In Oliver’s mind, I was always making excuses, always exaggerating my symptoms. The way he saw it, I never tried hard enough to overcome the chronic fatigue. “Just push through it, Dev. Mind over matter.” Like my body’s rebellion was a personal choice.
At first, I fought back against his claims, did my best to explain to him that this condition isn’t a mind over matter situation. I’d show him articles, research papers. “Sometimes I can’t even hold a conversation, my brain is so foggy.” Eventually, though, I gave up. What was the point when he’d already decided I just wasn’t trying hard enough to overcome my symptoms?
I did what I could to conserve my energy—which I like to measure in theoretical spoons; say I only have ten spoons a day and work takes seven and making dinner takes two—to give him more time. Instead of using spoons to go out with friends or teach yoga on the weekend, I would use them to attend Oliver’s games. My life became more and more about him as I drifted further away from my friends and family. Which was all too easy, especially since we were in New York, away from everyone I’d known my whole life.
At our third year in New York, Oliver’s team made it to the regional championships. Of course I wanted to go. Why wouldn’t I?
The fact that Oliver begged me to be there made it even worse. “Dev, please. I need you there. You’re my good luck charm.” Those blue eyes pleading. I knew the lights and noise would be hell on me, the screaming crowd and blaring music probably leading to a flare, but I went. Because I’d come to feel that taking care of myself equated me not loving Oliver enough.
The arena was packed. Twenty thousand fans, air horns,strobe lights. By the third period, my body was screaming at me to leave, but Oliver’s team was winning.
After the game, sinking into the worst fatigue flare I’d ever had, my legs barely holding me up and my vision swimming with black spots, I told Oliver I couldn’t go out to celebrate with the team and their partners. The victory party at Prime 46. Oliver’s response?
I was selfish. I wasn’t embracing mind over matter.
“This is the biggest win of my career and you can’t even pretend to be happy for me?”
Oh, and we should “probably take a break.”
Right then and there, in the parking garage under Madison Square Garden, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, at the lowest point of my life, when I needed my boyfriend more than I ever had before.
It didn’t seem real. The concrete pillar I leaned against felt more solid than his words. Couldn’t he see how much I was struggling? How I could barely even stand up straight? How my hands shook?
It was a betrayal that cleaved me in half.
Using the last tiny spoon I had left, more a teaspoon than anything else, I called the front desk for my own hotel room, my voice barely a whisper. The clerk must have heard something in my voice because she sent a bellhop with a wheelchair. I turned my phone off, collapsed onto the stiff hotel mattress, and slept for fourteen hours. The next day, my gracious few friends I had left agreed to help me through the flare and move. Naomi came immediately, no questions asked, bringing soup and electrolyte drinks. I recovered at her apartment for three days, wrapped in her grandmother’s quilt while she and her boyfriend packed my life into boxes.
There was never an apology. No regret of any kind on his behalf. And why would there be? He was so convinced that my chronic condition was something I was doing tohim.
It wasn’t even the breakup that was the worst of it. The real damage was the way he made me question myself for months afterward. Even six months later, I was still hearing his voice during every flare: “Are you sure you’re not being dramatic?” It took years of therapy to trust my own body again.
Tears blur my vision, and I blink them back before anyone notices. Five years. That’s how long Oliver and I were together. When it was good, it was... glorious. Sunday mornings in bed. His laugh echoing off our apartment walls. The way he’d kiss my forehead before leaving for practice.
But when it was bad... Well, it fucking broke me. Twisted my mind. Made me feel undeserving of love and simple human compassion.
Looking at these articles about his career ending, I feel something I don’t want to name. Not satisfaction. Just... sadness. For both of us.
Shaking my head, I put my phone away. Boarding is being announced, and it’s time to grab my seat and move forward.
By the time I step out of the Minneapolis-Saint Paul airport a few hours later, the fierce winds blasting my face like tiny needles, I’ve almost forgotten about Oliver—almost.
At least I know that there will be plenty of distractions at home in the form of talk, board games, and the classic movies we watch every year. If nothing else, my family is entertaining.
“Devin!”
I turn around, squinting against the wind. A figure bundled like a purple marshmallow waves at me from the car line, and even with the scarf wrapped to her eyes and hat pulled low I know it’s Jemma. We shared a womb for nine months and a room for eighteen years. The girl is more familiar than the back of my hand.
I break into a jog, pulling my rolling suitcase behind me. Jemma throws her arms around me, squeezing tight. She smells like vanilla coffee and the lavender fabric softener Mom’s usedsince we were kids. God, it’s good to be home, even if only for a week.
“How was your flight?” She grabs my suitcase, hefting it into the trunk.
“Good.” I hustle to get into the warmth of the car, my fingers already numb. Even though I grew up in Minnesota, and New Hampshire isn’t exactly a warm climate, coming back here in the winter is always a bit of a shock.
Jemma gets in next to me, where the heat is blasting, and unwinds her scarf and takes off her hat. Her cheeks are rosy from the cold, her black hair staticky from her hat, pieces floating around her face.
“Nice hair do,” I tease.
She takes a look in the mirror and laughs. “Yeah, I thought I would try something new for your visit. People need to tell us apart somehow.”
