TW: Stong language, self-hate, graphic depiction of a panic/anxiety attack, referenced past parental abuse

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Your name is Felix MacDonald, and you are a worthless piece of shit.

That’s a pretty harsh way to look at yourself, and you know it. You’ve been told so many times, sometimes gently, sometimes with the riotous fury of an extremely pissed guardian angel, by your roommate-cum-best friend-cum-life partner-cum-you don’t even fucking know at this point. Your web of relationships has long since lost any thread of cohesion. You love her, she loves you, your relationship isn’t technically dating but it may as well be, her fiancé is an awesome chill other roommate/metamour who stands on the sidelines nodding in acceptance, and then off in an entirely unrelated galaxy you’ve got your two boyfriends—your two ex-boyfriends—your two ex-boyfriends plural as in together as in big gay rainbow glitter polyamorous threesome as in literally the best relationship you’ve ever had in your whole miserable life aside from the whole roommate/partner/not-dating thing and holy fuck, holy fucking shit no wonder people think you’re a freak, you dared to find happiness in this supremely unstable fucked up network of affection and then you ruined it all, you piece of shit you—

Okay. Okay. Breathe. Let’s take this from the top.

You are sitting inside your apartment. You are on the floor. Your back is to the wall, and you’re probably crying a little, but it’s hard to say. Your body is in pieces. Your arms lie at your sides. Your feet are still pacing a rut in the kitchen linoleum somewhere off to the left. Your mind is not attached to your brain, and you watch yourself, in disgust, in pity, as you struggle to keep breathing. You are going to die. You’re not, obviously, you’re fine, but it’s hard to keep that fact in mind right now, considering the way your heart is trying to jailbreak your chest. You’re twisted up in the most pitiful non-option response to fight-or-flight, and why?

You tried to leave the apartment.

Except it wasn’t just that. It’s never just that. It’s that you looked in the kitchen sink and saw how many dishes you had to do today, you turned on the news for all of ten minutes and saw that the world was burning, you looked at yourself in the mirror and you realized the hickies on your neck are fading, you turned your face to the side to better see the splotched green-yellow and you remembered you share the shape of your nose with someone else you’d rather not, you dug through your pile of unfolded clean clothes and drug up the college hoodie worn through at the sleeves that one of your boyfriends used to wear constantly and when you held it up to the florescent light you remembered with sickening clarity the terrified hurt on his face the last time you saw him wearing it, you turned for the front door and reached for the handle and pictured the cold dark bleakness of the pre-sunrise early-a.m. city and the bodies on the subway that would treat you as invisible and the blind corners and shadowed spaces that would threaten you with every face they hid and way the train car’s doors would close and trap you and there would be no space no room to run to breathe and then suddenly you were just here on the floor, and there was a slat of weak grey dawn in your lap.

It feels like divine punishment. Assholes get what assholes deserve. A bolt from Zeus. Or was it Hera? Whichever one drove Hercules off the deep end. You weren’t paying attention in sophomore English that day. You were too busy thinking about how to run away from home before your dad found out you flunked the algebra exam. You didn’t succeed. You pointedly tell yourself not to remember what happened next.

Breathing isn’t easy, but you keep doing it, somehow. You wish someone were here. No one is here. Your roommates are both off at work. You’re supposed to be at work too, but obviously you’re a fucking wreck who can’t get off the floor. Your boyfriends won’t be coming by to save you again either. Ex-boyfriends. Something jars in your gut every time you think that, and you really must be a psycho now because you laugh, just a little, just a huffing sort of shudder of air. Fucking irony right here. Why do you need them right now? Because you’re a nervous dysfunctional wreck. Why did that relationship end? Because you’re a nervous dysfunctional wreck. Stressed, strained, scared, constantly jumpy, constantly pulling shit like this—at work—on dates—fucking everywhere, let’s not forget the time you fucking hid in a bathroom at Red Lobster for twenty minutes because you were a paranoid piece of crap who just couldn’t deal with the people around you.

But there’s no people here now.

And you can’t deal with that either.

And you can’t deal with anything really.

It strikes you for the first time, in what is probably referred to in the scientific literature as A Way Too Fucking Long Time, that maybe you need help.

You don’t deserve it, but you do need it.

You pick up your phone, and dial the number of your roommate-cum-life partner-cum-etc. etc. etc., and pray that she answers.

She picks up on the third ring, voice already pricked into funny angles with concern. She’s already expecting this. You don’t tell her much. You can’t. There’s a long way between your consciousness floating somewhere in the thick clouds of the stratosphere and the reality of your dry-lipped raw-throated body and any words you managed to dig up are ripped apart into fragmented syllables in the panting gusts of wind you wheeze to and from a tight chest. You’re not sure what you end up saying—not like it matters, your voice sounds like shit right now—but it’s unnecessary, she’s already leaving her desk. She’s on her way to the ladies’ room where she can lock herself in a stall and give this conversation a modicum of privacy. You try to tell her you’re sorry. You’ve done this before, too many times to even count. Of course you have, you’re such a piece of shit all you ever do is keep piling your goddamn mess onto other people when they don’t deserve it other people don’t deserve it you don’t—she’s shushing you now, talking over you. You try to tell her you’re sorry, but it’s not like she would listen if you succeeded. She’s done this before too. She knows what a fucking pitiful excuse for an adult you are, and she must be a fucking saint or some shit because every time, every time without fail, she gives you what you need.

She keeps talking as she enters the restroom, tells you what she’s doing as she checks for feet under the three stall doors, locks herself in one of them with a faint scrap and click of a cheap latch, and settles herself in on the toilet tank, feet braced on the seat. You know what her constant chatter is trying to do for you, and it would succeed, if gravity was working and you were still on the floor. You’re not. Your severed parts are all floating off in various directions, arms, legs, disconnected, your guts sprawl along the ceiling, your head spins and your stomach turns at the sight of it all. Her words are thread and needles and the little plastic weights that keep party balloons from drifting off. She asks questions you can’t verbally answer. What do you see? Your own hands, shaking like they’re phasing into another fucking dimension. What do you hear? Your own stuttering breath at the end of a very long hallway. What do you feel? That one of you needs to vacuum the carpet soon. What do you smell? The stagnant air of home. What do you taste? Blood, from where you bit down on your lips and tongue trying not to scream.

With each word, each sense remembered, you are tugged back in, patchwork-style, and then suddenly you resemble a person again, curled upon the floor, and your breath comes in easing pants as the wires around your chest are unwound. You still see yourself from the ceiling because your body’s too treacherous to inhabit right now, and you still look like the grossest thing ever, but, it’s an improvement. You watch yourself sit up, slowly, still reeling from the shock of being torn apart. The gaps in your body have been filled with void and ice, but your limbs all listen when you speak. Small victories.

Your roommate is still there on the other end of the line. She’s breathing steadily, and she tells you to try and match her, and her voice sounds like the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard in your entire life. You thank her hoarsely, and there’s a faint not-laugh at the other end of the line as she shrugs it off and you can imagine, perfectly, what she must look like right now, the concerned turn of her lips, the way she presses the phone up to her ear with the crook of her shoulder while her hands tuck themselves into the opposite sleeves of her dry-clean-only jacket. Her name is Rosie-Joy, and her hair is soft sleek black and tucked back behind one ear, and her eyes are the color of M&Ms with the shells chipped off and dipped pastel with concern. Except, she’s really RJ, and her natural tone of voice is a scream and her hands are covered in calluses from pole dance competitions and she has the sophomoric sense of humor of a shitpost blog. You can tell it’s taking a concentrated effort on her part to keep her tone gentle as she prompts, “You alright there, Twinkie?”

You are not a Twinkie. You’re like the least Twinkie thing you can think of. You’re a six foot four ginger who looks like he’s been sunbathing under a colander and you can bench press either of your two boyfriends (ex-boyfriends). It’s a shitty nickname and you’ve never found the motivation in your heart to give a damn. You tell her yes. Your voice sounds like a dried-up rubber band about to pop.

“You been like this since we left?” She asks. You shrug, not that she can see, and ask the time. She tells you and holy shit, holy shit you are late for work. Are they going to fire you for this? They’re totally going to fire you for this. This isn’t the first time you’ve been a no-show and they’ve given you warning after warning and holy shit you are doomed. How the fuck do you even freak out for that long? Panic attacks aren’t supposed to last more than, like, ten minutes. You know that. You remember the first time this happened and your boyfriends (ex-boyfriends) were running up your data trying to google what the fuck to do with you. You remember they mentioned the ten minute thing, when it was all over and you lay like a wrung dishrag in their arms, as if that would help.

“You want me to call your boss and tell her you’re sick?” Her voice is delicate, and cautious, and prodding, like you were an explosive and she had to snip just the right wire or you’d self-destruct. That metaphor is actually pretty close to the truth and holy shit do you hate it you hate this you’re explosive destructive toxic you shouldn’t be here she shouldn’t have to deal with this—

“Hey, hey, shh, Twinkie, babydoll, don’t, don’t go off on me again…”

You wish she were here. Your body aches for contact and you want her to be here, with her arms around you like garden shears nipping away the cancerous bud of fear before it spreads again, with her rough hands in your hair stroking down the cowlicks and reminding you where your body is. But she’s not here, just her voice, and her voice does work in a pinch. You breathe together, matching inhale for exhale, until you have enough control over your stuttering lungs and scratched vocal cords to mumble another apology.

“Jesus H. Christ, Twinkie, stop it already. I told you, it’s fine. It’s really, really fine. You’re fine. Alright?”

Her voice is sharper now, a bluntness you’re familiar with. It scared you at first, the way every comment she pointed your way seemed particularly acidic. You thought she was angry, at everything, at you in particular, because that’s what you were used to and shit you were like not even 18 and fresh out of the house for the first time and you hadn’t yet learned to turn off the constant red alert in your brain. You kept your mouth wired shut and your step light around her, because you knew that’s how you could stay safe, but once she realized what she was putting you through—and that was a hell of a mutual guilt trip right there—she instantly backed off. You could see the loving struggle every time she spoke to you to monitor her natural tone and pitch and take all of your awkward-as-fuck triggers into account. So in response you struggled to not be quite so handle-with-care and to take her impersonal abrasion in stride. Eventually after enough mutual struggling you reached this sort of equilibrium where she could scream without you breaking and you could break without her screaming, and now here you were, connected by love and AT&T.

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“You should get some water or something,” she directs. “And, like, maybe get yourself onto the couch or something. You’re still on the floor, aren’t you? Get off the floor already, that’s not sanitary.”

You watch yourself sit uncooperatively on the carpet, and you can hear her static-laden sigh over the phone, like she knows full well you’re not going to take care of yourself, like that fact’s already printed in the books and it’s outside the budget to put a copy editor to fix it.

“Do you… like, want to talk?” she prompts after a while. You hate yourself for how strained her voice sounds, the catch of frustration, of tears that want to prick in her eyes but that she’s not even going to acknowledge in any way, shape, or form because she’s not going to be the one who craps out on you. “Like, uh… vent a little or something. What happened this time?”

This time. Fuck, you’re the worst, and you say so by way of explanation.

“That’s not a reason and you damn well know it.”

Yeah, you damn well know it, but honesty isn’t really what you’re known for.

“Is… is it the breakup? Is it something with why your boyfriends dumped you?”

Harsh much?

“Ugh, fuck, sorry, I’m sorry… but, like, is it? Talk to me, babydoll, please, you’re kind of freaking me out…”

It’s not. Of course it’s not. They didn’t dump you. Why would they? They were the kindest, most supportive, most… just, no words. They were fucking saints on Earth, like angels, like RJ, who looked at you all toxic and aching and said, this is a person I can love. No, you were the one who left. You had to. It was for the best. You could see the stress lines that started to crease their foreheads whenever they took you out, their anxious glances and stilted talk like you were tissue paper they were porting through a storm. You could see the mounting frustration and hurt that grew and grew in their eyes every time you lied, because of course you lied, you’re a cagey asshole and you never learned how not to. You had to leave. It was for their own safety, a choice made after the more level-headed of the two finally broke down and admitted with the shimmer of tears in his eyes that your constant everything was wearing him threadbare, a choice made after the other of the pair who was just so innocent so optimistic laid his hand all gentle on your shoulder and tried to coax you out when you’d gone into your shell because the world was just too much and you just you just reacted and you screamed at him not to fucking touch you and shoved him away like actually shoved and—

God. God. You fucking monster.

Incidentally, you tried to break up with RJ too after all of that, because there’s no way in hell she should be subjected to your existence either, but given the current situation it’s safe to say that went over like a left-wing bill in a right-wing Congress.

You’re exhausted by the explanation and you haven’t even started, but her silence is expectant and you think her voice is going to rise if you give a crap answer again so you admit, yes, it’s something with the breakup, and maybe you’ll tell her tonight, when her arms can be there to hold you together when you do your inevitable china-in-a-bull-shop impersonation.

She breathes in a way you think sounds a bit like a sigh that got the air drained out of its tires halfway through, but she takes it. She gives a quiet “alright,” and then you just hold the line together for a while. A long while, you think, but you don’t mind a bit. You’re both breathing metronome with each other and while you still don’t feel like it’s you who’s operating your lungs right now it helps.

Finally she says, in a tone brittle with something like regret but not quite, “I… need to get going. I’ve got a meeting in ten. Are… are you gonna hold up over there?”

You tell her yeah, sure, of course. You honestly don’t know for sure, and you know she can sense that.

“It’s not like a long meeting. Like, I should be out in half an hour. You can call me if you still need me.” You won’t call. You’re not going to disturb her again like this. “Sweetheart, I promise you, it’s no trouble, just give me a ring, whatever you need. Here, look, I’ll drop a line to your boss and everything. Want me to come home for lunch? I can come home for lunch.” Lunch is barely on your register right now. “Just… call me please. If you need, like, anything else, I’m serious, just in half an hour, okay? I’m…” There’s a hitch to her voice, and it kills you a little inside. “I’m… I’m sorry I can’t do more. Um, bye for now.”

The line doesn’t go dead until you say goodbye back, and then silence settles down like ashes.

The slant of sunlight in your lap has drifted upwards, and lays against your belly. You watch your fingers sift through it, stirring up the dust motes caught in its floodlight stare, and try to pretend they’re not still shaking. Isn’t this supposed to be over by now? Panic attacks last ten minutes. Ten minutes, and then you’re supposed to be back in your body, and you’re supposed to be okay again, and your hands aren’t supposed to be shaking why are they still shaking why can’t you breathe properly still why—

You know why, of course. This is what rock bottom looks like, the crunch of the camel’s back breaking under the final straw. You let yourself wallow in your own slop for years, and now, this, this chilly Tuesday morning spent chained to the floor watching yourself not even struggle to stand, this is the point at which you can no longer bear it.

There’s an inkling in the back of your mind, of what you need to do, what you know full well you need to do to break out. Two inklings really, but the second one is fucking terrifying and you don’t really want to go that far. The first one is scary too, but a little less so, and there’s this strange sense of inevitability to it, like you knew this was what you needed to do since the night you screamed at and hurt someone you loved and realized that you were no longer the person you said you were going to be.

All of this, even the panic, it’s just putting off the inevitable.

So with a deep breath, to steel what little you have to steel, you do it.

Your father picks up the phone after five rings, and greets you with a voice that makes your mind flash to a fuckton of things you won’t think about. “Hello?”

You say hello back.

He seems a little startled to hear you. Can’t blame him there; not like you two talk much. As much as you both try to keep your lives separate—you think he’s too disappointed in you to bother, and you’d just as soon never so much as mention him again—you don’t actually live all that far apart now and anyways, there’s always something, some nameless uncomfortable something, that keeps the flimsiest hint of contact alive. You couldn’t explain it if you tried, and you’ve tried a lot.

You try to make awkward small talk, about work, about weather. It goes absolutely nowhere.

“Seeing any girls?” Of course he asks that. You have no idea why your love life is important but he always asks, and then if you say yes then the subject stays on that for like twenty minutes that drag on painfully awkward and way too long. You say no just to keep it all civil.

And then, inevitably, with the disappointment that still rips you up even though you know you’re supposed to be past this. “So you’re still doing that… gay thing then?”

You really, really want to explain, in very pointed language that he’s never listened to once since you got the courage to start using it, that despite the whole gay-rainbow-glitter triad it’s actually a bi thing, or maybe a pan thing, you don’t know, this stuff is hard, but you feel like a fucking train wreck and so you just kind of mumble something and pray the subject gets dropped.

“So what do you need?” Thank God.

You have an excuse and it’s lame but you use it. Something something blah blah science project from second grade you know he doesn’t have. You say it’s in your room and you want it for some reason. You don’t say what reason, because any reason you would give is stupid, because this excuse is stupid, but you’re not in a state to think of a better one. He just kinda goes with it and you’re grateful.

That project came to mind because you remember it well. Not what it was about, obviously, just that somewhere along the line you tipped a whole bottle of Elmer’s glue onto the rug. You remember you panicked. You stretched to the limits of your very finite second grade knowledge and abilities to clean it up before your father got home from work, and saw what you’d done to upset him, and of course you just made it worse because you’re like eight and who the fuck knows how to fix something when they’re eight. And so he got home. And so he saw what you’d done. And so you feel a little sick knowing what came next.

You swallow it back, because there’s a point to it this time damn it, and you ask him, over the little sounds of closet doors being opened and boxes shuffled halfheartedly, if he remembers that incident.

He says he doesn’t.

You remind him again, and something clicks and he laughs a little. The fucker laughs. And there’s a tension to it, like he knows you’re getting at something sticky and that there’s something here to regret and stiffen over but he still laughs, and then he says what he remembers in a quick brush-aside style like when you explain that stain on the rug you’d rather not remember to a curious neighbor stopping by for a drink and you skip over the gory bits and keep it cocktail-friendly and seriously, seriously? You would punch his face in if you were there. You wouldn’t. You’re still a wuss when it comes to him. But the smell of Elmer’s still makes you cringe a little and the fucker has the gall to laugh about it, like there’s no remorse, no regret, no moment even now even years later when he looks in the mirror and realizes what a monster he’s become.

All of that flashes through your head at once, and then suddenly you’re calm. You have what you need now, you know what you needed to know, and everything settles down within you in a way that feels surprisingly anticlimactic.

There’s a resolution to go through, of course. As much as you want to just hang up, you don’t, so you wait for him to tell you he can’t find the MacGuffin in question and make another pass or two at obligatory small talk before you say your goodbyes and tap the end call button.

For long moments you lean back against the wall, and just breathe, and marvel at how it feels for the air to actually enter your lungs, instead of the lungs of some far-off stranger. You push yourself to your feet, and your legs are little Bambi-ish after all that but you’re steady again in a step or two. You flick through your recent calls as you head into the bedroom, and prop the phone up with your shoulder to leave both hands free as you open up the door.

She picks up so quickly that the first ring is cut off neatly in half, and her voice is already wound tight with fresh concern. “Twinkie?”

“Hey RJ.”

“Shit, okay, good…” She laughs in that slightly hysterical way only relief can bring, and it makes you crack a little smile too.

“Sorry, sorry, I thought… You sound a lot better. You feeling better?”

“More or less.” You tell her honestly. “Did you end up calling my boss, or should I?”

“No, no, I did that, you’re good. You have food poisoning though, so don’t go in until tomorrow and maybe look kinda nauseous.”

“Noted.” Since a paycheck is apparently off the table today, you pick up your gym bag from the floor and set it on your messy bedspread. As you speak, you part the two halves of the zippered maw, and shove in your good running shoes, your tee-shirt, your shorts. “So, I just wanted to ask, that lunch offer still good? We could grab Panera or something…”

“You sure?” You can hear the crease of a frown line in her tone. “Sweetie, you don’t have to come out if you can’t manage it, I can come over there, it’s fine.”

“No, no, like for real. I really want their soup right now. And I’m gonna be down there anyway. I’m going to the gym for a while.”

“Gonna bench press those feelings away?”

“More like cardio, but yeah, something like that.”

“Sounds good.” You can tell she’s kind of distrustful of this recovery—to be entirely honest you are too—but before she has a chance to start pressing, you say, “There’s something I wanna talk about too, while we’re there.”

“Yeah, sure thing, what?”

“I…” You swallow down something, pride maybe, and take a breath. You started this, now show some follow-through… “I, okay, um, I think… maybe I should, I dunno…”

You hesitate. These words feel weird on your tongue. You’ve never tried this before. “Uh, could you, like, maybe… help me google a good therapist?”

There’s a long pause on her end, long enough that you pull the phone away from your ear and check that one of you hasn’t hung up. “Shit, Twinkie… did the bodysnatchers come in the last half hour or something?”

“Fuck off, it’s a good idea.”

“I know it is. That’s why I’ve recommended it, like, eighty gazillion times.” She laughs a little, that hysterical relieved laugh again, and you’re smiling even wider because now that it’s all said and settled... something does feel better. Something feels almost right. “But, uh, yeah, sure, of course. Of course I’ll help you. You wanna start looking over lunch?”

“That’s the plan. Though, come to think of it, can you even find therapists via Google? Like is that how you’re supposed to do it?”

“Shit, you’re asking me? I don’t see why not. By the way, do you mind filling me in on what the hell all happened to you this morning? Like, please? You worry me…”

You really don’t want to but, “Yeah, sure.”

You agree on a time for all this, and exchange goodbyes and love-yous, and let her end the call while you tuck your phone back in your pocket and sling your gym bag over your shoulder. You take a moment to refill your water bottle and verify your keys haven’t wandered off to Narnia.

And you only flinch a little when you open up the front door, and cross the threshold, and remember to lock up behind you.

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