“Some people think I’m quiet. Shy. Others think I’m rude. The vast majority of people don’t understand what it’s like being unable to control your mind’s reaction to situations. Crowds. Strangers. Anything unexpected really. It’s like an illness you can’t cure. One that you can only manage.” I took a strangled breath, even talking about it made me anxious. “I used to wish that it was a physical illness. Because then at least there’d be a cure. An end. Being trapped in your own head is not something I’d wish on anyone,” I whispered brokenly.
I blinked. I couldn’t believe I’d just said all that. I hadn’t told anyone just how much my anxiety affected me. How weak it made me.
“Flower,” Asher murmured with sympathy. The single word held so much. Even on the other side of the phone, miles away, I could hear it.
I had to nip that in the bud. “I don’t pity myself,” I said quickly. “There’re worse things than being … shy. I just needed you to know. The real me. Not who you think I am,” I told him slowly, knowing this is when I’d get the goodbye I feared. I couldn’t believe I’d even verbalized this part of myself. I never talked this much about how I felt, not to anyone. But the distance that the phone offered, let me and Asher become closer despite being in different towns.
There was a long pause. “Jesus,” Asher muttered finally. “You don’t know how much I wished I could get on my bike and see your beautiful face. Look into those ice blue eyes and tell you you’re not who I think you are….” he paused, “you’re better. I hate that for you, Lily. That you have to struggle with something I can never fix. It doesn’t define you. How you handle it, who you become in spite of that shit defines you. Who you are, it’s pretty fuckin’ impressive,” he declared. “I’m strugglin’ babe. I’ve gotta admit. I know I said I’d give you time. Wait until you were ready before this turned into what I want it to be. You saying shit like that, not being able to be there, to hold you, see your face. It’s killing me,” he admitted.
I swallowed. I couldn’t stand that pain and frustration in his voice. I also couldn’t handle what he wanted us to turn into right now. I couldn’t handle what he’d just said. I stared out the window in shock. He didn’t sound confused, disgusted or detached. He sounded proud. The only other person who repeated a familiar sentiment was the person who understood me better than anyone in the world. The person I buried days ago.
That realization hit me like a freight train. I couldn’t do this. Talk about this with him. Not when I was still trying to escape the big sad.
“I’ve got to go,” I said quickly, wiping away my tears.
“Lily,” Asher’s voice protested.
“I’ve got to go, I’m sorry,” I whispered, then hung up the phone.
I stared out the window at the view of depleted homes and gray apartment buildings for a long time after that.
“Tequila?” Bex asked from behind me.
I turned to regard her strangely bright eyes focused on me and her hands holding up a bottle that offered numbness.
“Tequila,” I nodded.
It was my night off, not from work, but from partying. The past few days had been a blur. A blur of cocktails, wine, and clothes that I didn’t feel comfortable in. After said cocktails and wine, I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. Parties where I didn’t know a soul except Bex. Clubs that were so crowded, I felt like I couldn’t take a step without brushing someone’s arm. A cocktail of things that usually would have had me a hyperventilating mess. Would have had me running away to the solitude of my own company. The thing was my own company didn’t offer solace, only demons that wine and loud parties promised to chase away. There wasn’t time to think. Time to remember. There was only the immediate, the now, the next drink, the next song. Then when I woke up, my thoughts would be on curing my headache. Whether it be with trash television and junk food, or burying my head back in the pillows. When the headache was cured it was the next drink. It was so far from what I would have done, I felt comfort in the uncomfortable environment.
“You sure you don’t need a couple more days off?” Jude asked, eyeing me skeptically.
I knew I didn’t look like me. My long hair was teased into a messy ponytail. My eyes were rimmed with dark liner I never wore. My clothes showed more than they concealed. I was wearing Bex’s skin tight oil coated jeans and a teeny white crop top. Like I said, comfort came from the uncomfortable trapping of this adopted persona.