Anxiety. Brennan hated it; hated the word. She hated when people said it, like it was just her being shy, or nervous, and not something that caused her to lose sleep, to feel sick, and to feel like she couldn’t breathe. They said it like they were characters in a story and it was a word that was italicized, emphasized. Oh. You have anxiety. Like there were air quotes around the word and it wasn’t a real thing. Then they would nod as if in understanding. This is why she’s like this. Weird. Maybe, in her head, she talked to the wrong people. Someone out there had to understand how she felt.
She wished her body didn’t have to have a fight or flight misfire whenever she found something little to be nervous about, because it was destroying what little confidence she had.
She was lucky she was off work today, because it was one of the bad days.
It was a vicious cycle too. Every time she got nervous about something, Brennan started to expect that she would be nervous the next time that circumstance presented itself. She was nervous about being nervous.
And it never ended; it only repeated itself.
Fingers twitching, she yanked open her nightstand drawer and dug around inside, pulling out the white bottle with the paper label firmly affixed to it. Brennan Davis. One nightly. Solazepram, or Sol-ER. Only a few of the pills were missing.
TAKE IT, I DARE you, her brain taunted her. Remember the side effect of nausea? Remember how you got nauseated last time you took it, and then you couldn’t sleep that night? And you threw up?
Brennan set the bottle on the nightstand and squeezed her eyes shut so tightly that she saw little flecks of stars spark across the backs of her eyelids. That’s only because you worked yourself up so much in anticipation that you’d be one of the ones to feel that particular side effect, logical Brennan retorted. You expected it, so you felt it. It was all in your head.
Maybe she should try it again—take the time to get on a schedule and go the weeks required for the levels of the drug to build up and be effective—before school started. But what if it didn’t work, and then she had to stop and try to find another med? And it would take a while, because you couldn’t stop abruptly; you had to taper your doses over quite some time.
Go on. It doesn’t help. I. DARE. YOU.
Brennan smacked the pill bottle off the nightstand and back into the drawer, which she slammed shut. She yanked her covers over her head and curled into a tight ball, pressing a hand to her roiling stomach.
How will I ever be able to survive college? She sniffled. For that matter, how will I ever be able to be normal? I’m crazy. Certifiably crazy.
She’d never told anyone the full extent of her anxiety. It felt okay to mention that sometimes she was nervous about work on random days, for seemingly no reason in particular. It felt all right to say that she was nervous in large crowds, or when meeting new people. She had told her doctor all these things.
What she hadn’t told her about was that sometimes she just felt like she couldn’t breathe, even if she was just going to the store. Or meeting someone for a lunch out. Or on an elevator alone with someone. Her friends didn’t know, because she didn’t tell them how she constantly worried about getting food poisoning and throwing up in front of people, so she tried not to eat in public. She didn’t tell them how it was depressing to think about the what if it never goes aways and the what if nothing changes.
She couldn’t tell them; they’d lose any good opinion of her that they had, wouldn’t they? They’d realize how insane she was. They’d look at her strangely, or they wouldn’t understand, or both. They’d say, “It’s okay! I get nervous sometimes too!” They’d say, “Don’t worry! You have nothing to worry about!” Some might shake their heads. “There are people with real problems,” they might say. Or, “Just tell yourself not to worry.” They didn’t understand that she couldn’t just shut off her brain. Couldn’t just stop her stomach from churning. Couldn’t just stop the part of her that was crazy from taking over.
Brennan had always been this way, since she was seven. Off and on, she’d get the anxious periods. Usually, she’d be anxious for about a year, and then it would pass and she’d be fine—maybe for a year, maybe for a year and a half.
Now, in the middle of what had been the longest anxious period of her life so far, Brennan was holding on for the light at the end of the tunnel that had always come before.
The only problem was that it just seemed like it was much farther away than it had ever been.
Brennan felt hot tears burn at her eyes. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
She was supposed to shadow her aunt tomorrow. She tried not to overthink. And yet, what would she wear? Would she talk to her aunt’s patients or just listen to her aunt talk? What would she do with her hands? Fold them in front of her? Or behind her?
Tomorrow, at nine o’clock.
She thought about messaging Emma. Then she thought Emma might think she was crazy for being so nervous about, basically, when it came down to it, spending a day with a family member.
And really, she was crazy.
So messaging Emma was out.
Brennan thought about texting Jonas again, but immediately chided herself for the thought. She wanted to talk to him, but at the same time, she didn’t want to be the one to message him first, considering it had been a few days since they’d talked.
She had typed up a message a few times but had always ended up abandoning it, backspacing until all evidence of any attempt was gone.
Besides, an impulse message born of anxiety probably wouldn’t make the best impression anyway. Nothing good came out of her anxiety.
She closed her eyes and pictured the expanding circle GIF. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slow your breathing.
She heard her door creak open from underneath the covers.
“Brennan?” It was her mom.
“Yes?” she said after a few seconds, her voice tight and quilt muffled.
Brennan heard her mom sigh, and then she sat on the edge of Brennan’s bed, the springs creaking a bit. “Are you okay?” she finally asked softly.
Brennan’s throat constricted, and tears threatened anew. “Okay,” she forced out. “Just anxious.” The word tasted bad on her tongue. Shouldn’t be anxious. Shouldn’t be.
Brennan’s mom was silent for a few moments. Then, “It gets better, okay? You just take one day at a time. You do what you have to.” A beat. “Are you taking your meds?”
“Yes,” Brennan lied.
“Don’t think about all the bad stuff,” said her mom. “Don’t think about the worst thing that could happen. Just let life come. Thinking about that stuff won’t change anything.”
“Okay,” Brennan mumbled. She wanted to say she couldn’t stop thinking about the bad stuff. About the worst scenario.
But the words stuck, and her mom was leaving the room anyway.
11
JONAS
Jonas sat on the couch while his mom talked on the phone. He’d asked her to call the therapy place that Dr. Akeson had referred him to. His fingers were tapping on his leg again, a rhythm-less pattern on the hard plastic of the prosthetic socket.
The office was located at the north branch of the hospital Dr. Akeson worked at, closer to Jonas’s house. The building, from the outside, looked about ten years older than the hospital it sat next to. He’d asked his mom to drive by it on the way home from his appointment the other day.