17. Chapter 17 #2
Emil, another performer, is changing when I push into the room, but apart from a brief “Hey,” he doesn’t question me as I breeze past. I walk straight into the furthest shower stall and pull the curtain tight, backing up until I hit the hard-tiled wall.
Bracing my hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath, try to call the panic back before it gets too far, but no matter how hard I focus, no matter how many times I try to reason that it’s in my head, that it’ll be fine, I can’t slow my heart.
I can’t quiet the voice telling me to flee .
Telling me it’s not okay. Telling me the fear is valid. Real.
I sink to my butt, my legs unwilling to hold me up any longer, and shove the shower on, praying the pretense will cover me for however long I need.
The water cascades to the floor next to me, the edge of the stream soaking my pant leg, but it barely registers.
Instead, it’s the thumping, erratic beat of my own pulse inside my head, the grip in my chest that feels as if a burning fist is squeezing my heart tight, the way I can’t get my lungs to cooperate and take a full breath no matter how hard I try.
It’s that memory of my mother’s angry frown when the men from church hauled me into that big white van. How disappointed she was—disappointed in me. Not worried. Not concerned. And certainly not surprised. Only furious. Because of who I was. Because of what I was. Gay.
It’s the flashes of cold and the lectures on sin. The old church camp. The embarrassment and the confusion of wondering why ? Why would they do this? Why would she do this?
I vaguely register hands pulling my hair back from my face, soothing over the cheek not tucked against the denim at my knee.
The sound of the water shutting off, of murky, muddled voices talking back and forth.
Of someone pressed against my side, hugging me tight, whispering soft words against my ear, running fingers over my back.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” they say. And, “Breathe. Everything will be okay.”
They feel warm.
Safe.
And I try. I try to breathe.
“Can’t,” I gasp out, the sound barely a croak.
“You can,” they urge, petting, soothing, a kiss on my hair. “It will pass. This will pass. You’re okay, Curls. We’ve got you. You know that, right? We’ve got you. We will always have you.”
Alex wipes my face as I hiccup a sob.
“There,” he says. “Just like that. Again.”
I pull in another shuddering breath, my lungs on fire, my chest squeezed tight, my head aching. I catch sight of two sets of legs standing outside the shower stall, distorted in my vision, but I block it all out as I focus on counting one, two, three, four . Breath out two, three, four .
“Good,” Alex murmurs, slipping the hair tie off my wrist. He pulls my hair back behind my head and secures it, a litany of soothing words trailing from his lips as he rubs over the back of my neck. Goosebumps pop up over my skin now that the shock has worn off.
I’m soaked and shaking.
Dixon squats down next to me. “Mal,” he says gently, squeezing my knee.
“I know,” I manage. I have a lot of explaining to do.
“How can we help?” he asks, his usually stern features creased into worry. “What can we do?”
I no longer feel like escaping my own skin, and my breathing has returned mostly to normal, but the ache inside my chest lingers, like a burn. And I’m dropping fast as the adrenaline vacates my system.
“I have clothes in my locker,” I say.
Dixon nods, standing up and disappearing around the corner.
Alex rubs my arm, encouraging me to stand, helping me along the way.
I realize the other set of legs belongs to Emil, who’s standing off to the side with that same expression of concern Dixon was wearing a moment ago.
I give him a wan smile that I’m sure falls flat as Alex and I step out of the shower stall.
Dixon returns with a set of clothes, and I thank him, starting to tug off my own without bothering to find privacy. These men have seen me in all manner of dress and undress. We’ve been more intimate than most friends. A little nudity now means nothing.
Alex helps with my pants when I wobble, and then Dixon hands me the dry clothing one item at a time.
Once I’m dressed, we make our way to the benches by mutual unspoken agreement.
Even Emil plops down with us. Alex hands me a granola bar—likely from the break room—and I accept it gratefully, the crinkle of the wrapper stark in the otherwise silent room.
No one speaks until I’ve taken a bite.
“Relatively speaking, are you okay, boo?” Alex asks, his hazel eyes locked intently on mine.
I should beg him off. I should say I’m fine and it’s no big deal and he shouldn’t worry.
But I can’t. I can’t do it anymore. I’m so tired of lying to these men. It’s deep in my bones, that fatigue. I’m tired of pretending like everything is okay when it’s not.
I’ve spent the last few weeks away from Malibu. Away from that guy I imitate who’s easygoing, who wears a smile like a shield. The casual surfer-dude who eats clean and practices yoga for aesthetics, not out of necessity.
It’s been less than a month, but in that time, I haven’t had to act like someone I’m not. And now that I’m faced with the decision of whether or not to pick that mantle back up, I realize it’s not a decision at all. I’m done with it. Done being Malibu.
Maybe it wasn’t a matter of digging myself out of the dirt. Maybe it was simply deciding to stand.
“Right now, yes. I’m okay,” I answer.
Alex picks up on the but I left floating in the air. “In general, you’re not?”
“No, not really,” I admit easily. Much easier than I thought this conversation would go. The words practically took a running leap out of my mouth.
“What’s going on?” Alex asks gently as Dixon hands me a bottle of water. I accept it gratefully, drinking some of the cold liquid.
“I have panic disorder.”
Alex makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat. Dixon and Emil watch me carefully. Not in a judgmental way, just like they’re unsure how to take the news. Understandable.
“How long has that been going on, Curls?” Alex asks.
I shrug. “Over ten years?”
Alex makes another little shocked sound.
Emil is next to ask me a question. “Are you on any SSRIs or benzodiazepines?”
I huff a laugh. I’d forgotten Emil is a psych major. He probably knows more about this stuff than I do.
“Zoloft was working for a while, but I couldn’t afford to keep taking it,” I say, that shamed pinch curling around me as it so often does whenever the topic of money—or my previous lack thereof—is brought up.
Emil doesn’t bat an eye, but I keep talking, the words spilling free like a loose ball of yarn now that the end has been unraveled.
“I started seeing a therapist when I was twenty. Bounced through a couple. It was while I was seeing the second one that I was diagnosed with panic disorder. When I moved to Vegas, I found a psychiatrist I really liked. I was doing therapy with her, but it’s been over a year since I had an appointment.
I ran out of meds eight months ago, and the panic attacks have gotten worse, like they were in the beginning. I do my best, but…”
“Without a proper support system, it’s been difficult to cope,” Emil fills in gently.
I nod, glad he understands. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want my anxiety to rule my life, but sometimes it’s impossible to stop the tide. To fight the undertow. It sweeps me along without a life raft there to buoy me.
I can barely remember those brief couple years where I felt more balanced—after I moved to Vegas and started working here, when I had regular appointments and was taking my meds.
For a time, I was okay. I could see my past mindset from the outside and recognize how much my everyday outlook was skewed.
How much my anxiety truly affected my thoughts and judgment.
How, once that excessive, unending worry was taken away, I just… was. My brain was quiet.
It was peaceful.
Until it wasn’t.
Dixon squeezes my knee. “Mal, let’s get you home. You look beat.”
I nod, the motion making my head feel like it’s about to topple off my shoulders. My limbs feel sluggish, too, the tiredness finally catching up to me.
Alex grabs my wet clothes off the floor, carrying them in his arms and soaking his own shirt, but I’m too tired to tell him not to bother. Dixon walks next to me to the door, as if he’s ready to grab my arm should I stumble. I’d laugh at the absurdity of it if I were capable.
Emil walks out of the locker room with us, but as we reach the parking lot, he pauses. “Mal?”
“Hm?” I ask, turning his way.
He pushes his glasses up his nose, blinking a few times.
The guy sure does have that shy nerd thing down pat, which is likely why Jerome gave him the moniker Felix.
But it works for him. Fans love his authenticity.
“It seems like you’re aware of what resources are available to you, but, uh…
if you need help with that, please let me know. ”
I nod. “Thanks, Emil. I appreciate it.”
With a returning nod of his own, Emil splits off towards his own vehicle, and Dixon leads Alex and me to his car.
As Dixon drives us toward the penthouse, Alex strokes my arm. I’m half-asleep in the back of the car when he speaks up. “I’m sorry. I wish I’d known you were dealing with this.”
I open my eyes, locking onto Alex’s concerned gaze. For all his cutesy bluster, Alex is a soft soul. He’s a good friend, and I haven’t been one to him.
“It’s not your fault, blondie. I hid it from everyone.”
He frowns. “Why?”
I think that over, having an idea of the answer but unsure of how to voice it.
“I needed to be someone else,” I tell him. “And I wished for it so badly, it became true.”