Chapter 16 #2
I rack my brain, thinking over those memories of him smiling weakly from his hospital bed and me perkily bringing him the best cookies from the vending machines. “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “As expected, I guess.”
I’m trying to connect the dots, but Daniel switches track again. “Did you know that when I met you, I had been on anti-anxiety meds for nearly four years?”
It would have shocked me less if he had told me he was on steroids.
“N-no,” I stutter. I’m not upset by this reveal; people should get whatever help they need.
I was in therapy during my early high school years to discuss my self-esteem, which really helped.
I still have e-visits with my therapist every few months to check in.
It’s just… I didn’t feel that type of camaraderie with Daniel.
He never mentioned a past history of mental health or depression.
He never seemed to have anxiety about anything.
He reminded me more of Jadea than myself.
Confident, sure of himself, competitive, kind.
Perfect.
It’s strange to consider an extrovert as someone who has anxiety, but I know it’s possible. Maybe even frequent.
Daniel takes a deep breath. “It started pretty early on. My parents noticed it as I got into middle school and high school. Every time I failed or did something imperfectly, I would get bouts of anxiety or even have a panic attack. If I failed a test, didn’t say the right thing to a friend, disappointed my parents…
I had this amazing family, a good life, but everything always felt out of control.
I needed to get things in order. To do things right to deserve that life.
” When he notices my surprised expression, he adds, “Or at least that’s how it felt. ”
“My parents started taking me to therapy and that helped. It was amazing to talk to someone who didn’t have a stake in the game.
Who I wasn’t afraid of disappointing. I also went to a psychiatrist who recommended anti-anxiety meds.
We put them off for a while, unsure if they were right for me.
But as I got further into high school, the anxiety only got worse.
Besides the meds and the therapy, the only thing that gave me relief was—”
“Running,” I whisper.
Daniel’s eyes are bright with emotion. “It was the only time my brain was quiet. I got on the meds, and I ran track, and I talked to my therapist. I spent more time with my family. Things got better. When I went to Stanford, I grew even more confident. Anxiety would always be in my life, but I had found ways to manage it. I had more joy in my life than I could have imagined. I met you and you were amazing, like a shooting star—” His words grow strangled.
He grips his knees and takes a deep breath.
I reach out and take his hand, threading our fingers together. I finish the story, as best as I can imagine it. “And then, you got hit by a car. And your running career was over. That control you had perfected was gone. The patterns of your life had been ripped apart.”
Daniel looks at me, expression open. “Annie, I knew I would need help after the accident. I realized I knew how to manage my anxiety when life went according to plan, but not when things got hard. Those days in the hospital with you, I knew you were being wonderful and kind, but I felt so far away. I couldn’t be with you the way I wanted.
You were about to be drafted. Your future, your dream was just weeks away.
I couldn’t bring you down, drag you to physical therapy, and have you visit me at my parents’ house as I reimagined my future.
” His voice falls to a harsh whisper. “It was excruciating, imagining a life without my Olympic dream. No professional track. No racing. I went to a week of in-patient treatment. Then I had therapy and physical therapy several times a week for months. It wasn’t meant for you. I couldn’t do that to you.”
We’re both misty-eyed now. I squeeze his hand, almost too tightly. “You wouldn’t have brought me down. You’re a fighter, Daniel. You might have been down, but not for long.” I smile at him, a little watery. “What’s the rest of the story?”
His brow crinkles. “The rest of it? What do you mean?”
I keep my voice kind, even. “You did grow. You found a new dream, and you have your Emmy-award winning show. How did that happen?”
Daniel runs a hand through his hair ruefully.
“It was luck, really. I was missing sports, and I found that old op-ed I wrote about you on my computer. After reading it, I remembered how exciting it was to be an observer of sports. I figured I could capture some of that magic again, just from a slightly different perspective. My YouTube channel’s success steadily increased during those first two years, and then Iris found me.
She’s brilliant, and she basically co-created the show with me.
I still go to therapy once a month and take my meds, but it doesn’t feel so crushing.
I’ve learned to adapt.” His smile is wry.
“Even if it’s just a little bit.” There’s so much about Daniel that I understand now.
Nuance to his every word, his every action.
The reasons for his precision, his facade of perfection.
“I go to therapy, too,” I tell him, surprising myself.
A hint of surprise flashes across his face.
“I went more often when I was a teenager, but we still check in occasionally. There’s no shame in it, even if the world sometimes makes us feel like there is.
Thank you for telling me.” I bite my lip, wondering if I should be honest. He waits expectantly, as though he knows I have more to say.
Finally, I add, “I just wish you’d told me before.
I would have understood if you needed a break from us for your mental health.
I would have been disappointed and missed you, but I would have understood.
Instead, I was sure I had done something wrong. ”
It’s an almost impossible situation. Daniel was hurting, and he did what he needed to do to help himself. He did all the right things, really. I just needed a text message. A quick call. A sticky note on his hospital bed pillow. Some clue that he was okay and that he actually cared for me.
Daniel’s eyes close at my words, as though they pain him.
“I’m so sorry, Annie. I should have done better.
Even when you’re hurting, it’s not an excuse to hurt other people.
I told myself I never texted or called for your sake.
Because you needed a clean break, and if I texted or called, you would figure out what was going on, and you wouldn’t have let me leave. You would have been there with me.”
“Damn straight,” I whisper, smile a little wobbly.
He smiles then, too, genuinely. “But I think I was just scared. To say those words, to explain that I was mostly happy, but also mostly anxious…it seemed impossible.” He shakes his head ruefully.
“Everyone has their own experience with mental health, and I figured mine was small in comparison to other people. I didn’t need to bring it up—I had it handled.
Unfortunately, it was probably more the stigma than anything keeping me quiet. ”
I nod thoughtfully. “People rarely bring it up, especially in sports. Only a few brave people, like Simone Biles or Michael Phelps, have really been willing to go there.”
He runs his free hands through his curls.
“I’ve had this piece on the back burner, ever since I started my show, about mental health in sports.
I thought I might even mention my experience with the accident.
But I always put it off, too afraid of what people will say.
What if people thought I was just looking for attention?
Or that I didn’t fight hard enough? Sports are all about competition and grit.
What if my anxiety took away my ability to be a competitor?
” He shakes his head. “And being Asian…there’s a lot of layers to it.
I didn’t want to be the representative for a whole community.
What if I misrepresented someone else’s experience?
What if someone made me the stereotype? What if they blamed my parents?
” He’s rambling a bit now, and he seems to know it.
He laughs. “And that’s probably all my anxiety talking, anyway.
My therapist would say I’m just feeding it over and over again by avoiding it. ”
It sounds like a beautiful piece, perfect for his show, though I certainly understand his reservations. Aren’t I just feeding my anxiety by avoiding the scandal and avoiding Daniel? I look at him. “Maybe it’s time we both stop feeding the beast.”
The smile spreads across his face again, like a light flickering on in a dark room. “Maybe you’re right.”
We stare at each other, and I don’t know what he’s thinking, but all I can say is, “Daniel, will you kiss me?”
I’ve surprised him again, but he recovers quickly.
He cups my right cheek, releasing our clasped hands.
He tucks my hair behind my ear, trailing a finger down my ear and side of my jaw.
I suppress a shiver. “Annie,” he whispers, leaning closer to me so I can feel his words on my flushed skin, “kissing you is my favorite thing to do.”
And then we’re pressed together again, our lips hot and greedy.
My hands immediately reach under his shirt, sliding over his smooth skin.
Daniel’s fingers are threaded through my hair, angling me towards him.
The lights and the blankets and the pillows suddenly seem too perfect for the moment, and I remember we did not fool around much in our last love nest.
Time to remedy that.