I throw open the toilet cubicle, fall to my knees, and out it comes. Again. I’ve been vomiting all morning, making frantic excuses to my clients before scurrying from my office, clutching my stomach.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Shakily, I flush the toilet. I rest my back against the navy-blue cubicle wall, pulling my knees up to my chest. I take shallow breaths through my mouth, hoping I don’t vomit again. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m definitely not pregnant. But my medication…
Make sure you don’t run out, okay?
Weakly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my phone, and google “SSRI withdrawal symptoms.”
chills
dizziness
vomiting
Oh. I tuck my phone back into my pocket and breathe in the toilet smell of bleach and mint. I’ll go to the pharmacy after work, I think wearily. I’ll pick up more tablets. But the thought of getting up off the tiled floor is exhausting. I just want to sit here all day. I got hardly any sleep last night, and when I did, all I dreamed of was my sister.
Nausea rushes up the back of my throat, and I reach for the bowl again. I vomit so hard I see stars. My forehead is slick with sweat, and my hands are clammy. I flush the toilet, and then I cry, because it’s all getting a bit too fucking much.
I stare at the toilet door, shaking my head. Lovely. The icily composed Sarah Slade is at work, sobbing on the toilet floor. If only my followers could see me now.
“Sarah?”
Oh, shit. I scramble to my knees, swipe at my mouth again, and notice my lipstick’s smudged all over my hand. Emily knocks gently on the cubicle door, and I feel like an insect about to be stomped.
“I’m okay!” I call out far too brightly and wipe my mouth and eyes quickly. I crack the door open, and Emily’s worried face peers in.
I smile. Of course I do. Even though my lipstick’s smeared over my palms, and my mascara’s probably running down my cheeks. “Bit of food poisoning, I think,” I say cheerily. I’m babbling now. I know I’m making things worse, but I can’t seem to stop. “I’ve been living off takeaways since we bought the house.”
Her eyes are gentle with sympathy, and I’m so low and so gone that I’m violently grateful for it. God, Emily. You don’t know what I’vedone.How many lives I’ve ruined to get here. How I hate myself with anunquenchablehatred.
Her paisley skirt swishes over her toes. “How about a nice hot cuppa?” she says, smiling. “My mum used to say, ‘When all else fails, put the kettle on.’ ”
My mum used to say,You’re the fucking reason I drink.And,Ew, is that fat on your stomach?
“Come on, lovie,” she says. Gently, she pulls me to my feet, and I follow her out of the bathroom like a little child.
—
She ushers me to a soft gray couch that squeaks when I sit down. I shift uncomfortably as Emily hands me a steaming mug of coffee. I thankher, and she sinks into her desk chair, settles her long skirt around her sandals, and sips the tea she made for herself. Her body is languid, relaxed. And I sit there with a painfully straight back, feeling like I have to hold myself perfectly still or my entire body will shatter.
Is this how my clients feel when they come to me? The thought hits so hard, my breath catches in my throat. Do they sit there on my overpriced chair, staring at my bestselling book crowding the wall and my slimy smile plastered over my too-shiny teeth, and feel like this?Like fucking this?
Like there’s a tidal wave of pain washing over them? Like if they don’t hear a word of kindness, or encouragement, or hope, all will be even more lost?
Emily clasps her hands, the little wooden beads on her bracelet clacking softly. A framed child’s painting hangs on the back wall, a mess of pink and orange stripes.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I say before taking a sip of the coffee. Her couch is leather and warm under my knees. “But hi, anyway,” I add awkwardly.
“Hi.” She smiles widely, gives me a little wave that makes me smile. The knot of nerves in my stomach starts to unravel. She’s nice, Emily. My coffee is strong, scalding, just how I like it. Her cup smells of lavender.
“This stuff tastes like perfume.” Emily wrinkles her nose, staring into her cup. “Lavender tea’s s’posed to detox the body and boost the immune system.” She sips, shakes her head. “Tastes terrible, but it’s worth it.”
Ihatetea. I’m a coffee drinker. I smile wanly, looking around. I’ve never been in her office before. It’s orange and pink and has a child’s bedroom feel about it. It feels safe in here, and my limbs slowly unclench. Emily plucks a stray hair from her skirt, and it flutters to the ground. “Dog hair,” she explains, grinning. “We’ve got three at home.”
“I have a cat,” I say dumbly. “Reaper.”
“Bet he’s easier to look after than three slobbering mutts.” She grinsagain and sips her lavender tea. “The kids want another, can you believe?” She shakes her head, but her eyes are shining. This is a woman who lives for her family, I can tell. A woman who goes home to a messy kitchen counter and a lounge room littered with toys, while tiny children tug at her skirt. She cooks dinner with the radio on as her oldest kids spray each other with the hose outside and her husband plops a big kiss on her forehead on his way to the fridge for a beer. It’s always noisy, but she’s never felt more at peace.
She plucks another hair off her skirt. “How’s your week been, Sarah?”
