Page 17 of Lift Me Up

She giggles, slurping some of her tea before reaching for her tea biscuits, “Georgia, I love you, honey. But I am not daft, and I know you. I love that you visit me, but I know that this is your getaway place. So out with it.”

She knows about the elevator incident already, but I didn’t want to worry her about the nightmares. I didn’t want her to think that I couldn’t handle myself, I am a grown ass 25-year-old, and I can do it. But I give in and tell her everything, because somehow, she’d know if I left something out. Her motherly intuition is outrageously on point; I swear she must have been a psychic in another life.

“So, I finally figured out how to get in contact with him, and then I found out he got fired. Because he stayed on the line with me.”

“I mean, I am sure he knew what the consequences were and wouldn’t want you to feel like it’s your fault. But I understand where you’re coming from. He sounds like he was a proper gentleman, and I don’t know him, but I’m grateful that he was there for you.”

I nod, “Me too.”

I try, I really try to not think about it, to not feel like the guilt is hanging over my head. I let myself get distracted by mom’s endless fussing. She sets up a nail appointment for us, her treat. We get ice cream afterwards, and when we get home her favourite meal to make me is in the oven and wafting through the air and making the house smell like the a Sunday afternoon’s from my childhood. Her pot roast, roasted potatoes and glazed carrots are my go-to comfort food. She makes it for me at least twice a month, if not more.

My mom lets me have a bath in her jacuzzi tub, and she gives me every possible option to choose from. Epsom salts, my go to helper when the flares are super bad, aromatherapy candles and soft music playing from her Bluetooth speaker. This bathroom is like an oasis, all soft cream, and bright white accents and of course that jacuzzi tub that puts every other bathtub to shame. Mom sends me to said bathroom with a basket of all her favourite self-care items, the previously mentioned salts and candles and music, with natural bath bombs from my favourite bath essentials place, shea and cocoa butter and the smell of vanilla wafting through the entire bathroom. Magazines to entertain my mind, a book she just finished that she just couldn’t put down. A fluffy robe to wear, and the promise of a freshly warmed towel on my bed when I return from the self-care adventure. I know she’s trying to help me forget, and damn it, it’s working.

I fill the tub with the sweet-smelling things that will have me melted into a puddle of happy little self-cared Georgie goo. When I sink into the almost burning hot water, my body instantly sighs. If only this was a daily thing and not a once-in-a-while occasion. I could see this being helpful for flares, on days where all I can do is soak and sit and hope for relief from the unrelenting pressure, the red-hot skin, the chills, the impossibility to cool off. My body sinks down just in time for the jets to turn on and pelt my back in just the right spots, making me sigh and forget my own name.

It would be so easy to let my hands wander, to make my mind melt further, to really solidify the loss of every coherent thought until the only thing on my mind is how the jets and my hands touching and caressing would feel. I could picture someone other than me touching, large hands that could do anything they wanted, and I’d let them. It has been so long since I’ve been touched by someone other than my right hand or made to feel like Jell-O from something other than a good book.

I don’t let myself indulge though, it wouldn’t feel right to do this in a place that wasn’t my own, even if I lived here for eighteen years of my life. I can imagine it in my mind, though, and that’s almost as good, right? Eyes slip closed, and I think about how it would feel to not be alone in this tub. If there was a person behind me, holding me close, my back to their chest, hands trailing across my chest, cupping, teasing and tickling their way down. Their breath in my ear, slight hitch on the intake as they feel how badly I need it. Down across my navel. Down, down, down⁠—

“Georgie,” the imaginary voice in my ear rumbles deep and surprises me.

The voice, I know it. I know who it belongs to. I have no idea why now of all times the memory of N’s voice echoes into this moment, but here he is. Suddenly it’s N who is doing all these things to me, to make me feel squirmy and holding me around the hips and making me stay put as he explores. I wriggle in the daydream, wanting to feel the large, strong hands hold me.

“Jesus,” I gasp, picturing a feeling of lips against my neck.

The imaginary N hums softly, and then nips where he’s sucked. It’s too much, he’s everywhere and he’s not even actually here and I am feeling too much for this to not be real. I force myself to open my eyes, chest heaving and that feeling low in my belly begging me to deal with the feelings I brought on myself.

“What the fuck was that?” I say to myself, brushing my hair off my face. My cheeks are absolutely pink, burning in the blush I created. I let out a long breath, draw another in and sink under the water to escape my thoughts. But somehow, they still find me, ringing loud and clear.

Where did that even come from? Why did I let myself get that far? Why when the mystery person turned to… him, why didn’t I stop then? Why did they turn to him anyway? I don’t know this man, will never have the chance to know him now that he’s been fired. This whole get away was to work on forgetting him. So why the hell can’t I quit him?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

GEORGIE

Ihave executively decided that I am no longer allowed to be alone until I am over this. Whatever this is. I stay at my mom’s until she kicks me out, that is, after four days she politely asks me how much Franny misses me and when we’ll be hanging out again, and I take that as my cue to leave.

But back at home feels like a never-ending cycle, and Franny can only do so much, and I think that if I can just get over this hurdle, it will be over, and I forget this ever happened. I try to distract myself in any way that I can.

My executive dysfunction and HS be damned, I am determined to have good spoon days and set out to rearrange my entire house. The ‘clean the house down’ playlist I created in an attempt to avoid cleaning said house goes on the TV. Yoga pants, tugged on. Sports bra, no shirt. Fuck that. If I’m going to sweat, I want to wear the least amount of clothing I can. My shoulder-length dark brown hair successfully pulled back into a sloppy bun. Game face, on.

I start in the living room. What was once situated so the couch was facing away from the front door is now turned, so the couch faces the wall the front door is on. My desk presses along the back of my couch, and my armchair just turns to accommodate everything else. The TV goes along the wall that the couch faces. It takes a whole day to clean every surface, dust, and move everything.

The next day, I tackle the kitchen and bathroom. My kitchen has no room for wiggling, so I settle for cleaning out the fridge, the cabinets, getting rid of stained containers, and clearing my baking cabinet that I never actually use supplies from anymore. In the bathroom I rearrange my shampoos and conditioners into baskets, put all my toiletries away for once and actually do my laundry. I do everything I can to distract myself.

But on the third day, disaster strikes.

Here’s the other thing they don’t tell you about chronic illness: the rollercoasters of good days and bad? They’re sometimes like a light switch. If you leave the light switch on for too long, the bulb burns out. That roller coaster hits the peak of good and nosedives into bad. The third day, I wake up planning to take on my room and everything else in the apartment. Instead, I am barely able to move, to breathe, to function. All the hotspots for my HS flare at once; a spot comes out of nowhere under my right breast, and another on my thigh, and then a really annoying one on the back of my knee.

The third day is spent seeking pain relief, relaxing in my bathtub with Epsom salts and a hope in hell for reprieve. Reminder to self: don’t overdo it or face the wrath of your body that hates you. The fourth and fifth day it’s more of the same, curling up on the couch with my favorite cozy read or TV show only distracts so much. The biggest winner of all is the HS monsters, who make it near impossible to think about anything else.

But after the storm, the clouds part, and the sun shines through. There’s never a guarantee they will clear this quickly, and I have no idea how long the sun will last, but I am thankful for the rainbow that is a day of almost no pain; the flares slowly fade into scars that will no doubt flare again and track to other areas. But for now, I choose to focus on the positive.

I am positive that I am over this whole thing. So positive, in fact, I haven’t thought about him, or the situation at my mom's place, or anything other than myself in days. I deserve a treat day for myself to celebrate. Making the executive decision to not stay in bed all day while the world is not against me for once, I make sure all bandages are in place and I get on with it; I want to make today count.

I throw my hair up into a bun, get myself dressed, laughing to myself at my ‘un, deux, trois, cat’ shirt with four little cats under each French word. It’s the little things. I look at my yarn shelf and try to decide what colours I should get today. I have only two months to get the rest of the baby Halloween costumes done before I start working on Christmas. That is what I decide I need today. An entire cart of reds, whites, greens, and neutrals.

The shop is dangerously close to my house, about a block and a half away in either direction. I could choose the left path to the big chain store with yarn so rough that it makes my skin want to cry, or I can choose the right path to the locally owned crafting shop, a place where yarn is more expensive for less, but hand dyed and so soft you could picture clouds being made from it. I choose right.