“I can go,” I say. “Or I can stay and sit on the floor with you. Dealer’s choice.”
Her mouth twists, and then she finally steps back so I can come in. “Stay,” she says.
I sit on the small rug by the end of her bed, and she stands by the window, fingers pulling at her sleeve. The silence is a little awkward, but I just let it sit. I look around at the things in the room I’ve learned by being in here too much—three Polaroids on her bulletin board (Simone, Lani, and Huxley.) The gold jewelry on the nightstand. The Post-it on her lamp:drink water, and keep going.
She finally speaks without turning to face me. “I hate that I’m like this.”
“I know.”
“Don’t say ‘it’s okay,’” she warns.
“It’s not okay,” I say. “It’s just real.”
She sits on the edge of the bed, not touching me. “After therapy…it’s like my head is a crowded hallway and the fire alarm goes off. I want everyone out. And everyone is…everything. Noise. People. Questions. Any stupid thing that overstimulates me. Or just…me.”
I nod. “How can I help evacuate those annoying things with you?”
She huffs. “I don’t know.”
I pause. “Do you want quiet-sit or quiet-alone?”
“What’s quiet-sit?”
“I stay. We don’t talk. You do whatever you need to do. I’m just…here.”
She chews her lip. “And quiet-alone?”
“I leave. You tell me when I can check in by text. You don’t have to answer. I just need to know the message delivered.”
Her eyes flick to mine at that. She looks tired, not hostile anymore. “I usually…disappear,” she admits. “Hide somewhere. It feels safer to detonate alone. Sometimes the questions and conversations make my brain try to dissociate,and I hate that feeling, like I can’t pay attention, like I’m being pulled from my body, like every time something is off, this fear rushes through my body that feels awful.”
Something in my chest hurts, wanting to help her. “I don’t need to watch the explosion. I just want you to know there’s a fire extinguisher nearby.”
She stares at her hands. “It usually makes people mad when I go quiet. Like, I’m being dramatic, or they get annoyed that I’m not communicating. But when I try, my brain keeps pulling the thoughts away, and I start to freak out more. It just makes the anxiety worse.”
“I’m not mad,” I say. “I’m…stubborn.” I let a smile slip. “So pick one, or I’ll invent a third option called ‘stubborn-sit,’ and no one will like that.”
She snorts a little. Then she sighs. “Quiet-alone,” she says. “Please. It’s not that I don’t want you around; I just…need the door shut. I want to get myself together before group tonight. I don’t think I can do that if I feel like I have to perform being okay, even if that’s not what you’re asking me to do…sometimes I can’t help it.”
“Okay.” I stand. “I’ll head out. I’ll text you in an hour, unless you want to text before then. If you want to be left alone past that, thumbs-up emoji. If you need me to bring you a coffee from the lounge and leave it like a feral raccoon bringing you gifts after you fed it, raccoon emoji.”
She smiles with just the corner of her mouth. “You are so ridiculous.”
“Yeah, I know.” I move toward the doorway, then stop. “The part you said before where people see your anxiety and decide you’re broken?” I pause until she has looked up at me. “That’s not what I see. I see a nervous system working like it’s supposed to after a hard workout. It’s loud because it wants to protect you.”
“It’s annoyingly overprotective,” she says, all soft and broken.
“Maybe,” I say. “But I would rather have a smoke alarm that occasionally freaks out over toast than no alarm at all.”
She makes a face like she’s trying not to cry. “I hate toast.”
“Liar,” I say, scrunching my nose playfully. “You love toast. Especially with fancy avocado on top.”
She rolls her eyes and waves me off. “Go. Before I change my mind and you get stuck in here.”
I nod, then go to turn around and feel her tug at the back of my shirt. I turn back around, and she wraps her arms around me. I pull her in more and put my chin on the top of her head. “I’m not taking any of this personally,” I tell her. “Just seriously.”
She nods slowly against my chest. “Thank you.”
