J O N A S
The next day found Jonas spending his time moping around the house. His brother was gone (as usual), Taylor was at soccer practice, and his dad was at work. That left his mom, who was off for the day. That didn't stop her from working though; she was hard at work scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom, her hair tied up and apron on. Jonas watched her. She used to dance in the kitchen when she cleaned the floors, radio on and arms all swaying. Jonas couldn't help but think it was his fault that she didn't anymore. So he sat on the couch, moodily frowning at the turned-off tv.
Jonas's mom seemed to pick up on his bad mood and didn't really engage him, whether to remind him of his doctor's appointment later that day (the one he didn't want to go to at all) or to suggest some other activity (that involved leaving the house) that he might enjoy.
He didn't feel like being in his room all day, which was strange, because there was usually no place he enjoyed being more. He didn't really feel up to going out, and his leg hurt, but he didn't feel like doing nothing.
It was strange. Since he had gone out, since he had given himself the chance to see that he could indeed successfully leave the house, he'd stopped being completely content to stay inside. Like, since he'd given it a chance, it had ruined his contentment with doing nothing.
The only problem was that he wasn't quite ready to admit that to himself yet, so here he was, camped out in the living room, his own personal compromise between hiding in his bedroom and going out.
Eventually, his mom put away her apron and grabbed her purse and keys. "Time to go," she said, hesitantly, watching him from the door. Jonas wordlessly got up and retrieved his crutches. He'd chosen to wear the prosthetic leg—he'd been wearing it more and more lately—but he still wasn't going to actually walk on it.
"I've got to go to the grocery store afterwards," Jonas's mom said. "If you don't want to go, you could always drive yourself to the doctor's?" She sounded like she'd rather take him to see the doctor, and then drag him around the grocery store as well.
"No," Jonas shook his head. "I'd rather not drive."
"All right," she said, nodding and heading out the door. Jonas followed her, and got into the passenger seat of her van (which was nicer than the Bus: newer, and with air conditioning). He stared out the window as they drove, the trees and the buildings blurring into smears of color as they eventually picked up speed onto the highway, headed downtown.
When they reached the doctor's office, his mom came around to open the passenger door for him.
"I'm not an invalid," he snapped, probably too harshly, he thought, judging by the hurt look in her eyes.
"I know, Bird," his mom said, backing off. She suddenly looked tired again. Jonas hadn't realized she'd been starting to perk up over the past couple weeks, but the change in her now made it evident. "I was just...trying to help," she added, softly.
Just, just...always just... "I'm not going to break, Mom." Jonas avoided meeting her eyes as he got out and positioned his crutches, making his way to the door of the doctor's office.
It was home to many doctors, and many specialties, several of which Jonas had become familiar with over the last year. It was a big building, too stark and too clean for Jonas's taste. And it smelled like a hospital, which he hated.
There were a list of things Jonas thought about when he thought about hospitals, and none of them were pleasant:
1. Flashes of lights on the ceiling
2. The faces of doctors, and the sound of his mom crying.
3. The sensation of finally giving into darkness because that was all his body wanted to do and he couldn't fight it, couldn't fight it anymore...
Back in the present, Jonas eyed the people using the stairs with a frown. He would have used the stairs if he could have. You should eventually be able to walk almost as before, his prosthetist had told him when he was first fitted. With practice, you could even conquer stairs. Jonas hadn't wanted to conquer anything. He hadn't wanted to have to. He had wanted to have his leg back.
They got into the elevator. He pushed the button for the third floor. It was all familiar, all robotic movement. Go through the motions; go home afterwards.
They signed in at the front desk.
"Jonas!" The nurse called his name eventually. Jonas wanted to do anything but stand up, force a smile towards the nurse, and begin to walk back with her. His mom stood too, making her way to his side. She always came for his appointments. She was always there, ready to support him, willing to help if she was needed. He wondered, suddenly, if maybe that was a small part of his problem. Too many people to help him, to pity him; too easy for him to just let them. Maybe he really just needed to help himself. He was leaving for college, after all.
"Mom..." He muttered, stopping short. "I...I'd really just rather...go alone, this time."
"Oh," she said, drawing back her hand from his arm. "Are you sure?" She was frowning, worry in her eyes. She also looked like she might cry.
"Yes, Mom," he mumbled. "It's not a big deal. I just...want to go by myself. All right? Please don't make it a big deal. It isn't; I promise."
"Yes, all right. Of course." She swallowed, patting his arm in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but really just conveyed to Jonas, along with the glistening wet of her dark eyes, how upset she was. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to feel useful. He wondered if maybe sometimes she felt like she'd somehow failed as a mother, although that was really the farthest thing from the truth. None of this was her fault. Guilt squeezed his stomach...again.
He wanted to comfort his mom, so he turned back at the last second, crutched back to her, and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her arm. "Ok, Mom?" he asked her.
She smiled, slightly, swiping at her face with shuddery hands. "Ok, Bird," she said. "I'll be just out here if you need anything."
"I know," he said, giving her a little smile, before turning and following the nurse.
B R E N N A N
Today, it was horrible.
It was days like these that the anxiety would rise up and grab Brennan by the throat, choking her, making it seem like she couldn't even breathe, let alone open her mouth and force words to come out. She felt like, if she did open her mouth, all the sick feeling in her stomach would come out. It washed over her like waves, suppressed at one moment, then overwhelming her the next, pulling her back into herself.
So she didn't...open her mouth that is. She was abnormally quiet, pacing back and forth in her bedroom, trying to distract herself from the churning in her stomach. Let me GO, she begged the anxiety that lived in her stomach, her mind. NEVER, it retorted.
In these moments, Brennan felt like she was just a body controlled by some parasite inside of her, that fed off her emotions. She mentally ticked the counter in her head—"Days Since Incident"—to zero.
Anxiety. Brennan hated it, hated the word. She hated when people said it, like it was just her being shy, or nervous, and not really something that caused her to lose sleep, to feel sick, and to feel like she couldn't breathe. They said it like they were characters in a story, and it was a word that was italicized, emphasized. Oh. You have anxiety. Like there were air quotes around the word, and it wasn't a real thing. Then they would nod as if in understanding. This is why she's like this. Weird. Maybe, in her head, she talked to the wrong people. Someone out there had to understand how she felt.
She wished her body didn't have to have a fight or flight misfire whenever she found something little to be nervous about, because it was destroying what little confidence she had.
She was lucky she was off work today, because it was one of the bad days.
It was a vicious cycle too...every time she got nervous about something, she started to expect that she would be nervous the next time that circumstance presented itself. Ironically, she was nervous about being nervous.
And it never ended; it only repeated itself.
Fingers itching, she yanked open her side table drawer and dug around inside, pulling out the white bottle with the paper label firmly affixed to it. Brennan Davis. One nightly. Solazepram, or Sol-ER. Only a few of the pills were missing.
TAKE IT, I DARE you, her brain taunted her. Remember the side effect of nausea? Remember how you got nauseous last time you took it, and then you couldn't sleep that night? And you threw up?
Brennan squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that she saw little flecks of stars spark across the backs of her eyelids. That's only because you worked yourself up so much in anticipation that you'd be one of the ones to feel that particular side effect, logical Brennan retorted. You expected it, so you felt it. It was all in your head.
Maybe she should try it again—take the time to get on a schedule and go the weeks required for the levels of the drug to build up and be effective—before school started. But what if it didn't work, and then she had to stop and try to find another med? And it would take a while, because you couldn't stop abruptly; you had to taper your doses over quite some time.
Go on. It doesn't help. I. DARE. YOU.
Brennan smacked the pill bottle off the nightstand and back into the drawer, which she slammed shut. She yanked her covers over her head and curled into a tight ball, pressing a hand to her roiling stomach.
How will I ever be able to survive college? She sniffled. For that matter, how will I ever be able to have anything normal? I'm...crazy. Certifiably crazy.
She'd never told anyone the full extent of her anxiety. It felt ok to mention that sometimes she was nervous for work on random days, for seemingly no reason in particular. It felt all right to say that she was nervous in large crowds, or meeting new people. She had told her doctor all of these things.
What she hadn't told her about was that sometimes she just felt like she couldn't breathe, even if she was just going to the store. Or meeting someone for a lunch out. Or on an elevator alone with someone. She didn't tell them how she constantly worried about getting food poisoning and throwing up in front of people, so she tried not to eat in public. She didn't tell them how it was depressing, to think about the what-if-it-never-goes-aways and the what-if-nothing-changes.
She couldn't tell them; they'd lose any good opinion of her that they had, wouldn't they? They'd realize how insane she was. They'd look at her strangely, or they wouldn't understand, or both. They'd say "it's ok! I get nervous sometimes too!" They'd say "don't worry! You have nothing to worry about!" Some might shake their heads: "there are people with real problems", they might say. Or "just tell yourself not to worry." They didn't understand that she couldn't just shut off her brain. Couldn't just stop her stomach from churning. Couldn't. Couldn't stop her crazy inside of her.
Brennan had always been this way, since she was seven. Off and on, she'd get the anxious periods. Usually, she'd be anxious for about a year, and then it would pass and she'd be fine—maybe for a year, maybe for a year and half.
Now, in the middle of what had been the longest anxious period of her life so far, Brennan was holding on for the light at the end of the tunnel that had always come before.
The only problem was that it just seemed like it was much farther away than it had ever been.