It’s All in Your Head

Chapter 1 Skylar

Skylar

There’s nothing like a notification from the hot guy in your support group to make you momentarily forget how miserable you are. I refresh the page, half-sure my painsomnia has reached a level of making me hallucinate. But it’s still there.

Pike replied to your post.

I switch my cooling lavender compress from the left side of my face to my right and adjust the heat pack under my neck.

It doesn’t take away the feeling that invisible brain fingers are trying to pop my eyeballs out of their sockets, but it makes squinting at my phone through one eye more tolerable.

Since I’ve come out of remission with my idiopathic intracranial hypertension, hanging out in my online chronic pain support group is the only thing that gets me through unbearable nights like this.

I click on my latest post.

Skylar King: Anyone else’s champagne tonight electrolyte water? Their party hat a pillow? *gestures around in exhaustion* Can’t wait for the holidays to be over.

There are a host of commiserating replies. Members who are looking forward to tonight’s hangout. And now, Pike.

Pike: Couldn’t have said it better myself.

I screenshot and jump into my private chat with Analia and Emy, my best friends and fellow group members.

Yes, it’s a generic reply, I write. Anyone could’ve said it. But the fact that it’s *Pike* makes me want to squeal.

ahh! Emy sends thirsty GIFs. it says he’s online too! welcome to late night with the ladies, sir!

I laugh into my heat pack, the smell of stale rice making my nose wrinkle, then check the member list. There are 1,179 of us; right now, 77 are online.

And Pike—no last name, no emojis—is one of them.

I’m always online at night, and I’ve never seen Pike in the group past 10:00 p.m. He’s probably a functioning adult, not a twenty-six-year-old with a parasympathetic system that makes her body think it’s awake when it’s supposed to be asleep (among my other great qualities).

Analia sends a wink. Someone still has a crush on a profile picture.

I reply with a heart. He’s online on New Year’s Eve! Makes me like him even more.

maybe he’s joining the party, Emy says.

As a group admin, I host virtual hangouts for people like me who don’t have supportive friends or family outside the group. Tonight, we’re supposed to be watching the ball drop together, but I can’t handle all the flashing lights. The only part of me ringing in the New Year is my tinnitus.

I enter the hangout room. At least ten others join in succession. Did they notice Pike come on and also want the chance to chat with him before anyone else? All it takes is one hot man joining your support group for grown-ass women to regress into middle school girls.

For the record, I noticed him first.

When he joined three months ago, it was his picture that caught my attention.

Side profile. Pensive in front of a mountain peak.

Muscular build. A bit too I know I’m hot.

With a brush cut, sharp jaw, and a hint of scruff just a shade darker than his rich brown hair, it was hard not to take a second look.

Or a twentieth.

After all, I’m the admin who approved his request. All we require for membership is that either you or a loved one have chronic pain, are over the age of eighteen, live in Rochester, and promise to abide by all group rules.

Some applicants give us essays on their diagnoses.

Pike just answered yes to every question, so I didn’t learn anything else about him.

Nope, I say. He hasn’t joined.

Emy sends a detective emoji. lost: mysterious sexy man we’re dying to meet.

I grin. If found, please return him to my DMs.

The thing about Pike is, he lurks. He rarely replies to anyone beyond offering a stray like. I get it. A lot of people in support groups lurk, overwhelmed by the plethora of knowledge and the number of different health conditions represented.

Pike has only ever posted four times.

First, an intro—common for new members: Hi, thanks for letting me join. Hope everyone is having a low-pain day. Not much to go off, pretty generic. He got a whopping 257 likes.

Second, a mobility aid question: Any suggestions for canes that work in the snow? What are your favorite models?

Unless he was Christmas shopping, the man uses a cane for something.

Then, the most interesting one: For those with visible disabilities, are people constantly asking if you can still have sex?

The answer is, yes, of course, everyone is a nosy fuck when it comes to disabilities, especially if it relates to our sex lives, so he might be more recently disabled.

And lastly: Is it okay to have a beer every once in a while with oxy? Just one. Special occasion.

I spent a night fantasizing about what his special occasion might be. If there was a special someone. Maybe someone asked him about his junk again and he finally told them, Yes, I can still give you the best orgasm of your life.

I’ve commented on his posts, but this is the first time he’s interacted with me.

I drop a few replies in the hangout to show I’m around, but a part of me hopes he won’t join.

Not tonight. Being online is such a double-edged sword.

I love talking to my friends, but it also hurts to look at screens when my cerebrospinal fluid pressure is skyrocketing, the way it is now from my IIH.

The base of my skull burns, so I reluctantly shuffle out of bed to switch out the compress for my ice hat. Every step feels like a plane roaring off the runway that wants to jerk me back into my seat. I grab a sip of water too. It doesn’t help the tingling in the left side of my upper lip.

My fault for waiting until winter break to start my meds. I’ve spent the holidays stumbling around banging into random walls and gasping for air while I get re-accustomed to my meds. But I’d rather waste my uneventful break than take sick leave.

That gives me another two weeks to adjust to the many side effects of the pills meant to lower my intracranial pressure. Among them, the torturous zapping that’s overtaken my fingers and face. People with my condition don’t call this medication the devil’s Tic Tacs for nothing.

Luckily, it’s not fair season at work yet. But it’s coming. I need to be more stable by then—both with my condition and the medicinal side effects—so I can safely drive and stand up all day without passing out.

My muddled mind goes back to Pike when I lie down again. I’ll like his comment but not engage. It’s not like anything would come of it. Besides, if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s men are always better admired from afar.

So true, Analia says. Another client from work sent me a DM today asking if I’d give him a massage with a “happy ending.” Still vomiting in my mouth a little.

Eww, I write. That’s so inappropriate.

Sometimes I want to write ASEXUAL on my forehead so everyone will leave me alone. Maybe they won’t even talk during their session.

i worry that’ll make some of them see it as a challenge, Emy says. better to report.

Wait, Analia says. Pike posted!?

I scramble back into the group hangout. There’s nothing from him there, thankfully, because I’d struggle to keep up with the constant moving text.

Pike’s not even online anymore. I head to the discussion forum. And there it is.

A new post from Pike.

“Write down what you’re grateful for”

Well, if you insist:

I’m grateful for

no longer holding myself

to your toxic standards of positivity

that have never touched

the type of pain I feel

or the loss I’ve had to overcome

Well, hello, Mr. Deep Dark Soul. Hot cane boy is a poet. And a salty one at that.

My ridiculous crush on a profile picture grows exponentially as I keep reading. There’s a rawness to his words that leaves me feeling less alone. It’s exactly what I wish I could tell my mom. If I were brave, I’d print it out and mail it to her.

Pike vents for a good page and a half. His vulnerability fascinates me. It’s heart-wrenching and honest, with a lot of snow metaphors that go over my head, but the ending is simple.

No show and tell

I play hide and seek

but all that’s left to find

is pain

By the time I’m done reading, I’ve missed the midnight ball drop, but I couldn’t care less. His post already has fifteen hearts and four comments.

I click to expand the first one. A comment from Pike himself: Just writing out some vents. Thanks for reading.

Aw, he’s polite too.

Second comment. GinaB: Needed this. Please write more!!

Third comment. Laurie Durnam: Brandon? It’s your mom. This is very sad and alarming and I need to know you’re all right. Please answer your phone.

I nearly choke. What’s his mom doing in here!? Besides the fact that he’s a full-blown adult, there’s private messages for this sort of thing. He said he was venting. And beautifully, at that!

I check the timestamp. She replied one minute after Pike. Her screen probably didn’t refresh in time to catch his comment. I cringe. He’s going to be mortified.

Not his mom, Analia says. Also, *Brandon*?

I head back to the forum. Laurie Durnam posts another comment.

I’m calling, Brandon. Why aren’t you answering?

Maybe he’s not answering because he posted his poem and went to bed? Why can’t she read the other comments and see how deeply everyone is relating? We understand how battered your heart becomes from fighting your body every day.

Soon there’s a third plea. Brandon, if you don’t answer your phone in the next five minutes, I’m going to call the police.

What the hell? We have protocols when people are suicidal, but that’s not the case here.

Should I message her? I ask the girls. The other admins aren’t on to confer with.

based on this interaction, Emy says, i doubt his mom even knows how to check a DM. probably better not to do anything.

Maybe I’m spurred on by a lifetime of my own parents misunderstanding everything I say, but I feel like I need to intervene.

I write, I’ve seen horror stories in this group about disabled people who were forced into emergency psychiatric care. And doesn’t he take oxycodone?

Oh, yeah, Analia says. They confiscate your meds. Isolate you. Forced psych treatment is super traumatizing.

Analia would know. She’s been through all kinds of psychiatric care.

good point. Emy sends a thinking emoji.

Pike was venting. An adult who vents in an online support group doesn’t need family snooping around and making assumptions about what they post.

I’ll tag her in one of the comments, I say. She’ll get a notification.

But I don’t know what to say besides: Hi @LaurieDurnam! Sending you a message about Brandon.

A message from her pops into my notifications after another minute. She’s not that technologically challenged, after all. Hello? Is he okay? What’s happening?

I type as fast as my medication-muddled fingers will let me, my thumbs slipping unevenly on my phone. Hi, Laurie! I’m an admin. Brandon was just venting. If you scroll up, you’ll see his comment. He’s fine.

A minute passes. I know my son. He’s never like this.

It’s a poem in a support group. We encourage creativity (and venting).

Something’s wrong, she says. There was suicidal ideation in that poem.

My eyebrows shoot up. I scroll back through Pike’s words. There’s grief, but that’s not the same thing.

I can see my own mother misinterpreting something I find cathartic as suicidal and further screwing up my life because I’m not “positive” the way she thinks I should be.

I send Pike a message. Hi there. Bit of a situation with your mom, if you’re on/invisible, could you please respond ASAP?

Please be invisible, Pike. Please log back on.

He does not log back on.

I appreciate the “admin” help, Laurie writes, but I’m going to call the police. If he’s this depressed, he needs help.

Wait! I type frantically. This is going to ruin Pike’s New Year—his year period.

Just dissuade Laurie from calling the cops, Analia says, and Emy agrees. Of the three of us, Analia’s the rational one who thinks things through. Emy is spontaneous, while I’m always ready to take charge. If they both think I should do something…

How?? I ask.

Don’t you have his email as an admin? Analia says.

I look it up. A bunch of numbers. Probably fake. I email it anyway, then go back to the girls. What if I say he’s with me?

She’ll want to talk to him, Analia says.

say he accidentally got drunk married, Emy suggests. she’ll be so relieved tomorrow it’s fake that she’ll forget all about the poem.

Spontaneous indeed. How would I even know he got married?

Emy sends another thirsty GIF. u were the bride.

He’s so depressed after marrying me that he wrote a “suicidal” poem?

? I can picture Analia and Emy laughing, but I go back to my chat with Laurie and write, I’m pretty sure he’s fine because…

I glance at my chat with the girls. Marriage seems a bit too fake, but…

I’m pretty sure he’s fine because he’s sleeping right next to me.

My pulsatile tinnitus whooshes to the same tempo as my erratic heart rate.

If I’m going to sell this, I need to commit.

I didn’t want to say anything earlier because it’s new and I’m guessing he didn’t tell you yet.

Sorry you were worried. I feel bad waking him up.

I press send and hold my breath. Will she buy it? I send a screenshot to the girls.

WHAT DID YOU JUST DO. Analia is freaking out, but frankly, so am I. DID YOU EVEN CHECK THAT HE’S SINGLE?

“Fuck.” I flip onto my elbows so my phone will stop falling on my face.

She wrote me back! I open the message, my heart somersaulting, and skim.

I’m guessing he *doesn’t* have a partner, I report, because his mom really wants to meet me!

? I keep reading. She’s buying it? She says she feels bad for worrying but this isn’t like him and when can I come over for dinner?

What are you going to say? Analia asks.

I pause. I have no idea.

Pike still hasn’t responded to me. I google Brandon Durnam, and when that turns up nothing, I try Pike Durnam.

I quick search his name with Sutherland, Fairport, Webster Schroeder, and other local high schools in case he grew up around Rochester.

Nothing. Brandon Pike is a last-ditch effort, and when some Olympic athlete clogs the results, I groan and give up.

After eleven minutes, his mom writes me again. Hello?

She can see I read her message. I hate that feature.

Hi again, let me talk to Pike. I delete that. My relationship with Brandon is really new so I’ll let him make that call. No. Shit. How can I make this vague enough? You should talk to Brandon. We’re pretty new! Happy New Year!

I send the message.

Then I screenshot the entire conversation and send it to Pike.