‘One drink. Remember, you need to expose yourself to people, or it’ll never get any better.’
For the past year, my psychiatrist’s exposure therapy has become the bane of my fucking existence. If I’d had my way, I would’ve stayed in my sister’s basement apartment in Hillsboro for the rest of my life, but that’s obviously not the way she rolls.
‘Either you apply for this job, which has your name written all over it, or you can move back in with Mom and Dad. That’s it. I’m over watching you fade away right in front of my eyes.’
When I’d objected, she’d picked up her phone and threatened to call Mom.
‘You’re an amazing uncle and brother, and I love you to death, but no twenty-nine-year-old is supposed to be best friends with a four- and six-year-old.’
My sister, brother-in-law, and their kids have been the only people I can stand being around since being released from inpatient psychiatric care a little over a year ago. While I couldn’t avoid Mom’s occasional visits to check on me, at least Dad left me alone after hisgolden childturned out to be a mere human and an epic failure.
My chest squeezes, that familiar tightening sensation returning whenever I think about that day. My legs shake as nausea builds, bile rising in my throat. I maneuver past a group of girls snapping selfies, focusing on getting the hell out of here.
2024 was supposed to be my year, something Dad never failed to remind me of. I’d qualified for the Olympics in Paris. Everyone was talking about the possibility of two Olympic medals. In the 1500-meters, the gold was going to be between me, Cole Hocker, or Josh Kerr. Everything Dad and I had worked for since I was a little kid was finally going to culminate in one perfect moment where I’d bring home the gold to the US and forever write myself into Olympic history.Yeah, right.
I push off the wall, round the corner of the busy street, and jog toward the parking lot where I parked myNissan Leaf.I bought it after I moved to Eugene. Janelle co-signed the loan and lent me the down payment on the condo I’m renting.
I hate being dependent on her, but it’s useless to argue. Janelle and her husband, Owen, own a restaurant in Hillsboro. While they’re doing well, they aren’t exactly rolling in money. Just something else I can add to the list of things I resent about myself.
I get into my car, grip the steering wheel, and rest my head against it. I take deep breaths to calm myself again, but the sudden flood of memories won’t let up.
Sometimes I feel everyone is looking at me, talking about me, their voices mingling with Dad’s when he found me curled up in my hotel bathroom in Paris, puking my guts out. He’d come to look for me after I didn’t show at the Olympic Stadium for my 1500-meter qualifying heat. It should’ve been a formality, a mere walk in the park, and suddenly it became an insurmountable obstacle. I felt like I was going to die.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.’His words are imprinted on my soul forever.‘After everything yourmother and I have sacrificed for you. After everything your grandparents suffered to come to the US and better their lives. Ungrateful.’
That word had been the soundtrack of my childhood whenever I failed in his eyes. God forbid I asked for an afternoon off from practice to go to the movies or take a weekend trip with my friends. Whenever I wanted something for myself that wasn’t linked to running, that word would hit me like a bucket of ice water.Ungrateful.
Right before he closed the bathroom door, leaving me on the floor, his next words gut-punched me.‘I knew you’d mess this up.’
I was twenty-seven, and in the blink of an eye, my life was over. Without Dad’s approval, I didn’t exist.
After that, everything was a blur. Mom and Janelle found me halfway across the balcony railing in my hotel room, barely managing to pull me off it.
I was medevaced back to the US, heavily medicated with a medical escort, and was later admitted into psychiatric care in Portland.
When I was discharged after a week, Janelle took me in, and Mom visited from time to time. I haven’t seen or talked to Dad since. Like a sick limb, he cut me from his life.
Luckily, I don’t get recognized often. That’s why that guy at the bar completely blindsided me with his overly enthusiastic word vomit. If I’d been prepared, I wouldn’t be sitting in my car, counting the duration of my inhales and exhales.
‘You’re amazing.’His words surge through me, and a new spell of nausea builds in my stomach. I haven’t been amazing for a long time.
When my breathing is under control, and I know I’m not going to puke all over the steering wheel, I start the car and drive back to my apartment, my one sanctuary.
I won’t sleep much tonight, but my psychiatrist assures me that once I start working, I’ll be so exhausted physically and mentally that my insomnia will disappear. God, I hope so. I’m so over staring at the ceiling every night, waiting for the first light of dawn so I can pull on my running gear and run down deserted streets until I no longer feel anything. Until there’s only the dull ache in my limbs and the quiet numbness that follows. Until a word likeamazingis completely expelled from my vocabulary.
I drag myself to work in the morning, the panic from last night now a dull ache in my bones. I try to focus on the day ahead, but the fatigue following a panic attack always leaves me zombie-like. While I know everything there is to know about running, only time will tell if I’ll be remotely decent in my new professional role as assistant coach for the Oregon Ducks track and field program, or if I’ll fail at that too.
I’ve never had a job before. No newspaper routes growing up. No summer job at that frozen yogurt place like Janelle. No serving coffee throughout college. I didn’t have to since I was on a full scholarship. My entire life was dedicated to running, running, and more running. It was all I ever did. I lived and breathed it. I loved and hated it in equal measure. I loved it because of the few scraps of praise Dad gave me when I held his undivided attention. I hated it because my life wasn’t mine, not even for a second.
At least now, as fucked up as I am, I’m somewhat free. At least now, my life, as boring and pathetic as it is, is mine.
“Lindsey!” I wave over our so-called star runner on the women’s 800-meter team. “Over here.”
She jogs toward me, a hesitant look in her eyes, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side. She smiles carefully when she reaches me. “Yes, Coach Cordier?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest, narrowing my gaze on her. “Busy weekend?”
She frowns at me, then nods. “Yes, I had an English essay and stayed up a little late.”
