Page 68 of You're The One
“I don’t really like talking about it. Idon’ttalk about it.”
“That’s okay,” he offers gently. “But you can. With me. You know that, right?”
He opened up to me, didn’t he? About his mom. About wanting a real home. Not the West Elm version, but one filled with love.
Just the thought of talking about this makes me squirm. I’ve never really had to push past the discomfort. I’ve avoided it. Not only the conversations, but the feelings.
Everyone but my family has taken one look at the mess in my mind and run in the other direction. What’s that saying? Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me. I’ve learned that if I don’t push people away first, they decide I’m not worth the hassle. That I’m more trouble than I’m worth. When it became a pattern, it was easier to be the one to leave.
I’ve never been one to settle, but not for the reasons my family assumes. It’s not about fear of commitment, not really. In theory, I don’t mind committing. But right around the three-month mark, when the high wears off and anxiety creeps in, that’s when I fall apart. The restlessness starts to spill over. Into jobs. Cities.People.
I guess this schedule has accelerated my usual timeline.
When I give myself a moment to consider it, I realize I don’t want to do that with Dominic. Not yet. And maybe not ever.
I like being his friend.
If things were different… I might even like him as somethingmore.
So, I tell him.
“I have anxiety. Like, a lot of the time. Mostly health anxiety, which, if you ask me, is the most irrational kind. And sometimes, when I can’t manage to keep it away, it sends me into these depressive episodes.”
He nods, but I can’t read his expression. “And how does that feel? I mean, I obviously know about anxiety, but specific to you. How doyoufeel?”
I’m not sure anyone has actually asked me that question outside of my therapist’s office—and by office, I mean on my computer screen during teletherapy.
And why the hell is that damn beehive the first thing that pops into my mind again?
“You know those bees that burrow underground? Not the ones hanging from trees. The ones buried deep, where no one can see them. But they’re down there. Buzzing.”
He somehow finds my legs under the pile of blankets and rubs them encouragingly.
“That’s what it’s like. A swarm. One wrong move and they’re attacking from the inside.” I exhale. “I might be allergic to them. Because when they sting, my body gets so heavy. Stuck. Surrounded by something hard to pull myself out of. Thick like honey.
“My doctor says it’s depression. But I never really feel all that sad, you know?
“I don’t want to cry; I just don’t want to move. That’s why I keep busy as much as I can. If I keep moving, it’s usually harder to get stuck. I thought there’d be moremovinghere, but it mostly feels like I’m trapped in this house.”
His hand tightens on my hip. He looks down, almost surprised to see it there, and clears his throat before retreating and folding both hands neatly in his lap.
“What brings it on?” he asks, voice low. “The anxiety. How does the health part come into it?”
“The stagnation… That’s usually how it starts,” I say. “You know how we all distract ourselves from our own thoughts? Some people drink. Others eat, scroll mindlessly through social media. Anything to notthinktoo much.”
I pause, eyes on the edge of the blanket between us. “Well, when I sit with the thoughts for too long, my brain starts playing tricks on me. That’s the best way I can describe it.”
I consider stopping there. Because what comes next is the part I hate the most. My rational self knows it’s crazy… and I’m scared others will think so, too. But something about the way Dom’s looking at me makes me believe he won’t.
“You know how sometimes you feel something’s off? Like your leg cramps, so you drink more water. I spiral, and think I have a blood clot. Or you get heartburn, so you pop a Tums. I think: what if it’s a heart attack?”
I look up at him, my voice quieter now.
“It’s always the worst-case scenario. Always life or death. And you can probably guess… that’s its own kind of hell.”
He nods, and I’m relieved when his eyes don’t carry any pity.
“Thanks for sharing that,” he says finally. “I feel kind of helpless. I wish there were something I could do.”
