3. Julia
Julia
I let it scream while I stare at the ceiling, weighing the consequences of simply refusing to participate in the day.
There is something deeply offensive about being expected to function before sunrise.
Especially when I fell asleep sometime after two, despite spending most of the night lying perfectly still with my eyes closed, pretending it would help.
My body feels heavy in that familiar way that makes me anxious.
My muscles are still carrying the memory of how they locked up on that bus two days ago.
The faint throbbing in my right hand makes me glance toward the swollen crescent shape where my teeth broke skin.
The mark really looks uglier in daylight.
Not serious enough to require medical attention, but obvious enough to raise questions that would leave me scrambling for answers.
I reach toward the nightstand to silence the alarm, then remain where I am with the comforter pulled up to my chin, the lamp beside the bed still glowing from the night before.
I stopped caring about that a long time ago because I never fall asleep like a normal person.
I often describe it to Tess as passing out because that’s exactly what it feels like.
One minute I’m awake, the next I’m gone.
Besides, the house felt too quiet when I came upstairs and turning off the last light had seemed like another form of surrender I wasn’t ready to make.
Then it hits me — therapy is at four. I have more than ten hours before I have to sit in a room with a stranger and explain why my own body suddenly decided a song was reason enough to stop breathing. Ten hours should feel like plenty of time. Instead, it feels like a countdown.
I roll onto my side and look at the chair beside the window, where the clothes I wore yesterday are still tossed over the back in a distorted mess.
My sweater hangs halfway to the floor, one sleeve twisted inside out, and my jeans are folded badly enough that calling them folded feels like a joke.
Normally, I would have put everything away before bed.
I can’t sleep when the room is messy. Clutter makes my thoughts messy, as if every abandoned cup and crooked pillow becomes evidence that something else in my life is slipping out of place.
Last night, I left it and now it bothers me more than it should.
I push the duvet aside and sit up, wincing when cold air brushes against my bare legs.
My feet find the slippers waiting beside the bed, positioned neatly enough that I can step into them without looking.
The habit is so automatic I do not remember creating it, much like most of the small rules I follow without questioning.
Keys in the ceramic dish by the door. Phone on the left side of the nightstand.
Curtains closed before dusk. Coffee mug washed before bed.
Clothes laid out the night before work. Nothing dramatic, nothing anybody else would notice.
Just tiny ways of making life predictable enough that I don’t have to admit how much unpredictability scares the shit out of me.
The bathroom mirror also feels more unkind this morning than any other.
My chestnut hair stands in several directions, although somehow the chaos looks better than it usually does after forty minutes of effort.
There are dark half-moons beneath my eyes, my skin looks dull, and the thin scar near my right eye is more visible without the concealer softening it.
I lean closer, inspecting my face as if I might find something new there.
But everything looks exactly the same. The same two beauty marks near my brows.
The same green eyes that look brighter when I am upset, a cruel little aesthetic bonus nobody asked for.
The same woman who lost her mind in a bus full of strangers.
I turn on the faucet and splash cold water over my face, hoping the shock will interrupt the memory before it fully forms but my brain is faster.
I see Tessa shifting in front of me, using her own body to shield mine from curious eyes.
I hear her telling someone to stop staring.
I feel my teeth sinking into my hand because pain with a location was easier to manage than the thing tearing through my chest. A wave of embarrassment rolls through me so hard I pause with my toothbrush halfway to my mouth.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, sticking my toothbrush in my mouth with more force than necessary.
It is not the panic attack itself that humiliates me most. I know enough about anxiety to understand that my body was reacting to something it believed was a threat, even if the threat happened years ago and was neatly tucked away in a pristine package that exploded to the forefront when the Phil Collins song bomb burst it wide open.
The embarrassment wasn’t coming from the fact that I had a panic attack.
It was the fact that people saw me crumble, they saw me at a moment of weakness, strictly reserved for when I’m alone…
well mostly when I’m alone. That is the part that won’t stop replaying.
The woman with the cowboy book. The driver.
The passengers who went quiet when Tessa moved.
Even Tessa herself, who has seen me cry before but never like that, never reduced to something so raw I could not even look at her.
I spit into the sink and rinsed my mouth, studying my reflection again while the arguments began spinning inside my head.
I know why it happened. I am painfully aware of the fact that I have unresolved trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and enough emotional baggage to qualify for oversized luggage fees.
That has to count for something. Self-awareness is practically therapy, right?
Maybe I don’t need to go. Maybe I need sleep, less caffeine, a few days away from work, and the discipline to stop pretending everything is fine when it very clearly is not.
The thought sounds almost reasonable until I remember I’ve been saying versions of it for most of my life.
I can handle it. I’ve handled worse. I’ve picked myself up before.
The words are familiar because I built most of my adult life around them.
I shower quickly, letting the water run hotter than it should until the bathroom fills with steam and my skin turns pink.
By the time I dress for work, the sun has started rising behind the houses across the street, pale light pressing against my bedroom curtains.
I choose black slacks, a cream blouse, and the navy blazer hanging at the end of my closet because it makes me look competent even when I feel anything but.
My job has taught me that people trust women who look organized.
If your hair is smooth and your shoes match your bag, nobody questions whether you spent the previous night staring at the ceiling wondering how many pieces of yourself can go missing before people notice.That thought alone makes me take off the navy blazer and put on a black one.
Downstairs, my house greets me with its usual chorus of small sounds.
The fourth stair creaks beneath my weight.
The old pipes knock somewhere behind the kitchen wall.
Wind brushes the oak branches against the side of the house with a soft scratching sound that used to scare me when I first moved in.
Now it just feels familiar. The floor plan is spacious enough that I can stand in the living room and see almost every space that matters.
The kitchen opens toward the dining area, the hallway leads to the stairs, and the oversized front windows let morning light spill across the hardwood floors until the whole house seems warmer than it actually is.
I bought it three years ago after walking through it once.
The realtor kept talking about original woodwork, updated plumbing and resale value, while I stood in the living room staring at the windows, thinking about how much light they let in.
I had spent most of my life living in houses that felt dark, closed in, and heavy.
Where rooms were shaped by arguments that happened behind closed doors and the silences that spoke volumes.
This place felt open. It felt like somewhere where nothing could hide in the dark, where noise couldn't hide in the corners, and where the corners couldn't confine me.. I signed the papers two weeks later and spent the first night sleeping on a mattress on the living room floor because the furniture hadn’t arrived yet.
Nanna called three times to make sure I was okay, then finally stopped when Tessa came over with pizza and a bottle of wine.
The first thing Tessa said was that the house looked like me. I never asked what that meant. I think I was afraid she would say lonely.
The coffee machine hums to life while I stand at the counter, checking emails on my phone with one hand and pressing my thumb lightly against the bite mark with the other. Three messages from work wait beneath a reminder for the appointment I have been pretending not to think about.
Appointment confirmed: Dr. Kai Blackwood, 4:00 p.m.
My stomach twists.
I swipe the notification away and open my conversation with Tessa before I can talk myself out of it. She has already sent a message at 5:31 a.m., which confirms she is either awake for reasons no sane person should be or has never gone to sleep.
Tessa:
You are going today.
No greeting. No subtlety. Just emotional blackmail before sunrise.
I press the microphone icon and record a voice note while the coffee pours.
“Okay, hear me out before you immediately become unreasonable. I could call in sick, sleep for fourteen hours, and label it intensive self-care. I already know where my issues come from, which feels like at least half the work, so technically I’m ahead.”