Chapter 21 – “Older” - Lizzy McAlpine
VICE
“OLDER” - LIZZY MCALPINE
Another stab of pain slices through my lower abdomen, and I groan, bracing my arms on the counter as I drop my head between my shoulders.
I grind my molars as I ride out the wave, the pounding in my temples not helping things, and the obnoxious fucking song echoing through the cafe worsening all other symptoms.
I normally don’t mind Dahlia’s taste in music, but whatever pop anthem is blaring through the speakers right now is about to make me fucking violent.
I take a deep breath, glancing around to ensure there aren’t any customers who need to be helped before I duck into the break room and grab my bag. I locate my bottle of ibuprofen and my CBD-infused essential oil roller before returning to the register.
I take two pills, chasing them with my third iced coffee of the day, before rubbing the essential oil over each of my temples. The smell of lavender and eucalyptus invades my senses, immediately calming my racing heart.
Years ago, when I was first diagnosed with PMDD, my doctor told me that overconsumption of caffeine could worsen the condition, and I don’t doubt that’s true, but if my head is going to pound and my uterus is going to try to fucking kill me, iced coffee is a necessary evil.
I was placed on hormonal birth control to help with the symptoms, and it somewhat has, but my luteal phase is still a monthly thorn in my side—literally.
After so many years doing sedentary work, I’ve forgotten how straining seven hours of standing and moving can be when I’m experiencing a flare-up.
I’ve only been working for three hours, and I’m not sure I’m going to survive the rest of my shift, but as of now, I’m the only barista working.
Peggy, Dahlia’s pastry chef, is in the kitchen baking, and I’ve been covering the early morning shift for Dahlia while she and Darby are in Kansas.
Their father was finally tried for his long, long rap sheet of embezzlement and fraud, and they both wanted to travel out there for the sentencing.
It sounds like it has been a rough year for them since Dahlia handed over evidence of his crimes to the authorities, essentially severing whatever family ties they may have had left.
I don’t blame her. In fact, I probably would’ve done worse if he were my father.
Both of my brothers encouraged them not to go, but they felt they needed the closure of facing their dad and telling him just how terrible he was to them, and how much better off they are now that they’ve escaped him.
Unfortunately for me, with Dahlia gone, I’m not due to be relieved by another barista for two more hours, which means I have no choice but to tough it out behind the counter.
There was a rush earlier, but as I glance around at the buzzing cafe now, all patrons appear to be happy.
It’s a beautiful day beyond the bakery’s front windows, the sun shining down on the whitecaps past the pier, making the water look particularly turquoise this morning.
Surfers dot the horizon, and a few people stroll along the boardwalk outside, but it’s still early in the season, and things are fairly slow.
I take advantage of the easy morning by pulling a barstool behind the counter and flopping myself atop it, resting my head on my arms.
Sometime later, a familiar, muffled voice comes from behind me before my brother filters through the back door.
I knew Everett had a meeting at Heathen’s this morning with Leo, August, and the small business initiative—I had him pick me up on his way in.
I typically walk to work, but when starting so early in the morning, I don’t have the damn energy, not to mention the flare-up hitting me today.
I was uncomfortable on the drive over, and when he asked me what was wrong, I told him it was just a headache. I’m not surprised he decided to come back and check on me after his meeting. He’s a fucking mother hen if I’ve ever known one.
If it weren’t Everett, it’d probably be my mother.
I’m glad he’s the one who ended up with a kid—he got all of Mom’s nurturing nature.
I’ve never known that woman to be a coffee drinker, but she seems to be stopping by almost every day.
If it’s not to check on me; it’s to check in on one of her many, many other children who work on the boardwalk.
She may have only birthed two of us, but she claims all six.
They likely feel it’s the only time they can see me.
I know it’s my fault for being such a nightmare.
I know that they worry, and I know that I shut them out.
Even before…everything, I’ve always been somewhat reclusive.
A homebody. I love my family, but too much social interaction overwhelms me, even with the people I love most. It’s an awful trait to have, but it’s how I am.
Before I moved to New York, I had a routine of meeting up with my parents about once a week or so, and I know I’ve gotten much worse at that since being back in Pacific Shores.
It’s certainly something I can make more of an effort on, though I have dragged myself to two Sunday dinners in the last three months, which seemed to make my family happy.
The back door swings shut behind Everett, and his eyes narrow the second he takes me in. I try to force a smile at my brother, lifting a hand to wave, but concern floods his features, and he picks up his pace, reaching me in just a few steps.
“So, it is a flare?”
I nod, and he places a hand on the center of my forehead.
“You don’t feel warm.”
“No.” I shake my head. “Just bad cramps and a killer headache.” I rarely have a fever when I’m experiencing a PMDD flare, but it has happened before.
My premenstrual syndrome became progressively worse throughout my teen years and into my twenties. On top of the physical symptoms, I began experiencing terrible mood swings, anxiety, and panic attacks, even depressive episodes. I either couldn’t sleep at all or couldn’t get out of bed.
Since being diagnosed, every month is different, and the severity of the flare-up varies, which makes it hard to manage my life around the condition.
When I was twenty-two, August finally convinced me to talk to a doctor about my symptoms. I was often unwilling to discuss what was happening with anyone besides him, so I’d shut myself in my room for several days until I felt better.
It wasn’t abnormal for the rest of my family to not hear from me for a little while, especially if they thought I was deep into my writing, but August was the exception.
When I would go MIA, he’d know something was wrong, and when he checked on me, he’d see how I was truly feeling.
It took three months for the doctor to diagnose me and put me on birth control. Diet, exercise, fresh air, and meditation are also known to help, as is therapy—but all of those things feel too hard to manage.
It’s an odd realization—to know that you’re suffering but still feel the pain you’re experiencing is less daunting than just simply doing the work to be better. I’m not sure what makes me like this, or if it’s possible to escape. I’m too tired to try.
“Let me take you home,” Everett says.
“I can’t.” I sigh. “Nobody else is coming in for another two hours.”
Everett chews the inside of his cheek, head swiveling around the cafe. Without a word, he walks behind the counter and through the swinging doors that lead to the kitchen.
A few minutes pass before he returns with my purse and my sweater in hand. “Let’s go.”
“But—”
He spins, walking backward toward the back door. “Peggy called in one of the other baristas early, and she’ll cover until they arrive. The coffee bar will be totally fine, but you are not. I need you to take care of yourself right now.”
His tone invites zero argument, and I know he’s not wrong, so I slide off the stool and follow him out of the building. My brother helps me into his Jeep, and once we get home, he leads me inside and sets me up on the couch rather than having me climb the stairs to my room.
I don’t tell him that I’ll need to make it up there before August gets home anyway, because we haven’t spoken since I woke up with him in my bed four days ago, and I’m not ready to see him yet.
I woke up that morning brewing with anxiety, and while his touch may be the best cure for it, not even having him beside me could quell it.
I locked myself in the shower until long after I knew he’d woken and left my room.
From there, my mood plummeted. I did my best to keep my distance, not wanting him to blame himself or think that our night together was the cause of it—though at first, I was unsure of that myself.
My diagnosis has caused anxiety for years now, but my life has given me more than enough reason to have all those symptoms on my own. It can be hard to wade through what might be a flare-up, and what is just me. My trauma.
But as the next two days went on, I began feeling nauseous, lost my appetite, and then the frequent headaches set in.
Knowing I was coming up on my period, I figured it had more to do with PMDD than anything August and I had done last week.
My symptoms have been getting progressively worse the last twenty-four hours, but today is by far the hardest.
My head is pounding so hard that my vision is dotted with flashing lights, and all I want to do is try to fall asleep.
I set an alarm for thirty minutes before August normally gets off work while Everett fills up my water bottle, grabs my heating pad from my bedroom, and turns on old reruns of Real Housewives.
“I have to take care of some things at the garage and then swing by Lou’s school because she forgot her lunch at home. Do you want me to stop by later to check on you? Or I can send Leo after he finishes his surf lessons?”
I shake my head, pulling my knees to my chest as I lie sideways on the couch.