3/27/18 -- 11:00 AM
I had my first panic attack the months following my freshman year of college. I
think that that was my breaking point. The spot in time where my life truly
began falling apart, the myths fading and the facade being lifted, where I truly
started to tackle the demons I had so resolutely hidden from.
I woke up in my bed to Julie sitting in my chair four feet away. The house was
empty, but my parents keep the doors unlocked. I thought I was imagining her at
first. After all, the night I told her I cheated on her with Hanna, I had the
most vivid hallucination of her at work. Walking towards me, fresh tear streaks
on her face, the most strikingly beautiful red dress I had ever seen.
Brandishing a knife.
She didn't have a knife here. She had my notebook. 40 double-sided pages of
pain, struggle, speculation, resentment,
Fear.
I leapt from my bed and ran into the bathroom. I felt like I was suffocating, so
of course I ran into the smallest space in the house. I dropped to the floor,
clutching myself, trying to assure a sobbing, terrified me that she wasn't
really there.
I literally crawled from the bathroom to the loft window. I forced myself to
peak up over the sill. Yes, a pink Firebird. She was really here. I collapsed
yet again. I had never felt so weak. I stood up, collected myself, and slowly
opened the door. These events took 20 minutes. She was still there in the same
spot, unmoved. I sat down on my bed. She said "I knew it".
Then left.
That was the day I fell out of love.
I do not remember what day it was.
But I remember our anniversary (1/11/2008, 11:32 AM)
and when I first fell in love with her (5/16/09).
I rearranged my room. I locked the doors.
I think I lost my mind after that. Time became distorted. Days bled into each
other. Existence became ephemeral. I couldn't think properly. I still follow
trains that don't exist. I find my memory unreliable. Fanciful.
Only three people have been able to break me like this. Julie, Hanna, my mother.
I learned to hate them. They are some of the only people I have felt legitimate,
seething anger towards. The few I have actually yelled at. I do not yell.
I worry that I am becoming Hanna. Except just the bad parts. The parts that
couldn't help anyone. The parts that shaped her world and taught her love, but
love is a lesson I cannot seem to learn.
Kennedy told me yesterday that she was having too many panic attacks lately. She
didn't talk to me about it because she thinks I am the problem.
I
am
the
problem.
I am your problematic fave, the one who you urgently confide your secrets,
dreams, hopes, and fears in. I am the graveyard where you bury your past. I am
the bridges you burn to light your future, I am the one you leave behind.
I am too much oxygen. I am not enough starlight to see the path in the woods.
I am your pain. Kill me.
I do not want to be Kennedy's Hanna.
I do not want to hurt anyone.
I don't want to be the problem.
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