[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
.It’s bad.” I slide to the floor, letting the phone drop between my legs.Nat’s body spasms as she lets out a blood-curdling scream.“ZACH!”I’ve failed.And now everyone around me will know it.I wake up in a cold sweat.Wait, no, it’s actual sweat.The weight of the two quilts and electric blanket is suffocating me, like being buried alive in my former bedroom.I push them back with just enough energy to roll onto the floor.Oh shit! My Chili Peppers CD is under the bed – Mom didn’t take it after all.Okay, focus.I’m in my bedroom.The last thing I remember is stopping for coffee in Niagara with Dad, Uncle Dave and Nat.Natalie’s here.I quickly stand and then quickly sit down.Shit, it’s hot – removing one of my sweatshirts should help.Why am I wearing so many clothes?“Mom,” I rasp.My voice is entirely gone.“Mom.” I try again.I remove my sweatshirts and then crawl to the bathroom.This feeling, at this very moment, makes hangovers feel like a fieldtrip to the planetarium.My mouth is dry, my stomach in knots and my head pounding to the beat of crappy techno music.Thump, thump, thump, thump.I stick my head under the faucet and pour the cool water all over my face and into my mouth.It’s the best water I’ve ever had – fulfilling.There’s a knock at my door.“Chloe?” Mom asks quietly.My voice is gone, but I manage to mumble, “Mom.”She opens the door and sets a Snapple and some oatmeal on my desk.“How did you sleep?”“Fine, I think.Why was I under so many blankets? Where’s Nat?” I sit down at the desk and use all my strength to pop open the tea.It feels like such a huge accomplishment, tiny endorphins stinging my body.No matter what state of mind, I can’t resist the hidden factoid under the cap.#214 Giraffes can lick their own eyes.Mom moves to the bed and starts folding the quilts and blankets.“Oh sweetie, you had the chills.you were – it was an episode.I’m sorry, but we had to give you a mild sedative to calm your nerves.”Oh.Choking on dry tears I say, “I’m sorry for the trouble.”“Chloe, that’s ridiculous.Your father would drive to Zimbabwe to help you.and Nat is downstairs helping Judy with dinner.She’s – she’s going to be okay.” Mom pauses and then sits on the bed.“Chloe, I made an appointment with Dr.McKinstry.You haven’t seen him in a few years and.” Mom clears her throat and looks at the ceiling.“Mom, I’ll go.”She stands from the bed and walks toward me.Mom smooths my hair with her hand just like when I was a kid.“I’m proud of you Chloe, do you know that?”“Best panic attack ever?” I smile, but she frowns.“It’s a joke, Mom! Will you help me down for dinner?” I lift my weak body from the desk and take Mom’s hand.I need to see Nat – I need to apologize for my failure.She leads me down the stairs one at a time, like a helpless gimp caught in a bear trap.We make it into the dining room where Dad is setting the table and Uncle Dave is shaking a bottle of his famous Italian dressing.Nat’s seated at the table nibbling on some bread while Aunt Judy tops off her wine glass.It all seems very normal and comfortable, but I know I’m being watched – scrutinized.I sit down in a chair next to Nat as she slides a glass of wine in front of me.“Hey C – you look like shit,” she says through a tight smile.Grinning, I say, “Screw you, Nat.”Natalie leans into me and taps her head against mine.“I love you,” she whispers.“I’m sorry.”Mom carries in a dish of lasagna bubbling with melted cheese and places it in the center of the table.It smells delicious and I don’t remember the last time I had an actual meal.I sip my wine and tear off a piece of bread, welcoming the bland texture.Dad stands at the head of the table with a beer and bites his lip.He looks sad and tired, and it kills me to put my parents through this mess all over again.“Chloe, Natalie, welcome home.” Dad tilts his beer in our direction and gives us a sympathetic smile.“To Chloe and Natalie,” Aunt Judy toasts.“To us,” Nat whispers.“The two saddest fucks in North America.”Therapy is taboo.All artists tend to struggle with their mental health, but it’s actually that streak of insanity that creates the brilliance.And as long as an artist can pump out creative nuggets of consciousness – drugs, alcohol, violence, depression, and even suicide are highly acceptable.But therapy?I was sixteen when my parents discovered that my panic attacks were more than a bundle of nerves before the first performance of the school musical.It really came as a shock to us all.how can a performer, a happy musician with tons of confidence, be paralyzed with anxiety? Well, that’s what therapy’s for.“Chloe, Dr.McKinstry is ready for you,” the nurse says.She’s new, but then again, I haven’t been in the office for five years.“Okay,” I answer.I give Mom a shrug and leave her to wait patiently with my People magazine.Dr.McKinstry’s office is exactly how I remember it – warm and masculine, nothing flashy or clichéd.He’s sitting behind his carved mahogany desk skimming through my old journal.Stroking his beard he says, “Dang, Chloe, I was hoping you’d be famous by now.I’m dying to sell these notes to the tabloids.”He’s a genius, really.Dr.McKinstry always knew exactly how to get inside my head, and although his sarcastic comments seem unprofessional, it totally works.“I see your beard is taking on a life of its own,” I tease.He pats his fluffy brown beard and motions for me to sit.I pick the gold, velvet wingback chair – it’s always been my favorite.Dr.McKinstry taps his hands against the desk and smirks.“Wow, five years.How’s New York?”“Wait, are we starting the session or is this just small talk?”He stops drumming his hands and frowns.“Wait, I thought all my sessions were small talk?”I relax as much as I can and cross my legs.“New York is amazing, there’s always something to do or explore.” I swallow hard and then clear my throat.“Life on the other hand has been a little shitty.”“Any episodes?”“Only recently.”“Scale of one to ten,” he prompts.“Um, well, compared to what?”I think back to my first ten [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]