We lingered outside for a while before I carried Sybil upstairs to bed. My quads burned as we reached the bedroom, but I curled her up the same way I’d found her this afternoon.
Wrapping myself around her, I kissed her on the top of the head. Tonight I wanted to keep her safe, and show her I could be her rock. I hoped to God she’d still believe it once theentire truth surfaced.
CHAPTER 30
Sybil
Wednesday morning arrived like Dorothy’s tornado had sucked me up again, depositing me without ceremony, back in black and white Kansas.
Emotionally overwhelmed and exhausted, I felt completely twisted. This was also my third bed this week, and every limb felt numb. I wasn’t used to this much change, and I could feel it scratching at my nerves. It was silently clawing its way deeper into my psyche, and I’d neglected the warning signs.
Nash was absent after quietly holding tight to me all night. He seemed to sense exactly the right amount of comfort I wanted and needed right now. He was the only constant thing keeping me whole.
Alone, it took everything I had to hold the frayed ends of my sanity together. Everything was curdling to pieces.Terror’s sword had stabbed me in the chest, and I wanted nothing more than to rip it out, hold it above my head, and scream to the universe that I was over this.
I wanted to be happy. I was ready to be excited and brave, and proud of myself. Bee showed me that strong women could exist. I’d seen it firsthand. This was my tipping point.
I could either level up or fall back down the ravine. Somehow, I had to find my way out of this soggy marsh. I had to teach my brain to keep pushing, keep trying, no matter what. I couldn’t even blame my parents at this point. I was the only obstacle in the way.
But first, I needed a minute. I was exhausted. Just a few more minutes. Just one more hour.
Nash kissed my forehead at some point early this morning, moving quietly around the room as he dressed before leaving for work. It was still dark outside.
I knew he was busy, and now I knew why. I was the reason.Redwas the reason. I’d berated Cat for not telling me about the auction. I was furious. Why did she think keeping it from me made the most sense? The entire thing was embarrassing. Not having the facts was harming me.
My brain could not stop rehashing the way the dinner had gone and my sudden and unavoidable shutdown. I’d sat at the dining room table, like a gluttonous fool, pouring over articles and headlines about the auction.
This thing had grown legs. Spiraling so far out of my control, I never wanted to lay eyes on a paintbrush ever again. I’d tried so hard to keep the fame, the pressure, the fear from reaching me. It found me anyway.
Why was the one thing you tried to avoid always the first thing you attracted?
I lay there frozen for a long time, trying to convince myself:
I am safe. I am small. I am alone. No one will find me. No one needs anything from me. I am not PERL; PERL is not me.
Again.
I am safe. I am small. I am alone. No one will find me. No one needs anything from me. I am not PERL; PERL is not me.
Over and over.
It was no use. I felt the familiar bell jar descending to suffocate me.
When I’d first read Sylvia Plath’sThe Bell Jar, I remember thinking how right she was. A bell jar was the perfect way to describe the suffocating feeling of anxiety and depression. I could picture the echoing chamber, descending unseen until it was too late. It trapped me inside.
Lying here, “stewing in my own sour air,” as Sylvia would say, all I wanted was Nash. He was like the scaffolding erected around my townhome. He was the support I needed to rebuild.
Basic movement seemed too hard; even getting up to use the bathroom was near impossible. I knew if I could just feel him, I could crawl out of this.
It was frightening to depend on someone this much, particularly after being so self-reliant for most of my life. Sure, I’d leaned on Cat a lot, but she had her own world to live in,and there was a limit to where our needs aligned. With Nash, it felt like everything had the potential for perfect alignment. I was opening myself more than ever before, and I feared what happened when the other shoe dropped, as it always did.
There was a point I’d mustered enough energy to take Bill out, only driven because this wasn’t my house, and I didn’t want him to have an accident.
I knew all too well what was happening to me. The feeling was familiar—the whole-body pain that set in and the cortisol ripping through every muscle, yanking it taught.
Depression was pulling me under.
At one point, I tried to keep myself afloat by sliding a book from one of the bedside tables toward me and opening it. It was a book about plants and flowers, microscopic images of cells and small worlds up close. It kept my darker thoughts at bay for a time, and I lay with it, looking at every image. Despite my efforts, the bell jar made its final descent, snuffing out the last candle.
