There’s a saying that’s been repeatedly overused, but for people like me, it’s our truth… I was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Fucking dead inside. And I couldn’t help but relate my fucking issues back to the incident that started it all. I never spoke of it, and neither did the Skyes family—or anyone for that matter. Pretty sure my father’s law firm covered the entire thing up.
But obviously, I didn’t go through with it.
A lot of things went into my decision to flush the pills down the toilet instead of swallowing them. Mainly, I couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to die.
Would I be in pain? Would my lungs stop working first? Or would my throat close up? Would I be able to feel the drugs in my system? Or would I just…black out?
Over and over again, I ran the scenarios around in my mind, unable to figure out if I was just being too much of a pussy about the pain, or maybe I didn’t like that I had no control. Either way, it didn’t matter, because it wasn’t the questions that stopped me. It was a song.
A song that changed my mind in under five minutes. A song that told me it was time to come home.
To my best friend, to California sunshine and sunsets, the beach, the dreams, the lifestyle.
So here I was, stuck in traffic on the 405, like no time had passed at all. I was back and determined to find happiness again, but I wasn’t naïve enough to believe it’d be easy. I spent the last ten years trapped in a tragedy with the box taped shut, and while I may not know how long I had before what killed my father killed me, I was determined to stop living in a nightmare, waiting for the day I snapped like he did.
Little by little, moment by moment, the plan was to get myself to a place where my smiles weren’t fake and my mind wasn’t stunted by fear of the unknown.
For the first time in ten years, I wanted to dream. I wanted to set a goal and achieve it. I wanted to…love. Or learn to love. Or get ready for love, or whatever the fuck—I just wanted peace.
I wanted to feel safe from my own mind.
April
I was lying in bed, scrolling through my phone, when Frankie’s voice hit my ears in a shouted, “Girl, you better get your ass in here before I bring the party to you.”
She was already in the living room, and I could hear her clear as day since our little West Hollywood home wasn’t very big. She finished with, “I come get you, or you come out willingly. Either way, we partyin’.”
It was girls’ night.
Call me sheltered, but I’d never done this whole self-care thing, which wasn’t surprising, since all of the people I hung out with in the city were just as miserable as me and no one actually talked. We all just hung out, drank, and hid from our individual bullshit. Didn’t sound like genuine friendship, and it wasn’t. We just happened to be trying to escape reality, all in the same room, at the same time, while pretending we could stand one another. It was sad as hell the more I thought about it, but it was also the only way to lose myself, to shut it all off.
For so long, I was living in survival mode, and Frankie Skyes was doing everything in her power to undo what had been done, even though she didn’t really know how. Neither of us did.
But she was trying, so I got up from my unmade bed and headed to my closet so I could change into something more appropriate than my thong and bralette. I pulled on a pair of soft pink shorts and a matching tank top, before slowly glancing around at the boxes that still needed to be unpacked and the laundry that needed to be done. I was stalling, big time, and I could tell Frankie was starting to question if something was wrong with me.
I didn’t have an answer for her. All I knew was my anxiety spiked whenever I thought about making this place a home. I needed to get over it, though, because this place was my home until…well, until it wasn’t anymore, I guessed. Until Frankie got married and moved out, when I’d most likely buy the place off of her parents and get another roommate.
My plans weren’t extensive, but everyone was lucky I had any plans at all.
“I’ll be right there,” I called out, scanning the white carpet for my fuzzy pink slippers. After locating them near the door leading into our shared bathroom, I slipped my feet in as I passed, padding into the hallway and hoping to god I didn’t fuck this up or ruin it with my sour attitude.
Rounding the corner, the living room was all ready to go.
The place was gorgeous and so fucking cozy, with a massive gray L-shaped couch and at least eight pink, black, and white fur covered throw pillows. Fairy lights were strung along the ceiling, a massive white glossed coffee table sat in the center of the room with two love seats for more seating. The flooring was made of white tile, but Frankie picked out a gorgeous dark purple shag rug that took up most of the space. A massive TV, candles, fuzzy blankets were placed on every surface.
It was every girl’s Pinterest inspired paradise.
I’d done pretty well faking it around Frankie, I thought at least, so the goal was to make tonight as fun as she wanted it to be, even if I had to put my acting skills to the test.
“Finally!” Frankie jumped from the couch with an enthusiastic expression, looking so beautiful I just wanted to hug her. That was the thing about Frankie—she was absolutely everything I aspired to be. Sassy, loud, witty, and she had no filter. My girl had long highlighted blonde hair, deep and angry ocean blue eyes, with a smart mouth and a devil-may-care attitude. She was always the life of the party.
“I’m sorry.” I laughed a little, feeling awkward. “I was, uh…stalling, honestly.”
“I know you were.” She smirked before it faded into a more serious expression as she lifted her small shoulders. “Why though? We’re just hanging out.”
That was the other thing about Frankie.
She always knew more than I gave her credit for.
She was observant, intuitive, dominant, and smart as hell. She believed in self-care and being exactly who you are, but Frankie wasn’t just someone who said those things, she lived them. As a social media influencer with over two million followers on Instagram, her rise to paid ads and modeling gigs started when she became a UCLA cheerleader during her freshman year of college. With just a few photos taken during the first week of school, her life took off.
Now she had an agent and permanent gigs with all different kinds of companies. She was even looking into starting her own clothing line. I was proud as fuck of my best friend and wanted to experience it all with her, the way I should have been doing from the start.
I just…didn’t really know how.
This was one of the many reasons I couldn’t stand being in my own head. I spent the last ten years stuck, stilted, and missing the fuck out on normal, fun experiences, because I couldn’t fucking hang. Shoving my shit aside, turning my brain off, it was all too hard for me to do alone, and I was suffering in more ways than one. Sheltering myself was just easier.
But the difference between me now and me a few months ago was I wanted to change my circumstances. I wanted to get better, feel better.
But it had been two months since I moved in, and Franks and I had done nothing but pretend like everything was fine when it wasn’t. There was no way she wasn’t mad at me for leaving her alone for four years after basically growing up together, only visiting when I couldn’t avoid it somehow. Yet, here she was, wanting to paint each other’s nails? She was worried, and it showed. If I was going to get better, find my happy, it started at home. I needed her on my side, to understand, even if I really didn’t want to dig up this shit and throw it all over our girls’ night.