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NOLAN
“It’s like there’s a storm inside me,” he says quietly, his voice forced.
His gaze pings to me, then away.
“Sometimes, it’s quiet,” he goes on. “Easy to tune out. But other times…” He blows out a breath and looks down at his hands, frowning at whatever he’s seeing. “Other times, it’s like Ibecomethe storm. It just.. it consumes me—the real me—and I’m…lost to it.”
My brow knits together at what he’s saying.
He sucks in his cheek, twisting his head to the side. “On the beach that day, I told you it’s like an itch, one I can’t scratch, and when I get like that…” He trails off.
“You erupt. And you can’t control it,” I whisper, remembering.
He nods. “Yeah. Sometimes it’s noises, like if there’s too much all going on at once, and it’s going in all different directions.”
I rear back slightly at that—at the way he words it.
He starts tapping his foot. “Sometimes it’s more of a feeling, like…like my feelings are a glass and it’s shattered, and I can’t catch all the pieces—I can’t contain them—so I just sort of…” He spreads his hands. “Boom.”
I nod, though I’m a little confused. But I let him speak, knowing, somehow, he’s never really had to explain it before.
Or maybe no one ever asked him to.
“When I was six, they thought it could be autism,” he says. Shrugging, he flits me a look I can’t place, “But I…passed or whatever, I don’t know. So then it was ADHD, which makes sense. It just…” He hangs his head, shaking it. “It didn’t account foreverything,you know? And ADHD meds barely helped as far as the sensory issues go. Or if something didn’t go as planned.” A beat passes, then, “I used to get really destructive, violent even. I’d…hurt myself too.”
My eyes widen, and I tip my head back, nodding, processing this.
“So then they moved on to mood disorders and behavior disorders and things like that. But, like I told you at the beach, it’s not an anxiety attack. I’m not…scared, or angry, or sad—well, I am, I do feel all of those things, but they’re not the source of it. And that’s what people don’t seem to understand. They think they know, and it’s so…so frustrating, because they refuse to listen. I just get so—”
“Overwhelmed,” I finish softly.
I lower my head to find him nodding. “Yeah. And it’s a physical thing too, not just mental. Like my thoughts…they genuinelyhurtwhen they get that loud. And then it spreads, and it’s external stuff, too, that hurts, stuff that shouldn’t hurt. Someone’s voice will pitch in a way that feels like a knife scraping over my brain, my bones, my skin… Same when it gets too cold, or too hot, usually unexpectedly. When everything just gets too…much, it hurts me.”
“So, it’s like sensory overload?” I say.
He looks up at me, eyes widening like he’s relieved I got it, and he nods. “Exactly. But it’s also the unpredictability. Like if I know I’m going somewhere that is going to be loud and chaotic—or if I know something’s about to happen that will hurt, like getting a shot—it’s as if my brain prepares itself and puts up a wall making it bearable. I can turn it off. But if it comes out of nowhere… It’s like my body just glitches out.”
“And the screaming?” I wonder, frowning.
He shrugs. “Like you said, I was always punished for…well, feeling. Everyone always just wanted to fix me, and make it go away, so I just…I never felt like I was allowed to really let it out. And…” his voice trails off and he looks around the room at a loss. “I think it just triggered some stuff, more than anything. And the more anxious I feel, the worse my sensory issues become.”
Well, shit.Now I feel like an ass.
And then something occurs to me.
“Your injuries…What happened at the bridge…” My brow furrows, and I shake my head. “You were in pain.”
As if knowing where I’m going with this, he nods. “Physical pain is…different. It’s confusing, more than anything. I don’t really know how to explain it. Whatshouldhurt…doesn’t always.” He pauses, glancing at me as if to gauge whether or not I understand.
I nod, encouraging him to keep going.
I can’t say Idounderstand, but I don’t want him to stop talking. I want to understand this.
“Like, I stillfeelit,” he continues, “but I don’t always know where it’s coming from, or…or how to explain it…so that can be stressful. Sometimes it feels like it’s coming from everywhere all at once. Which is okay, if it’s bearable. Like…as long as it’s a steady, dull ache that doesn’t really change, I can sort of just…ignore it, you know?”
Again, I find myself nodding.
“It’s not like a noise I can turn off, or a food I can just throw out. It’s just…”—he waves a hand—“there.”
