Page 154 of Jaded

I lie on the floor staring at the water-stained ceiling. I should give up now. Maybe it’s time to stop fighting, stop pretending, stop thinking I can be somethingmore.

I should just accept—be—the sad, pathetic, lonely, loser Olli I really am inside. Let go of all these stupid dreams once and for all. Why did I think I could do this, I can’t do this, I can’t . . .

I’m in the blackest of black moods. Anxiety and depression war with hopeless resignation—this was my last shot. This team. This tournament. As much as I was Coach’s Hail Mary pass, so too was this team mine.

Neither of us connected.

I squeeze my eyes closed.

Am I being melodramatic? Sure.

I’m caught in a doom spiral and I really, really need to get myself out. Affirmations, gratitude, positive self-talk . . . bullcrap. I’m breathing, but it’s shallow, panicky sort of breathing. My hands are shaking and I need to go home.

But how can I leave? This night, this rink, this game . . . It's more than a dream. It’s the culmination of decades of hard work. It’s my entire life balanced on the brink of victory and defeat.

It’sme.

And if I give up now, if I walk out of this rink, away from this game, that’ll be it. A door closing somewhere inside of me. And how could I possibly let that happen when my whole life has been building up to this moment?

What happens when my dreams come crashing down around me and the one thing I thought I was meant to do—the sole reason I keep breathing through the dark days—when that vanishes, what will I do?

How do you redefine a life founded on one thing? One all-encompassing, all-consuming goal?

You don't.

But how can I keep chasing that dream, when I know nothing will ever be different? I’ll never change.

This is me. I’m hollow. Empty. Cleaned out. My chest aches like I want to cry, like I want to rip out my hair and scream or punch a wallor yell at the universe but I can’t even do any of those things because I’m so fuckinghollow.

My chest aches and I’m broken and hollow and empty.

So I lie on the floor and close my eyes and let myself become the darkness. I give up. I let go—of purpose, destiny, dream. I let it break and crumble inside me and around me, feeling like my very heart has turned to dust.

My dream—my destiny—has been a lie.

Melodramatic? Yeah, I am. But honestly, if it weren’t for the overdramatic inner monologue making me feel like hell, I think I’d feel nothing at all, and that’s so much more frightening.

To be truly hollow . . . that’s when you know life has ceased to matter—that consequence itself has ceased to matter. I’d rather drown beneath the water than float lifeless on the surface, already dead.

I need to gohome.

I pull a lung-bursting breath in through my nose. Hold it. Count. Release it slowly, slowly. Repeat, repeat, repeat until at least I’m not panicking. Until I can force myself to sit up. To climb shakily to my feet.

I head for the door. I feel like I’m moving someone else’s body, a marionette controlling puppet strings. My legs are lead, like my knees don’t bend right. Bones too heavy. Head foggy. Is my vision blurring?

I can’t tell anymore, don’t care, doesn’t matter. I make it through the front doors. Onto the sidewalk.

Some distant part of me registers that it’s started to snow, in pale little flakes that kiss the tip of my nose and crest of my cheeks. Doesn’t matter.

Except . . . Right there, on the snow-splatted sidewalk, is a pack of cigarettes.

Nat’s brand.

Like he pulled out his keys in such a hurry, he didn’t even notice when his addiction tumbled to the ground at his feet.

It hits me like an electric shock: that’s not like him.

And honestly, the more I think about it, outside of my anxiety, outside of my Olli-is-the-center-of-the-universe mentality, the more I know thatnoneof this is the Nat I love.

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