Chapter 5 – “this is me trying” - Taylor Swift
VICE
“THIS IS ME TRYING” - TAYLOR SWIFT
“Missed you at dinner on Sunday,” my brother says as I step into the kitchen, condescension dripping from his voice, and passive aggression apparent on his face.
“My PMDD was acting up.”
“Thought you had a migraine.”
I pause, staring into the fridge before snatching a jar of pickles from the door. I slam it shut and turn to face Leo. “Migraines are a symptom of PMDD, asshole.”
Truth be told, I was through the worst of the week by Sunday evening.
On Thursday, I was so anxious I wanted to set the world on fire.
Friday, it was myself I wanted to set on fire.
Saturday is when the migraine set in, and after twenty-four hours of wishing I could dissolve into nonexistence, I sort of began feeling myself again on Sunday.
Except, what does feeling myself even mean at this point? I have no idea who I am.
Those thoughts of dread aren’t linked directly to my PMDD, I don’t think. But they are impossible to explain to the people around me, so telling Everett I had a migraine when we reached Sunday afternoon felt like the easiest explanation.
“Fuck. I know. I’m sorry. That was insensitive.” Leo sighs, his blue eyes warring between guilt and disappointment as he looks at me. “We had news to share with you.”
“I know. It’s okay.” Sometimes I think I’m lying to myself too.
After popping the lid on the jar, I fish out a pickle.
Both of my brothers eye me suspiciously from the other side of the kitchen as I take a bite.
Bitter juice slams into my tongue, and my entire body clams up before I’m leaning over the sink and spitting it down the drain.
“Ah fuck.” I spit again, desperate to get the taste out of my mouth. “These are dill.”
I hate dill pickles. They’re evil incarnate.
Leo snorts, holding out his hand. I set the pickle in his palm, and he immediately takes a bite, moaning. “Goddamn, I miss these.”
“All that money and you can’t afford pickles?”
“My wife doesn’t like the smell,” he deadpans.
“Marriage woes,” I hum, sitting up on the counter and letting my feet dangle off the edge. “So, what’s this news you have to share with me?”
Leo opens his mouth, but Everett speaks before he can. “Actually, Lele, I have something I’d like to talk to you about first.”
Fuck. Here we go.
You’re too messy.
You’re not pulling your weight.
You’ve overstayed your welcome.
We don’t want you around.
All things I expect him to say.
I swallow. “Yeah?”
“You know the bakery is set to open in a few months, and Dahlia needs some help in the cafe. She’s great, you know?
At literally everything.” He smiles to himself.
“But believe it or not, she’s never worked an espresso machine before.
She wants to be known as much for her coffee as for her baked goods, and since you worked at the coffeehouse years ago, I thought maybe you’d be able to help out? ”
He looks nervous, and I wonder if that’s how everyone who talks to me feels when they ask me for a favor. Like they’re walking on eggshells. Ironic, considering it’s also how I feel about myself.
“She needs help curating the menu, setting up the coffee bar, and training new staff. We’d put you on payroll, of course.
” He gulps, glancing at Leo before his eyes find mine again.
“Plus, we… We think you need to get out of the house. You need something to wake up for in the mornings. Need something to—”
“I’m writing,” I snap back defensively.
“Where’s the book, Lena?” Leo asks. Sighing, he looks away from me, blinking hard. In a calmer tone, he continues, “Maybe having something else to do will…I don’t know? Help the creativity flow for you? It’s clear you’re stuck, and you can’t live off those dwindling royalties forever.”
My nostrils flare as I attempt deep breaths to calm myself down.
I don’t even understand why I get like this.
I know it’s apparent to everyone around me that I’m a dysfunctional mess.
I’m a pathetic, twenty-nine-year-old woman with no job, no money, no friends, and no future.
I rarely leave the house, and I never do my laundry.
I can’t remember the last time I ate a meal with all the major food groups included.
Still, I attempt to live in delusional ignorance, where the elephant that follows me into every room is unseen by those around me.
They can’t know I’m struggling if I pretend I’m not, and when they call me out on it, when they address the two-ton animal sitting on my chest, I get defensive.
I don’t want to be helped. I don’t want them to care.
I want them to pretend it doesn’t exist and let me rot.
In exchange, I pretend I’m not falling apart when I’m around them.
“I’m fine,” I mutter.
I’m not. Yeah, I’m still making minuscule monthly royalties from my old works, but three years of no new publications, getting dropped by my agent, and not marketing myself in any capacity, means I’m basically living on a wing and a prayer that someone stumbles upon my titles at the bookstore, or they’re recommended that book I read a few years ago by a friend.
So, financially, I’m not doing well. But I make enough to cover my basic needs: food and the minimum on my maxed-out credit card.
“It’s like you’re not even trying.” I think Everett said that, but I’m staring down at my hands braced against the counter.
“What’s left to try for?” I murmur, admitting a truth that I’ve long kept bottled inside.
I don’t want to be better, because I don’t think better exists for me, and I don’t want to address it with my family because I can’t fucking stand the look on their faces when they realize what a failure I’ve become.
I don’t raise my head, not until I see a flicker of movement in my periphery.
Toned arms, and a wide-chest stand in front of me, and I glance up to find my brother’s blue eyes bright with unshed tears.
I hear him reach into his pocket, I know his arm is extended out toward me, but I’m too afraid to look away from his face.
The smile he gives me is forced and heartbroken. Finally, I look down at the small black-and-white image in his hand.
“Her.”
I don’t realize I’m crying until the heat of my tears runs down my face. My hand trembles as I take the sonogram from him, studying the outline of a head, a small body, and two tiny feet.
“Her?” I ask, my voice breaking on the word.
That heartbroken smile turns wide and real as I look back up at him.
Leo nods. “My daughter.”
It’s unadulterated happiness that reflects on my brother’s face.
The kind of expression that says all his dreams are coming true right before his eyes.
The contented smile Everett gives us both is full of hope and pure joy, but as I look back down at the sonogram—at the niece I’ll soon have—all I feel is broken.