Coat on, keys in hand, my mom has a grin plastered across her face and I know my internet connection lives to fight another day. Losing that would be like pulling the plug on my life support system, shutting me inside a chest and dumping me in the ocean. But as serious as she is about testing the current limits of my comfort zone, I’m not sure her guts are steely enough to follow through with the threat. Not that I’m a brat who would make her life a misery if she did. What I mean is, she feels sorry for me. She knows I would be completely isolated without the internet. The clunky plastic box with flashing blue lights is my friend. Sad, but true. It helps me keep a toe in real life.
Still, my stupid brain and its never-ending wave of paranoia won’t allow me to push her empathy any further. So I’m here.
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.