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[Friday, July 14, 2023: 5:13 AM]
I'm not a basket-case.
At least, I don't think so.
If four people in your life tell you you are, do you have to believe them? Does that make it true? Or is it possible that they're really the crazy ones. I mean, there's gotta be like at least a 15% chance? ...5%? I'll take whatever odds I can at this point.
Honestly, I kinda suck at journals, but my therapist says this is good for me, so I bought this way-too-expensive, blank book from one of the airport kiosks. Never mind, screw "Doctor" Futska I'm probably already displaying twenty nervous habits just sitting in this airport terminal. I'm tapping my foot, chewing on the eraser of this pencil and—no, the pretzel purchase was NOT a skittish, freaking-the-fuck-out comfort buy...was it? My buttery fingers smudge the page. God bless Auntie Anne's. Except not even a pretzel that great can calm my tumultuous stomach.
Yes, I just wrote the word 'tumultuous'. Whatever they tell you, I'm not a dumb, out-of-control teenager, and I'm not crazy.
...Says the crazy person; I get it. I understand how it sounds. But I was top of my class and head of the swimming team prior to—
Well, I don't want to talk about it, okay? I'd rather this damn plane just comes in. The digital clock on the wall flashes red numbers that don't tick by fast enough. To be honest, they'd probably go by faster if Macy hadn't decided to come.
Yeah, he's the brutish oaf sitting next to me with the thick, dark waves of hair curling into his ears and nearly covering the earbuds he's head bobbing to, and, before you get any ideas otherwise, I love him to death. This would be easier if he wasn't here though. All of it would be. I try to swallow the thickness in my throat and the tears that I refuse to let even creep up in my eyes. I'm stronger than that. We both are.
He doesn't know it—and looks like anyone's kid brother sitting here next to me—but he's the stronger of the two of us. I still can't figure out how he's so relaxed about all this—willingly volunteering to come to a freak-show mental health retreat just because Mom and Dad are making me go. He's lounging in the metal chair, not sitting. He's leaning against the back with his huge, white feet popping out of lifeguard flipflops he bought at the beach last year. His black sweatpants make his wide face look even paler.
I still can't believe he stood up for me to Mom and Dad. The chillest teen in the entire school and he stood up, yelling and pointing a finger at them till they let him come with me.
'Cause he doesn't think I'm crazy.
Which would be great except...except, sometimes, I wonder myself.
I chew on a piece of my pretzel, licking the butter off my fingers—nervous habit #182. Screw you, shit-for-brains inner voice. I wipe my hands on my ripped jeans and get up to dump the rest of my almost-feast in the green trashcan nearby. It's probably better if I don't eat it anyway. I usually get sick on planes.
An intercom buzzes to life, crackling with a woman's smooth and detached voice: "Good afternoon passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for flight 123T to San Diego, California. We are now inviting those passengers with small children, and any passengers requiring special assistance, to begin boarding at this time. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes time. Thank you."
I shove Macy in the arm and he looks up, nearly choking from surprise as he takes out an earbud, "Hey—"
"It's time to board," I tell him, flipping over our tickets to see the star label on the front. "We're priority boarding. Let's get in line."
But I prop this book up in the crook on my arm, against my overstuffed carryon to keep writing as we wait.
Honestly, being priority boarding now is ironic; I've never been priority anything. Not in my whole life. My forehead creases as I try to think back. Nope. I mean, I'm the oldest kid of the two of us—Macy and me—so I guess my parents had to consider me priority when I was the only one but...
But I can't remember any of that just now—
Not again.
The glow distracts me—a familiar glow.
Maybe, if I don't look this time, I won't have to see it. But the neon letters and numbers jumbling in the air are as persistent as ever, pushing in on the corners of my vision till I have to look up and recognize them.
[https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/1102021402707628096/1129086715483664494/Modern_Monogram_Wedding_Badge_Logo_2.jpg]
They float and rotate, bumping into each other, meshing their colorful glows. No. No, I'm not supposed to see this stuff. I'm not crazy.
Book.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Write in the damn book. Make this better.
Hi again. Sorry about...that. It's just something that happens—too often; it's been happening too often lately. Sometimes, I hear music with it. Sometimes, I just see the letters. Sometimes, I hear my name. Oh God, me writing it here isn't supposed to help me—I get it now; I totally see it. I'm just giving the therapist license to explore all my thoughts. I'm literally giving him ammunition to stick me in a crazy ward somewhere. Maybe I'll come up with a code for writing about these moments.
...Or, maybe, I shouldn't write about them at all.
I slam the journal shut, chewing on my bottom lip. I'm not crazy. I'm not.
I feel someone staring at me. My eyes sweep to my right to find them. It's a little boy, holding the hand of a man who's clearly engrossed in his phone. The little boy's staring at me. Legit staring. He shakes his head, mouthing a word:
'No.'
I squint at him. —What?! Is he talking to...me?
But he just shakes his head more fervently: 'No.'
'No' what?! Goosebumps crinkle up my arms and legs, all the way to my neck.
"Mace," I jab my little brother—well, he IS pretty tall, towering over me—"Mace, that kid is staring at me."
He looks distractedly up from his screen, "What?"
But, when I turn to point the boy out, a crowd of passengers lining up have swallowed any sign of him like he was never even there at all.
"Never mind," I tell Macy, swallowing all of the unease turning my stomach sour.
Nerves. It's just fucking nerves. I hate flying. I always get sick...I guess I do need this damn book, after all. I flip open another page as the boarding line starts, haltingly forward. I almost run into a guy with thick-rimmed glasses who's trying to cut the line behind me.
"Watch it!" he yells.
And I scoot back.
Trying to blend.
Trying to feel like my world isn't being completely flipped on its head.
I am such a fucking trainwreck right now.
I write in scripted gel pen.
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[Friday, July 14, 2023: 6:05 AM]
I'm back. We're finally in our plane seats with the weird smell of plastic, carpet and claustrophobia hanging in the air. Our bags are shoved overhead, and Macy's doing a bang-up job lounging threateningly over two seats near the aisle so that, hopefully, we can sit alone. ...Which means I have the window seat. The black tarmac outside looks just as dark as the horizon. Why Mom had to book the fucking 6am flight, I'll never know.
I refuse to put my arms on the worn armrests—God, they look like they've seen way too many passengers. But I'm vaguely aware of static hissing over the plane intercom and the lights flashing for a minute.
Macy elbows me in the arm, "Think it'll be warm there? I hope they have a pool."
I try to smile at him, but it's kind of hard as I struggle to shake loose a few ginger pills from a container I'd packed—for the motion sickness. "Me too," I whisper.
But I turn my head again and look out the plane window and feel my stomach sink as I pick up my pen again.
Macy's so optimistic, but I swear we're flying straight past any sunny California and straight into hell. Mom and Dad were way too excited when I agreed to go. This has to be fucking hell. My summer is ruined.
The plan intercom buzzes to life and a man's voice comes over the speaker:
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Martin, and I’m your chief flight attendant. On behalf of Captain Z and the entire crew, welcome aboard. We're providing non-stop service to San Diego, California. At this time, make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position and that your seat belt is correctly fastened. Also, your portable electronic devices must be set to ‘airplane’ mode until an announcement is made upon arrival. Thank you. ...Cabin Crew, doors on automatic, cross-check and report.”
I lean my head against the back of the seat, taking a shaking breath in.
I hate this part—the part where everything takes off. On second thought, I grab for the edges of the handrests as they start the safety lecture I desperately don't want to listen to—who needs an extra dose of fear at this stage in the game?
"Hey—chill out," Macy reaches a reassuring hand out and places it on my white-knuckled one. His smile is so warm, "Everything's gonna be okay."
And I hope he's right. But I have this feeling...
Something hisses at the front of the plane.
A door lock? It sounds like forced air.
"Please tell me that's a normal sound," I whimper. Can't I stop being such a whimpy girl?
Mace cranes his neck to look, but it doesn't seem like he can see much. "Probably just them shutting the door," he tell me.
Right.
Shutting the door.
That's normal.
I try to still my hammering heart.
Writing. I'm supposed to write my fears down to help calm me—so I can see they're stupid and trivial:
My fears:
1) The plane going down and landing in a fiery crash.
2) The plane going down and me, somehow, surviving and being stranded somewhere like the middle of the ocean.
3) This stupid mental health retreat.
4)
"God, Lorrell, I am so sleepy," Macy drawls, lowering his huge head onto his hand.
...Jeez, I am too. My eyes feel so hard to keep open. The page blurs a little as I try to finish my thought—
4)...
I never finish #4. But I have every right to be scared of #1-3. Who knew that in 24 hours, I was going to have to face them all?