Page 73 of Lovesick
“Do you think we wanted to take you away from your old friends, Merit? Do you think we wanted to make you reassess your career path? Everything we do is to keep you safe. And rightfully so, because you clearly don’t give a damn about your health.”
Are they serious right now? They always think they know what’s best for me, but they don’t even bother to ask me what I want. Just because I’m alive doesn’t mean I’m living. And fuck, I’d rather be six feet underground and free than walking the earth in shackles.
I cross my arms over my chest. “I do, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to live my life in fear.”
Deep-rooted disappointment tarnishes my father’s wrinkled face, the grizzle of his whiskers bending when his secondfrown of the morning debuts. “Do you realize how scary it was to see you collapse on that stage? How about waiting in the hospital while they rushed you back to the ER? Because your mother and I both thought that you were going to die. You’ll never understand a parent’s fear. These rules we enact aren’t to punish you—they’re to protect you,” he explains, and for the first time, I hear the age in his voice. Years of parrying fearmongering worry for their only child; years of making me hate them because a resentful daughter is an alive one.
“But I’m fine! The incident was a one-time thing. It’s not going to happen again,” I argue, tears sizzling on my lower lashes as a searing sensation inflames my sinuses.
I wish I had been born normal. I wish I didn’t have a fucking scar on my heart. I wish it didn’t impact every facet of my life.
“You don’t know that, honey,” my mother chimes in, remorse sullying her words and yanking on my thinly stretched heartstrings. “You’re lucky we’re still letting you dance. You heard what the doctor said about continuous strenuous activity. Unmonitored, it can increase your risk of heart complications down the road.”
“Oh, thank you, Mom. Truly. Thank you forlettingme dance,” I snip sardonically, my scattershot emotions now crowning inside me, reaching a boiling point that encumbers my lashes with salty droplets. I don’t blink, not even when betrayal begins to burn like charred tinder against my eyes.
“Thank you for letting me enjoy my passion before I fucking die.”
“Don’t use that tone with us,” my dad growls, spittle flying from his lower lip. He slams his hand down on the table so forcefully that the whole room seems to shake. “Don’t weaponize your heart condition against us.”
“You’re right. You guys have been doing that plenty fine forme. Am I even a person to you anymore? Because it seems like all I am to you is a problem you need to fix.”
“That’s not true, and I won’t stand here while you put words in our mouths.”
My mom cuts in. “This attitude is unacceptable. We didn’t raise you to be a liar, Merit, so why don’t you start telling us the truth?”
I don’t want to be here right now. If I could, I’d run out the door and never stop. This place is a prison—a prison designed with window decals to give me a false sense of freedom.
My heart trips in the cradle of my ribs, and emotional warfare is to blame for its persistent rebirth of pain. Why do I have to jeopardize my relationship with my parents when I just want to renegotiate their ridiculous terms? It’s like whatever I decide to do, I’ll either hurt them or myself in the process. I’m so tired of hurting. I’m so tired of fighting.
I pretend to play dumb, a low-lying mist warping my vision and preparing my limbic system for a monsoon of guilty tears. “Wha?—”
Wrong choice.
“We have your location on your phone. Last I checked, frat row doesn’t hold ‘small kickbacks.’”
God, it feels like I’m going through every stage of grief in a matter of seconds. I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m in denial.
My tone is sharp and double-edged, the truth crash-landing with no parachute to soften its fall. “Fine! Yes, I was at a frat party with Irelyn last night because that’s what normal college kids do on the weekend. I didn’t think I needed your permission to hang out with my best friend,” I hiss.
I was also with Crew Calloway, Dad’s star player! That’s right. I’m sick and tired of you guys always controlling who I can and cannot hang out with. So what if he’s on the hockey team? You don’t own him, and you certainly don’t own me.
My mother doesn’t address any of the points I brought up. “How much did you have to drink?”
“A few shots.”
Another barefaced lie that stirs the acid in my empty stomach. There’s a lot of saliva in my mouth. Too much. I feel like throwing up again.
My mom, with her hawk-eyed stare and unwavering expression, looks over the rumpled state of my appearance, which pretty much screams hangover.
“Seems like a few too many,” she says.
My father can barely meet my eyes, as if he’s disgusted with me. “I can’t believe this. What else do we need to do to scare you into taking care of your body? Is death not already scary enough for you?”
They mean well. They’re just afraid, and fear makes people say hurtful things. They’re trying to help.
But they’re not. And if they really did care, they’d letmedetermine my limits. I know my body best, not them.
When I was at Rutgers, I danced competitively, which demanded a lot of physicality and long hours. The stress wasn’t great either, and the combination of those two started a riot. I’m in a much better place health-wise now, but it seems like no amount of convincing will ever appease my parents’ concerns.
