Page 53 of Built to Fall
There’s something deeper behind it, but I’m trying not to look that closely. There’s silence again. I focus on the rhythm of the IV drip, trying to ignore how much everything hurts. Physically. Emotionally. All of it.
After a long beat, he shifts in the chair, leaning forward.
“Burning yourself out isn’t going to prove anything,” he says.
My throat tightens. He says it like he’s known me forever. Like he’s looked into a part of me I’ve worked really hard to keep hidden.
“I don’t know how to stop,” I admit, barely above a whisper.
I don’t know how to sleep.Not without her reminder looming over me. Not without me feeling like I’m seconds away from spiraling into my own thoughts.
Trying to sleep in the type of silence I’ve never had to dwell in before makes my brain run wild. I don’t want that. I don’t like the idea of lying in bed, waiting to hear the sound of my mom typing in the other room or her rustling around the kitchen looking for her favorite mug.
“You almost died trying not to,” he says. “So maybe it’s time to learn.”
I can’t look at him. Instead, I rake my fingers through my hair.
“Can you admit that I’m right?” he asks, quieter.
Thankfully, I’m not easily embarrassed, or else I would be mortified that I don’t know the answer.
I saw in a documentary once that humans are the only species able to blush—almost like we’re designed to feel ashamed. I’ve always hated that idea, refusing to subscribe to it.
Can I admit that I need to stop the dangerous cycle of no sleep coupled with oddly timed runs?Yes.
But am I willing to make the move to confront my problems and get past the habit?No.
“Grant, I don’t know how to explain…”
“Try,” he replies strongly. “After what I watched happen to you today, I think I at least deserve for you totryand explain it to me.”
I watch him for a long moment, not sure what to say to make this better. I can’t explain the true reason behind the running and my lack of sleep—even if I trusted him with all my heart. I still wouldn’t be able to hurdle my own emotional barriers to get the words out.
“Please.” He sounds desperate.
And I can’t take it. The way he’s looking at me like I’m slipping through cracks in the pavement. Like there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
“I don’t know how to explain it without sounding…” I trail off. My throat is dry again, despite the IV drip meant to hydrate me. “Insane.”
He doesn’t blink. “Try me.”
I stare at the ceiling. Pale. Clinical. The kind of white that makes the place feel sterile. It’s trying to convince me things are fine, while I’m hooked up to machines because I’mnot.
“I don’t like sleeping,” I say finally. “I hate how still it is. I hate that I can’t outrun what waits for me there.” It’s the closest I’ve ever come to saying it.
He leans back slightly, eyes still on me. Waiting. Listening. I turn my face away from him and toward the window.
“There’s this moment,” I say, slowly, like I’m building the words as I go, “between lying down and actually falling asleep. When everything is quiet. When you can hear your own breath, your own heartbeat. And all the things you’ve been avoiding all day catch up.”
I’ve avoided racing thoughts my entire life. I’d even go as far as to say I’m scared of them.
But those spiraling thoughts have been looming ever since my mom died. They get closer and closer the longer I lie in bed staring at the ceiling while willing myself to go to sleep, when I know I’m not going to.
So, I did something about it. I started running.
Running to keep myself occupied. Running from the thoughts themselves. Running away frommyself.
Grant says nothing.
