Dreams of 18

I’m all for that. At least, I am now.

I want a healthy life. I want to deal with my issues. I don’t want to deny anything like I did before because it was easier.

This isn’t denial though, my trust in him.

I’m not denying what happened. I’m not denying that he hurt me. I’m not denying that it hurts to breathe. It hurts to wake up every morning day after day. It hurts that it’s almost been a week and he isn’t here yet.

It hurts so much that I cry into my pillow every night and beg for him to come to me. I beg for him to come back in my dreams.

So this isn’t a case of denial. This is a case of pure faith.

This is trust.

“He’ll come,” I tell Nelson, calmly.

Nelson puts a finger on his lips. “Okay.”

Smiling at his obvious disbelief that he’s trying to hide behind his cool mask, I say, “So I want you to teach me how to get rid of my crutches because I learned something else at the magical yoga camp.”

“What?”

“That I’m brave. And that if I want, I can work on myself. I can learn to live in the Outside world.”

And I want to.

I don’t want to be shy or anxious or at least, work on not being those things. I’ve been those things my entire life. Long before, I hid behind my sunglasses and cap, I used my hair and my headphones as my crutches.

I don’t want that anymore.

I want to be this new me, the one I discovered while I was with him.

The one who looks people in the eyes and doesn’t hide behind her crutches.

The one who’s wild and beauty.

Anyway, same thing happens when the girls come to visit. They all tell me to move on, look at me with pity and throw me sad smiles, hug me like someone has died, and I don’t want to accept that.

Through it all, I keep smiling.

I keep my trust in him.

I keep it even when Brian comes to visit.

At first, I can’t believe it. I can’t believe that I’m seeing him. That he’s here. He was supposed to be somewhere in California. And he looks it, too.

He looks tan. Not to mention, he looks tall and broad and so unlike my best friend whom I haven’t seen in a year.

My best friend.

I’m so shocked that I don’t move from my spot on the couch. We keep staring at each other, then he throws me a sheepish smile and I can’t stop myself.

I spring up from my seat and run to him where he’s standing at the door that the housekeeper has just opened.

I give him a tight hug, which he returns, and I can’t help but squeal, “Oh my God, what are you doing here?”

But as soon as I ask it, my heart starts pounding. My breaths go haywire. I break the hug and stare at him with wide eyes.

With eyes full of hope.

I don’t have to spell it out for him. We were best friends – still are. He knows what I’m asking him.

I’m asking about his dad. About Graham. I’m asking if he’s here, if he has finally come back for me.

“You wanna come sit by the pool with me?” he responds instead, and my heart deflates.

He’s not here.

Not yet.

I nod, giving him a brave smile. “Yeah.”

We go around the house to the pool and sit on the edge, dangling our legs in the water. It feels like old times. The sun shining on us and the neighborhood all calm and quiet with the occasional whoosh of a car driving by.

“He told me to come see you,” he says, and I whip my eyes over to him.

Brian’s squinting at something in the water.

“He did?”

He nods slowly. “He said you needed me.” He swallows and glances at me. “He said you needed a friend right now.”

My doomsday brain starts ticking. My anxious thoughts start to consume all my faith and my trust and everything in between.

You know, when you suffer from anxiety, everything is a disaster. Everything is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

You drown in them, in your bad thoughts. You try to swim across sometimes. You try to get to the shore, get to safety where you can distinguish between rational and irrational thoughts. What your gut feeling is and what is fake – a telling from your ill brain.

But sometimes, it’s really hard. To swim, I mean. It’s exhausting. You wanna give up. It’s easy to give up.

And for a second, I want to.

I want to give up again and assume the worst. I want to lie down and let the anxiety take over and assume that Graham sent his son because he isn’t going to come himself.

So I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I curl my fingers around the edge of the swimming pool and plant my butt on the cement.