“Get out.”
“Becky, baby?—”
“No!” I shriek. Then “no,” soft, quiet. “Stop saying my name, and you don’t get to call me baby. Get out. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. I will either leave right now and get a hotel, or you can go and stay with someone, anyone. Even her place. Sounds like you’ll be welcomed there. I don’t care. Just. Get. Out.” My hands are braced against his chest, trying in vain to get him away from me.He's too close.
“Jesus, no. It’s not?—”
I rip his ring off my finger and throw it at him as hard as I can. He flinches when it hits his chest and falls to the floor, except his wide eyes remain locked on me.
“Becks please, don’t do this. I love you?—"
I shout over him. His words are just noise to me now. “Get the fuck out! Or I need to leave right now. Decide, right now. Rightfuckingnow. Stop talking!”
I’m shaking by this point. Not in the numb cold of before, but in the relentless, full bodied way of an impending anxiety attack. I know I’m losing control, and I’m confident I won’t be able to stop it this time. I can’t fight this, and there will be no flight or freeze—only a complete breakdown.
I begin to hyperventilate—my vision and mind fogging over. I crouch down against the cabinets at my back and curl into as small a ball I can get into. Then, I rock. I shake my head and chant. “Please,please just go, just go, just go.” I don’t know if I’m crying anymore. Everything around me is fuzzy and vague. I’m officially in survival mode. Breathe. Chant. Rock. Don’t break.
I think I feel hands on me at some point, but I shriek again and again until they’re gone and then I keep rocking. Too many emotions, no control, somuch pain.
A door closes. I don’t know if it’s the front door or the bedroom. I just rock. And breathe. And shake.
An indeterminate amount of time passes and I feel hands again. They’re smaller, colder—softer. I look up into the eyes of my sister. I knowhecalled her, but I don’t care. I cry out again and wrap my arms around her and continue to break down. My anxiety slowly peters out. My tears continue.
God, I hate crying.
?????
Carter
What was I thinking?
I sit on the bed of my childhood home and stare unseeing at a wall filled with images of me at different stages of my life, completely gobsmacked on how I ended up in this situation. I spin my woman’s ring in circles, the tiny ass diamond catching light, as Becky’s heartbreak plays on repeat in my mind—her gasp for me tojust go.
I feel another punch in the gut at the memory of it.
The unfortunate thing is thatI knowwhat I was thinking, and it had nothing to do withTay,and everything to do with Becky. My spitfire, my wild love whom I managed to break piece by piece into someone small, hurting, andbroken.
Luckily, and unluckily for me, she’ll rise up and reclaim those pieces and build herself back into the incredible, strong, and powerful woman I first fell in love with. I have no doubts.
Luckily, because the world is just a better and brighter place with her shining in it.
Unluckily, because it will mean she remembered she didn’t need my sorry ass in the first place, especially while I was the one who dulled her shine.
I left the house the moment Becky’s sister, Lenny arrived. I was honestly terrified. As soon as Becky started to scream at me to leave, I went into our bedroom to pack a bag, and to try and buy some time. When I came out fifteen minutes later, she was still there, still rocking. I tried to get her attention by calling her name, knocking on the wall, anything. She acknowledged nothing. When I went totouch her, just her arm, she started screaming like I hadburnedher.
I moved back immediately, but she kept screaming until her voice broke and eventually faded.
I had no clue how to help her. It had never been this bad before. In the past I could hold her, rock her. That wasn’t an option when I was the one who did this to her. I tried googlinganxiety attack, but that stupid source told me all sorts of vague bullshit.Could last from five minutes to multiple days,one article claimed. Another said,emergency room if it lasts more than thirty minutes.I knew Becky would murder me if I called an ambulance, and I didn’t want to consider what would happen if I tried to put her in my truck, so I did the next best thing I could think of—I called her sister. She lives two hours away, and it was the middle of the night, but I was panicking.
Based on her reaction to her sister’s touch, I knew I had made the right choice.
I know my girl has anxiety. She told me about it after one of our first fights. She’s had a few attacks over the years. They were nothing compared to what I witnessed on the kitchen floor.
Three hours. She sat in that tormented state for three hours.
I feel a tear roll down my face and don’t move to wipe it. I deserve this pain.I did that to her, and I couldn’t even touch her.I ached to hold her, but she acted like my touch wasfire. So I left, and now here I sit—staring at a wall—thinking about my little curvy cutie and how she probably isn’t even mine anymore.
PART II
