Read A Story About An Awkward Girl :: PART ONE.9

I stare at the reference number the ER doctor gave me to a family practice physician. I've decided my anxiety is due to failure at independence. If I'm going to be the girl that drops out at 18 to get a job I better at least do it right. Take care of myself.

My stomach has turned to rot, I can't drink anything but Gatorade, I haven't eaten. It's the second day since Cas left and he hasn't come back again.

The woman on the other end tells me she can fit me in tomorrow at nine A.M. I tell her thank you and realize my voice is shaking. It didn't used to to do that, even when pretending to adult when I wasn't ready for that yet. The residual anger was the worst part.

I get angry when people talk about killing themselves like it's anything to cry wolf about. Even joking about killing yourself is something to be taken very seriously. I feel angry when people claim they were abused that weren't. I know it happens.

Sometimes I get angry when people talk about having panic attacks as though they're relatively commonplace things when they probably don't even know what they are.

I've had mild panic attacks where my heart races and I feel bile in my throat as though I might lose control and let loose an unintentional blood-curdling scream in public as a result of my superpower, but it's never hit so hard before.

It's as though my fear has leveled up to an intensity that at its worst will steal each breath without warning and leave my lungs struggling for air as though a vacuum is stealing all the oxygen slowly from the world leaving only the current moment, or a past moment which has become crystallized into the current state of panic. Like now, for instance.

"I thought I was dreaming," Cas says.

"What?" I ask.

"When you finally asked me out on our first date, I was so sure I must be dreaming, because you were the girl of my dreams, and I didn't think a girl like you would ever ask a guy like me on a date."

I think of the way he used to always woo me with that line as I wait in the reception area of the doctor's office next morning.

"Oh, please. Don't act as if he's some kind of hero. He's a--"

I know what the disembodied voice is getting at. I suddenly can't breathe. Am I having an asthma attack? Allergies? I didn't think I had asthma. I'm just sitting here damn it, it's not like I'm running a marathon.

I instinctively clutch at my chest as it tightens even more. How long does it take to pass out from lack of oxygen? I breathe deeply through my mouth but I cough as it chokes me, the very air gagging my throat.

"Close your mouth, idiot. Breathe through your nose. Breathe through your teeth."

I don't think that will help. I need more oxygen, not less.

"Damn girl, listen to me. I don't think the ladies at the desk have a paper bag handy. Plus, people would stare if you did that. Breathe through your nose. Slowly, now. Hold in that breath. Release. Wait a minute, not yet. That's it."

I may be going insane, but I have to admit, The Disembodied Voice is helpful sometimes. It's just too bad nobody else can hear it.

Pounding heart, shallow breaths, sweaty palms, this is what most people refer to when they think they are having a panic attack. I once went an entire hour during my U.S. History exam with my heart practically beating out of my chest because I was so nervous about the potential for failure. People lie, though. This is not what a true panic attack is: the one you can think yourself into. A state of extreme anticipation.

The real one is the one that you don't see coming, because it's not caused by conscious anticipation, it's caused by over-oxygenation, the kind you get when your body is telling you to either fight, or run like you've never run before, or you'll die. The one that happens when you're laughing with friends, or walking in the grocery store, or waiting for the doctor to call your name. The one that happens when you hear the wrong word, or speak someone's name on accident. When you remember what it felt like to think you might die, not fail a fucking history test.

Who are you? I ask the disembodied voice.

"I'm God," he says sarcastically.

It's all I can do not to burst out laughing in the middle of the waiting room. I'm not that crazy, yet. People would definitely think I was crazy if I did that.

When the nurse calls me back and the doctor comes, I don't worry about the things I normally worry about when going to the doctor. I worry about anticipating when the doctor will touch the wrong area, or say my name, so I don't have another panic attack. In this case, anticipation is a good thing.

As I get out of my car, I cough briefly, thinking I'm coming down with a cold, before realizing in horror that it's happening again.

The past couple of days, I've been going to work like nothing happened. I was like Morgan in the mid-season 6 finale of the walking dead. Before he learns Aikido, and he's "clearing" everything in his path and he comes across these two, as of yet, innocent people and the boy says, "I'm sorry," and he says, "you don't," and then he kills him. Because his son died, and he's stuck in this world where his son is dying over and over in his mind. And nothing else matters.

("I'm not the forensic psychologist in this scenario."

Shut up, I tell the disembodied voice.)

Except I'm the one who has died. And I'm not killing people in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, I'm working with them.

The disembodied voice is pretty good at distracting me from all of them. He's kind of an ass.

"You feeling sorry for yourself now, Ms. Advanced Math?" he asks me three hours before close at Ye Olde Burgers.

I'm too smart for my own good, and I lose; I'm too fucked up for my own good, and I lose. Is there no winning in this situation?

"Not for sluts," he says.

I feel my insides boil. I'm not a slut.

"Is that so? You talk to plenty of boys at work, don't you? Even when you're still technically in a relationship?"

I talk to girls, too, what's your point?

"Are you gay?"

If I was, would I not be allowed to talk to girls, either?

"See? Slut."

I see what you are, 'God'. You're one of those boomers who thinks that women should be at home, with the women and children, and all the men should be at work.

"It's okay for some people to talk to the opposite gender these days I suppose," the voice amends.

Oh, so only attractive people are sluts? that's just cruel and unfair. Lots of women are attracted to both genders.

"You know I'm not really God."

Obviously. Because there's no way I'm in heaven

Sometimes I enjoy these inner monologues, or maybe I'm just avoiding life, my morgen-ness, my rock bottom as I near the door of the apartment and am sure I'll faint from lack of oxygen.

"Keep walking," the disembodied voice says.

So I manage to get the key in the lock after about the fiftieth try.

"Look in the mirror," the disembodied voice says.

First I have to check all the rooms and the closet, to make sure Cas is not here waiting for me.

There's this part in I Am Legend,

("You're not in a movie."

SHUT UP, I tell wannabe God.)

where Will Smith walks into a parking garage in search of his missing dog. It's not scary because you're afraid for the dog. It's scary because Will Smith is sweating profusely and he looks so terrified you can't help but feel terrified, too.

That fear doesn't even come close to the fear I see reflected back in the mirror at me after realizing he still hasn't come back.

That's it. I've been hanging-on to the last shred of sanity for the past few days under the impression that I just have to face my fears. Be independent. Wait it out. But this feeling doesn't go away no matter how many times I go to work or to the grocery store. I can't wait it out anymore. I have to do something. Get crazy. Get my mind off of everything. Use anything I've got.

There's a knock and after a few moments of terror I know it's not him. He would just walk in.

I don't answer and my phone starts to ring.

It's my mom, the one person I don't want to see but also my saving grace so I open the door.

"You've always had anxiety," my mom observes as we sit on the carpet outside the hallway.

I try not to hate her for this because I really need to not be the independent teenager right now. "This is different. I don't even recognize myself anymore."

I start crying. And I tell her what happened.

"It's a harsh world out there, and I wish I could protect it from you forever," my mom says, always making it about what she did or didn't do.

"That's an understatement."

"Let me tell you something, honey. My dad--"

"I know what your dad did to you," I cut her off, wiping at my stupid eyes. But more tears come. "I think his grandpa did the same thing to him."

My mom nods. She tucks me in the crook of her arm. "Aw, baby, you can't carry that sickness with you. You gotta let it move through you like water," she says.

The water works really start now. "I thought I loved him. But he's lost."

"He is," she says finally. "But it's not your fault or your problem anymore, thank God."

But that wasn't true, I still felt like I was stuck in the problem. And part of me truly believed it was my fault. I felt guilty for letting him leave. I felt as though his faults were my own. That I made him into what he was. Even if he had already made his own decisions a long time ago.

I'll admit, I'm not perfect. I've done my bad in the world. I did my bad in that relationship. But no person deserves this.

I let my mom convince me to call off work for the next two days. I felt guilty just calling around to get my shift covered. Like I was asking for something unreasonable. She convinces me to change the locks, even though I feel it's unnecessary. This is when I finally realize it's okay to accept help from people I'm close to.

("You soooo messed up if you think that's unnecessary."

Shut it.)

She talks to me gently about considering moving.

I'm glad I don't just drag myself back to work. It's like hell there. I've been pretending nothing happened, but something did happen, and it's like they can tell. It's like I'm swimming in waves of my own hell being reflected back at me every time I look into their sympathetic eyes.

You'll find, when you're going through pain, there are some things that help, and some things that don't. Doing things helps. My mom convinces me to take a drive with her, to the hike we used to do when I was young, the one at Timpanogos caverns.

She doesn't take away my pain, but she helps me find ways to cope with it. We spend the entire day either in the car listening to music, or on a trail in the mountains. We don't go back to my apartment till it's dark. We leave again first thing in the morning for another trail, and I'm able to eat something. Not at home, but in the car, at Fazoli's drive thru. And I realize I'm going to survive. Even if I still feel like shit.

Then I go back to work. And I get on facebook to apologize to Izzy. And I see a picture of Cas with a new girl.

"You don't care," I hear the voice say.

"I do," I answer. And not because I'm jealous. Because I know when he does the same thing to her, she won't have seen it coming.

"You don't show it."

"Who the hell are you to judge, God?"

"I have aspergers, too, you know. And I care enough to steer you straight."

I scoff. I can't believe this. "So, first you're God, and now you're just an average Joe with aspergers?"

He shrugs, as much as an inanimate voice can shrug

"How about you, Joe? Do you care? Do you care that even if I tell her what he is, she still probably wouldn't believe me?"

"Why would you say that?"

"Because I wouldn't have believed me." I pause. "You're pretty good at faking sincerity, Joe."

"That's your problem. I'm in your head, after all."

"Screw that," I say, and then Joe's back to being God again, mocking and scrutinizing me.

"Everyone else loves my ambiguity," he asserts.

"Everyone else you got listening to you talk in their heads?" I tease.

"Oh, yes. I talk to all the chums on the spectrum who have PTSD."

His words hurt me for some reason, and I can only manage to choke: "screw you."

"It's the truth." His words are harsh. "You can accept it, or you can deny it. It doesn't make it any less true."

I hate Joe for being right. Joe, I think. I've actually given my inanimate voice a name. This is when I know I'm really going off the deep end.

I want to blame everyone else, but the truth is, I'm only punishing myself by hating the world. So I look up the number and call the local police station.

"I'd like to report a rape." Remember when Cas dunked my head in the water? Yeah, that was what it felt like. Except we weren't actually at the lake. We were at home. And my clothes weren't wet. Because they weren't there.

I go in the next day so they can record my testimony.

"You can't chase down his girlfriends forever," Joe scoffs at me after we get home.

"But I can do this."

I can hear the inanimate voice's breathing in my ear. I look up the girl's mom, in the picture with Cas. She has her phone number listed on her facebook page.

"This is cruel."

"I get close or I don't bother, it's all I know how to do."

"It's cruel when you finally pull away."

"Maybe," I concede. "But at least I can do that much."

I can feel the inanimate voice pulling away.

"You know, when I finally decide to be happy, you won't be there anymore."

For the first time, Joe doesn't respond, so I pick up the phone. She answers after the second ring.

"Mrs. Morgen?" I ask.

"Yes?"

And then I block Cas's facebook page.

If you struggle with thoughts of suicide, please do not suffer alone.

If you are a victim of domestic abuse, please make sure you are in a safe place before calling the domestic abuse hotline.