Page 11 of Letters From A Stalker

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, sticking my toothbrush in my mouth with more force than necessary.

It is not the panic attack itself that humiliates me most. I know enough about anxiety to understand that my body was reacting to something it believed was a threat, even if the threat happened years ago and was neatly tucked away in a pristine package that exploded to the forefront when the Phil Collins song bomb burst it wide open. The embarrassment wasn’t coming from the fact that I had a panic attack. It was the fact that people saw me crumble, they saw me at a moment of weakness, strictly reserved for when I’m alone… well mostly when I’m alone. That is the part that won’t stop replaying. The woman with the cowboy book. The driver. The passengers who went quiet when Tessa moved. Even Tessa herself, who has seen me cry before but never like that, never reduced to something so raw I could not even look at her.

I spit into the sink and rinsed my mouth, studying my reflection again while the arguments began spinning inside my head. I know why it happened. I am painfully aware of the fact that I have unresolved trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and enough emotional baggage to qualify for oversized luggage fees. That has to count for something. Self-awareness is practically therapy, right? Maybe I don’t need to go. Maybe I need sleep, less caffeine, a few days away from work, and the discipline to stop pretending everything is fine when it very clearly is not. The thought sounds almost reasonable until I remember I’ve been saying versions of it for most of my life. I can handle it. I’ve handled worse. I’ve picked myself up before. The words are familiar because I built most of my adult life around them.

I shower quickly, letting the water run hotter than it should until the bathroom fills with steam and my skin turns pink. By the time I dress for work, the sun has started rising behind the houses across the street, pale light pressing against my bedroom curtains. I choose black slacks, a cream blouse, and the navy blazer hanging at the end of my closet because it makes me look competent even when I feel anything but. My job has taught me that people trust women who look organized. If your hair is smooth and your shoes match your bag, nobody questions whether you spent the previous night staring at the ceiling wondering how many pieces of yourself can go missing before people notice.That thought alone makes me take off the navy blazer and put on a black one.

Downstairs, my house greets me with its usual chorus of small sounds. The fourth stair creaks beneath my weight. The old pipes knock somewhere behind the kitchen wall. Wind brushes the oak branches against the side of the house with a soft scratching sound that used to scare me when I first moved in. Now it just feels familiar. The floor plan is spacious enough that I can stand in the living room and see almost every space that matters. The kitchen opens toward the dining area, the hallway leads to the stairs, and the oversized front windows let morning light spill across the hardwood floors until the whole house seems warmer than it actually is.

I bought it three years ago after walking through it once. The realtor kept talking about original woodwork, updated plumbing and resale value, while I stood in the living room staring at the windows, thinking about how much light they let in. I had spent most of my life living in houses that felt dark, closed in, and heavy. Where rooms were shaped by arguments that happened behind closed doors and the silences that spoke volumes. This place felt open. It felt like somewhere where nothing could hide in the dark, where noise couldn't hide in the corners, and where the corners couldn't confine me.. I signed the papers two weeks later and spent the first night sleeping on a mattress on the living room floor because the furniture hadn’t arrived yet. Nanna called three times to make sure I was okay, then finally stopped when Tessa came over with pizza and a bottle of wine.

The first thing Tessa said was that the house looked like me. I never asked what that meant. I think I was afraid she would say lonely.

The coffee machine hums to life while I stand at the counter, checking emails on my phone with one hand and pressing my thumb lightly against the bite mark with the other. Three messages from work wait beneath a reminder for the appointment I have been pretending not to think about.

Appointment confirmed: Dr. Kai Blackwood, 4:00 p.m.

My stomach twists.

I swipe the notification away and open my conversation with Tessa before I can talk myself out of it. She has already sent a message at 5:31 a.m., which confirms she is either awake for reasons no sane person should be or has never gone to sleep.

Tessa:

You are going today.

No greeting. No subtlety. Just emotional blackmail before sunrise.

I press the microphone icon and record a voice note while the coffee pours.

“Okay, hear me out before you immediately become unreasonable. I could call in sick, sleep for fourteen hours, and label it intensive self-care. I already know where my issues come from, which feels like at least half the work, so technically I’m ahead.”

I send it, pour coffee into the largest mug I own, then carry it into the living room and curl up beneath the throw blanket on the couch.

Her reply came less than a minute later.

Of course it does.

“By all means, slap a cute little Hello Kitty Band-Aid over thirty years of unprocessed trauma and see how far that gets you. We both know your current method is working beautifully.”

I snort into my coffee.

“That method made me funny,” I replied. “You have personally benefited from the trauma.”

Her answer arrives immediately.

“You were already funny. The trauma just made the jokes darker, and while I enjoy that shit, pitch black is not your color. Go to the damn appointment.”

I listen to the message twice, mostly because hearing her voice steadies something inside me I do not want to examine too closely.

The television remains off, and the silence in the living room gives my thoughts too much space, so I open social media and scroll without registering anything on the screen. Couples announce engagements. A woman I vaguely knew in high school posts photographs of a baby surrounded by pumpkins. Somebody argues about a celebrity divorce beneath a video of a dog wearing rain boots.

Normal lives displayed in carefully chosen squares. Mine would look normal too if anybody bothered arranging it properly. A nice house. A respectable job at a law firm. A best friend who refuses to let me disappear. No visible proof that I spent my birthday on the side of a highway trying to convince my lungs to work.

I finish half the coffee before curiosity becomes stronger than dignity and type **what to wear to therapy** into the search bar. The results are alarmingly detailed. There are articles about comfortable clothing, color psychology, and whether wearing business attire might create emotional distance. Pinterest has entire boards dedicated to therapy outfits, which feels like the most aggressively modern sentence I have ever thought.

I sent Tessa another voice note.

“You will never believe what I’m doing. Apparently people have aesthetic boards for therapy now. I’m Googling what to wear like Dr. Blackwood is taking attendance at prom.”