“I was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis back in January. It seems to be under control for now, but ever since then, I get terrible migraines if I don’t sleep enough or get too stressed about things. And it takes my hands longer to do things whenthey get really cold. The doctor said it’s probably just stuff associated with MS that I’ll live with,” I said, indicating where my hands sloshed around in the warm water. They already felt better.
“Oh…” he said. Grief marred his face. He leaned hard into my shoulder, mirroring the way I might’ve comforted him if our positions were reversed. “My uncle had MS. Reece, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not like it was before,” I said quickly, staring down at the bowl in front of me while I slipped into the usual pattern of conversation. “The progress that’s been made in the last ten—hell, evenfive—years is remarkable. I’m on a strong treatment plan. It’s not what you’re probably picturing. I’m lucky they found it so quickly; it should help slow down the progression. Maybe. Hopefully.”
I kept rambling, feeling his eyes on my face. “I mean, I could go years without anything bad happening again. And even if it does, there are options.”
Quiet yawned between us, thewooshof water running through my fingers the only sound besides our breathing.
“Look at me?” he whispered.
By now, I recognized I’d do just about anything he asked.
“I’m glad for all of that,” he whispered when my eyes met his. “That there are options and treatments and doctors and all of it. And I hope it works for you as best it can. But I’m still so sorry.”
I nodded. The genuine sorrow on his face was difficult to look at. “Thank you.”
Almost. I almost left it, but the words were right there on the tip of my tongue, and instead of swallowing them back like usual, my shoulders dropped, and I let them out.
“I hate talking about it,” I said with a huge sigh. I already felt lighter.
Charlie nodded, understanding. Always understanding.
“I resent that I have to,” I continued, emotions I’d struggled to put words to suddenly clawing to be set free. “And I resent that it’s my burden to fucking process now. To tell people about. I didn’t ask for this. I can’t look back at a past action and assess how to do it differently in the future for a better outcome. I can’t change it, so why do I have to make it mine? To let it consume every thought I have of the future? It taints everything, and Ihateit.”
Tears streamed down Charlie’s face, and I realized I was crying too. I gritted my teeth and continued. “I hate burdening others with it, but sometimes, when my migraines get too bad, I literally can’t do things. And then I think I’d actually prefer to have a gaping wound in the back of my head instead, so I at least wouldn’t have to explain why I feel like shit or can’t do my job or feel like I hate everything.”
Charlie’s arms wrapped around me in a hug, squeezing tightly.
For a moment, I tensed, stepping away. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain to you about it. It’s not?—”
“Please complain to me about it,” he interrupted, breathing into the crook of my neck. “I want to hear it. I want you to let go.”
Without my permission, my own arms came up to hug him back, holding just as tightly. A sound I’d never heard myself make wrenched from my chest, like re-breaking a botched and badly-healed fracture—raw and angry and vulnerable and hurt, but necessary to set the bone.
“Idon’thate everything,” I sobbed. “That’s the worst part. I don’t resent my family’s care and love; they mean more to me than I could ever say. It’s like… It’s like thisThingwandered into my house and sat down in my living room, and now I have to take care of it. Even when it treats me like shit, and gets in the way of my relationships, and keeps me from ever feeling like I’d be someone somebody could want—because who would? Whythe fuck would you sign up for meandthe Thing I’m forced to carry around everywhere? I hate it. Why wouldn’t you? I wish it weren’t there. I wish I didn’t have to manage it and explain it away and make excuses for it. And I wish I wasn’t worriedall the timeI was going to take one wrong step and set it off all over again.”
My chest ached from giving life to the feelings I’d shoved away for so long, and speaking aloud about the Thing I’d felt squatting on my shoulders for months and months. I wasn’t sure how long we stood there, holding each other while I cried out my demons.
“C’mon,” he eventually said, leading me to the bed. “Sit down. I’ll make lunch.”
“No, it’s fine. I already feel better after getting that out. I can do it.”
“I know you can, but it doesn’t mean you have to. Let me take care of you.”
And so Charlie made us ramen, while the Thing and I sat in bed and watched.
I felt a bit like a wet towel that’d been wrung out and run over, but there was a peace in my soul I hadn’t felt since long before that awful day I was left in the airport.
The Thing was still there, right beside me. It always would be. And I’d continue to battle it, probably for my whole life. But watching Charlie pad around, softly humming to himself while he stirred the noodles and fried eggs and drizzled just the right amount of hot sauce into my bowl before handing it to me, I realized something.
The curtain of my fear and resentment had been pulled aside just enough so a tiny sliver of light peeked through. Finally, I could see what I hadn’t before, stumbling around in the dark for so long.
The Thing was scared and lonely, too, and looked an awful lot like me.
“Imake better ramen than you,” Charlie said, slurping up the last of his broth.
Hiding a smile behind my own near-empty bowl, I pretended to scowl. “It’s ramen. What’d you do, boil the water differently?”
