long. But the only pain is the ache in my chest.
My eyes adjust to the darkness. I scan the room for my phone, for any sign of life. But I’ve turned off the notifications from Instagram. Mom’s asleep. And Jenna?
She’s really gone this time.
15
I WAKE TO A POUNDING, but it’s not at my door. The noise is coming from inside my own head, and my mouth feels like I slept with it wide open in front of a fan. The piece of gum I was chewing last night is a hard ball wedged against my teeth. I sit up and spit it into my hand. The pounding turns into more of a howl, as every aching part of my body lets out its own cry of pain.
I crawl to my door and stumble down the hall to the bathroom, gulping water from the sink faucet. It helps, but not much. Also, I can smell myself. I peel off my clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor, and climb into the shower. The water is too hot, but I leave it that way. It makes me feel less numb. The steam is so thick, I can barely see my feet.
I let the water pour over me until it runs cold, then wrap a towel around myself and pad to my room. The house is quiet. It’s still early, and Sunday.
I towel off, put on some clean clothes, including my fuzzy socks. I rub my hand over my freshly socked feet. They’re so soft and fluffy. I want a suit made of these socks. A big sock suit with armholes. No, forget the armholes. It could be more of a cocoon. A big, fuzzy sock cocoon.
My phone sits in the middle of my unslept-in bed. Seeing it reminds me why I spent the night on the floor. It hurts to think those thoughts again. I don’t even want to think her name. The girl whose name shall not be spoken. The girl who pitied me. The girl who lied to me for almost twelve years.
The girl who erased me from her life with a single text.
Not thinking about her is making me want to cry. And I try to never cry about myself. If I cried about myself I’d be bawling all day, every day.
I sit at my computer and open my Instagram and I cry, instead, for my new friends who are #depressed and #lonely and #sad. They are legion. I want to wrap fuzzy sock cocoons around them all, and myself, too.
I Google “fuzzy sock cocoon.”
Surprisingly, there are some images of sweaters and coats that pop up, but it’s the babies that draw my attention. Tiny, newborn babies snuggled in cozy little knit cocoons with matching hats or miniature hoodies.
They look so safe and warm. I change my search to “babies in cocoons” and hit the jackpot of fuzzy sock-like cuteness. God, I want to be one of those babies. Go back to a time when contentment came from sleep and swaddling, from being warm and dry and fed.
I glance at my bed, consider rolling myself in the comforter for the rest of the day. Would my mother lovingly feed me if she found me like that? Doubtful. She’d more likely tear the blankets off and expose me to the cold.
The way to overcome your fear is to just face it.
I open Photoshop. In less than an hour, I am snuggly in a cocoon . . . only my head showing, with my orange-and-purple hair and the peace sign sunglasses, which seem most suitable for the occasion. I’m tucked in there with the sweetly sleeping babies, all nestled together like a row of spoons. I pull the photo up on my Instagram, and write:
In which I disappear. #safe #warm #fuzzysockcocoon
I will die if someone else has used that hashtag. So I check. As expected, “No tags found.” And I’m glad. One of my followers inaugurated #vicurious, so this is my first original.
There are more than one million of #safe, though, and more than eleven million of #warm.
Vicurious is up to 9,202 users. I can’t believe I’m so close to 10,000, or that adding 800 followers would ever seem “close.”
I go to the kitchen. Eat cereal. Drink orange juice. Mom comes in, all chipper. “What shall we do today?” She starts filling the kettle to boil water for tea. “Go shopping? Have a nice lunch out, maybe?”
It really is astonishing how determined the woman is to ignore the fact that I hate things like shopping and nice lunches out.
“I have homework,” I say.
Her smile falls. “Of course.”
I sit with her until the tea is ready, then take a cup to my room. Today’s mission: 10,000 followers or bust.
Several hours later, I can’t even remember all the places I’ve sent Vicurious. To a World Cup soccer match. The inauguration of Pope Francis. Wimbledon. Hang gliding. Bungee jumping. Line dancing. Cattle herding. And I am no longer hashtag-averse. It’s #score #praisegod #game #set #match #whee #ahhh #foottapping #yeehah #saddleup and anything else I can think of.
My number of followers ticks up and up and up. By three o’clock I’ve reached my goal of 10,000. It’s not enough. I still feel empty, so I keep posting. Vicurious at the Tony Awards. The Golden Globes. The Emmys. I tag celebrities. I crash my favorite PBS series, inserting myself in place of the lead female actress.
When my eyes are swimming from staring at the computer for so long, I lie on my bed with my phone, checking it every few minutes as my follower count bumps higher and higher. By dinnertime it’s 12,800. By nine o’clock it’s 14,200. I’ve added something like 5,000 followers in a single day. Instagram doesn’t even write out the full number anymore; it’s too big. They put “k” for thousand now.
That should make me happy, right?