Wondering about what comes next.
Fourteen
Blair
Iwasn’tthinkingaboutfootball. The kick. The team. The score. None of it. I was on a completely different planet and it showed.
Now, I’m still not thinking about it.
I can’t believe my dad called me the way he did.
I can’t believe I stood Tyson up.
I can’t believe I can’t shake this.
It feels like my world is spinning too fast for me to put my shoes on, I can’t even tie them, but someone is asking me to run a marathon. Everything is a blur and my arms are swinging about, trying to grab something to slow it down.
When I ended the call with my dad last night, I got in my car and drove. I didn’t know where I was going, but I rolled the windows down and let the air freeze me out. It was an hour one way before turning back around on the expressway and heading home.
The only sounds in the car were the wind from the open windows and the chatter of my teeth. I didn’t know I was crying until my cheeks started to burn.
When I got back to my place, I stayed in my car. Unable to move. Unable to really do anything. My phone sat in my hand, hovering over names to call. Tyson. My mom. My brothers. Maggie. I didn’t have it in me to do anything.
And that was like throwing dry brush into the fire. Like the anxiety and indecision kept sharpening the knife that was at my throat.
I didn’t think a phone call from the man who left us behind would ever impact me like this. Always thought I was above it–I really didn’t miss or need him. Whenever people gave me that look on Father’s Day, when they knew I didn’t have a relationship with that man, I’d reassure them that it was a non-issue.
Don’t feel sorry for me.
Now, here I am, feeling even more sorry for myself than I thought possible.
I hate that he’s still taking things from me.
I’m supposed to be stronger than this.
With no idea how long I was in the car, I made my way to my place and then just sat on my kitchen floor. And then, it was four in the morning–only a few hours until I needed to get on the team plane for my first away game.
This morning, after two hours of sleep, I woke up in a panic over Tyson. I knew he’d understand… he always did. But it felt like things had finally lined up–our planets finally in the same orbit–and it was something else I was grasping at, unsuccessfully.
I opened my messages and froze when I saw all the unread notifications. Maggie. Tyson. Coach Dylan. Zack. Benny. Bella. Tiffany. My brothers. This is what set off the first panic attack. How could this much happen in just a few hours? How could they all need something from me?
The idea of doing anything had me frozen as the room started to spin and my vision started to become a pin point.
Breathe in. Hold for four. Out.
Again.
Again.
Again.
I’m back there again. Running through it, start to finish. The phone call. The driving. The wallowing. The game. The miss. The hurt.
I’m sitting in the small women’s locker room and even though the team won, it doesn’t feel like it. Catching a glance of myself shows the worst posture I’ve ever had: shoulders slumped, belly showing over my leggings. My finger pokes the skin. I know there’s muscle underneath it but the grim reaper that is my confidence and body dysmorphia show up.
Like the old friend you wish would lose your number.
Anger starts to bubble as I stand, looking at my silhouette in the mirror. My brain does that awful thing where it takes reality and warps it, stretching every flaw like it’s under a carnival mirror spotlight. The shape of my stomach. The way my thighs press together. The soft line under my sports bra that wouldn’t be there if I were truly strong enough, disciplined enough, worthy enough.
