Secrets

4. Dead People

       I cried that night, and not little tears kind of crying. The kind of crying were my body is shaking and I'm not breathing enough to get air into my lungs and I'm heaving so hard my throat is soar. And I wasn't beautiful doing it either. My face was scrunched like a Snapchat filter and snot was oozing out my nose. The tears were getting in my mouth and making what little makeup I had left on running down my face.

       At one point my mom came in my room and laid down with me, she held me close and I felt so warm. I was getting better, I was almost all healed up and tears were done coming down my face. Then you came to mind, and I couldn't handle it. I began crying again, and my chest closed up on me, and no air was getting to me anymore. My vision became foggy and my mom was panicking, making my panic worse.

       I woke up to white, a bright light, and the smell of old and dead people. I wish I could say I felt better, that the crying helped, but everything was worse. I didn't want to move, and I wanted to cry again. The air was stale and left a funny face on my tongue. The room was too quiet and it burned my ears. My neck was stiff but I looked around the room anyways, and in the far corner sitting in a red chair, the only color in the room, was my mom.

       She was ghostly white and frowning while she slept. There was a small blanket wrapped around her. She had pulled herself into a ball, and I could see the tear streaks that were formed sometime before I woke up. She was probably just as scared about this as I was. The attacks have been bad before, but tonight was an all time high.

       "Mom?" Even the whisper hurt, how hard was I crying? How long have I been here? I let my eyes wonder the room some more and I found a clock. Two forty-five in the morning, great. I won't have to go to school in the morning, but my mom still has to work. This is when the anger sets in, the hatred for myself. Ever since dad left I've been nothing but an issue for my mom in my eyes, and tonight is a perfect example.

       "Sweetie." She was beside me instantly, sitting on the edge of my bed and grasping my hand in hers. "Oh, I was so worried. What set you off, are you okay now?" She was concerned, and meat well, but she was making me want to cry again. The truth is I don't know what set me off, or I do and I just don't want to know. I refuse to remember.

       My brain blocks out bad things, but yet I can never block out you. I've been able to do this since dad left, just forget things or people or places. If it hurts me, if I want to or not, my brain will flip a switch. No matter how hard I try, I can't remember if dads eyes were steel or blue, and if his hair was mostly gray or mostly black.

       But my brain can't block all the bad things. It can't block the panic attacks, or the flashbacks, or the nightmares, and it can't block my terrible feelings for you. Even now, when I'm sitting in a hospital bed after a severe panic attack, you occupy my mind. It's like you're the one thing my brain doesn't mind me being hurt by.

       "I'm fine mom, I'm sorry this happened. I didn't know it would get this bad, I tried to control it." My mom has roughly three hours before her alarm for work wakes her up, and god knows she isn't going to get enough sleep here. "Mom, go home. Sleep, you have work in the morning. I'll get a ride home some other time."

       "No, no way. I'm checking you out of here at seven like they said I could, I'm not leaving your side until you're home." Her eyes and tone were stern, and she almost seemed offended that I would say such a thing.

       "You have to be at work by seven though, it's not a good idea. You could lose your job or something. I can't let you lose your job because I had some stupid panic attack." I was pouting now, throwing a mini fit because my mom wouldn't go home and sleep. I fiddled with my fingers in my lap and she takes in a breath.

       "Honey, we've talked about this before. You're panic attacks aren't a burden, and you can't control them. I'm not upset about you having one, I'm upset that you have to suffer like this. I won't lose my job either, I already told my boss that I'll be in late due to family matters."

       I only nod, clearly seeing that every point I make she'll shoot down. She believes I'm not to blame for my panic attacks, but I think I am. If my brain makes them, why can't I find the switch that turns that part of my brain off? The pain I see in my moms eyes every time I tell her I've had a panic attack, the bull crap I put my friends through, the embarrassment I suffer when I have one in class, the way my lungs clog and I freeze up. It sucks, all of it sucks.

       Closing my eyes I try to fall asleep, but it's no use. Around seven a nurse comes in and mom signs paper and has a private conversation with the lady in the hallway. Moments later mom returns with a fresh set of tear stains on her cheeks and I can tell by the look in her eyes she'll tell me when she's ready.

       "Let's get out of here." I only nod, rejoicing at the thought of fresh air.