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As we squeeze through people playing beer pong in the garage, I notice lots of people making out and dry humping in the corners. The parties have definitely gotten a lot more mature since I’ve last been, which was exactly nine years ago to the day.
I try not to think about it too much as we walk into the house and toward the kitchen.
“Fuck yeah,” Jaelynn remarks when she notices that the nacho bar is freshly stocked with new ingredients. The island is covered in food and though I haven’t eaten since before therapy, I don’t know if having food in my stomach is going to help the nausea I’m feeling or if it'll fuel me for when I need to actually vomit.
I’m nervous as hell. I don’t even really know why. I just know that my heart is racing, and my brain is pacing, and I am trying so hard to keep my shit together.
“Want a plate?” Jae asks as she grabs a paper plate from the table and starts working chips, meat, and cheese into a pile.
I shake my head and look around to see if I recognize any other familiar faces, but I know that would be unrealistic since I’ve kept myself under the radar these last few years while I could. Ever since…my accident, I’ve kept my head down low and my appearance to a minimum.
But I feel like everyone’s eyes are on me. I feel heat coming from every different direction and it’s causing me to want to pull my skin off.
“You’re fine, babe. No one is looking at you. It’s all in your head,” Jaelynn whispers to me in a hushed tone with a mouth full of chips.
I start to retreat from my over assumption on the situation, knowing that she is probably right. I push out a deep, soothing breath and relax my body, realizing I was tense.
“See? Better.” She keeps me calm as she continues to shove her face and I instantly feel ten times more unprovoked than I did driving here.
“I’m gonna go walk around,” I tell her, and she nods, not doubting me for a second that I can manage this on my own, but her eyes tell me to scream if I need her. And I know she’ll come. Jae has always been that kind of friend to me.
I scooch by a few people and remove myself from the kitchen. I find my way over the back porch where tiki torches light up the patio and people are laughing and telling stories while they sip their house made drinks. I wish I knew what it felt like to be able to have those normal kinds of interactions. Everyone looks so content while I’m trying not to have a panic attack.
“Not one person is normal. Normal is what you make of it. I can promise you that at least one of two people you come across have had the exact same thoughts as you’ve had at some point in their life. Your feelings are valid and the passion behind them is what makes them feel overwhelming. You have to navigate them the best way that suits you. Even when you get a handle on them, it still won’t make you normal.”
“Then what will it make me?”
“You.”
That conversation from last week with my therapist plays on repeat in my head. I still don’t know if I fully understand what she was trying to say to me, but I know that parts of it make sense to me in a very cryptic way.Normal is what I make of it.These people out here having a drink and laughing over old high school stories might be faking it just as much as I am. I try to imagine at least a handful of people who are going through the same thing I am, even if I have to make it up in my head, and that thought puts me at ease.
I turn back around and decide to head into the basement where I hear a song playing that I like. I keep my hand on the railing as I step down the steep steps and notice immediately that the atmosphere down here is a lot more chill than the one upstairs.
There’s a pool table and a T.V playing some kind of trash reality show and I don’t feel like anyone has their eyes on me.
Until I find a pair of eyes on me, that is.
But I recognize them. They’re Liam’s and I almost jump when I realize he’s not the little punk who used to bully me on the street. He’s a little taller, a lot more handsome and he’s holding himself pretty well, beer in hand and an arm around another girl. His eye contact isn’t menacing, or invasive or anything really. It’s almost as if he is also going through something that might be causing him some kind of inner battle, just like me.
I walk passed him to go and sit down on one of the empty chairs against the wall and just sit there. I watch the TV on the opposite wall for a few minutes, reveling in the way that I am completely calm to the situation before me. I don’t feel a single threat of panic and I love how serene that feels, despite the music pumping through the air and the stomping of feet above me.
But all of that comes crashing down the moment someone raises an empty beer bottle and shouts, “Spin the bottle time! If you don’t play, then you’re a fucking loser!” Everyone starts cheering and suddenly, my resolve is destroyed.
I don’t even know when tears started flying down my cheeks, but I won’t risk letting anyone see me break down to the simple announcement of a stupid party game.
I remove myself from the chair and start to head upstairs when I see a group of people tumble down them, so I backtrack and beeline to the corner on the opposite side, where no one is occupying, and I curl into myself, dropping to the floor and pulling my knees into my chest.
I pat my eyes gently to stop the tears and to not spill any makeup. I feel so fucking stupid for reacting this way, but I don't have a choice. My mind goes straight back to the night that I…
“Hey.” I hear a voice whisper in the shadows of the corner I’m cuddled up in.
I open my eyes to see a tallish figure standing in front of me and I wince embarrassingly when I realize who it is.
I don’t respond.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and I can’t force myself to speak. I feel so small in this moment and if I open my mouth, I’ll start to word vomit.
“Don’t force yourself to hide or show your feelings. Do what comes natural but just know that talking about them to anyone who shows that they might be willing to listen, might be helpful.”
