Chapter Thirty-Four: "Can You Please Show Me Your Degree That Proves You're Actually Smart?"
IN THE END, I WAS RIGHT.
I barged out through the cafeteria doors and booked it for the closest door, which happened to be the gym, and went into the storage room where all the gym and fitness gear was and had a severe panic attack.
While memories flooded my eyes and clouded my mind, I tried my hardest to keep conscious but fight against the recollections of my past coming into my head. They were always there, but if I focused on something hard enough, I'd forget them briefly until I was alone again.
There's no doubt in my mind now that I'll be having insomnia for the next while.
The more the nostalgia clouds my mind, the less I fight against the urge to just knock myself out right now to shorten the pain. Not to mention that my forty minutes of heavy, laboured breathing and constant sweating and hyperventilating has tired me to the core.
I allow myself pass out.
***
I awake to a loud buzzing noise and a severe migraine.
I try to open my eyes, but I'm immediately blinded by a bright light instead of the darkness I hoped was still the equipment room, and groan.
Where the hell am I?
Slowly prying my heavy eyelids open, I flutter them more to correct my vision and see that I'm in the nurse's office. I grab my phone that I stuffed into my bra and see that it's 2:32 p.m., and it was the bell to go home that woke me up.
There's no way I'm going back on the bus, so I'm just going to walk to therapy. With my current state, it'll take me a while to get there anyway.
I shuffle off the bed, which is more comfortable than mine, sadly, and look around to see any sign of the nurse. I don't, and take that as my moment to escape.
Holding my head, I walk through the halls tiredly to my locker to grab my stuff. I notice some of my friends, and Atticus with them, but I ignore their gazes and slip past them silently. I feel a hard glare at my back, but I brush it off.
I numbly twist in my combination and grab my belongings and my chemistry book, knowing that once I get back to the residence then I'll have to study my butt off.
I sling my bag over my shoulders and grab out my headphones and phone, knowing it'll be a long walk.
Putting on my 'angry and sad' playlist, consisting of rock and sad music, I plug in an earbud, and put on I Prevail's Already Dead.
"Brooklyn!"
I immediately put in the second headphone, pretending I never heard them, and put the song on full blast, fully aware that I may damage my eardrums.
I'm suddenly spun around, and my right headphone is ripped out of my ear. I turn the volume down.
"Let me drive you home."
"No." I say, and snatch my arm out of his grip, turning back around and continuing to the side doors where I'll continue my long walk of remorse.
"Come on, don't be so stubborn." He says, and I laugh, putting in my earbud again and turning it full blast. It's ripped out again. "Brooklyn!"
"Save it for your pillow." I snap.
When I walk away, I turn and see Liam frowning, and I move my gaze to where I feel a hard glare and yep, it's Atticus.
Atticus the Asshole.
I still can't believe he's mad at me for standing up for Carly. I mean, someone had to stand up to Annabelle and Mary and their preppy group and show them that people aren't just bugs you can trample around and squash whenever you please.
I had perfectly good reason to do what I did, and he's being a dick about it. It's people like him I avoid, and now I know why he's in the popular social group and hasn't gotten booted yet for hanging with, as he likes to call us, 'outcasts.' He's just like one of them: inconsiderate, hot, selfish, and can't stand his own ground against his own people for those he cares about.
Can't tell me else wise, because I watched him display all four of those attributes when we walked back to our table all those hours ago.
Wait, had I really been asleep that long?
I really need to talk to Ella about getting me a new bed.
About an hour later, I arrive at the therapy office. A half hour early, I decide to waste time by scrolling through random apps on my phone.
When the time comes, I pop into the room and see Dr. Boise sitting on her chair, a clipboard on her lap. She notices my presence, and a smile forms on her face. "Hello, Brooklyn."
"Hey." I greet, taking a seat on the long couch.
"How are you?" She asks.
"I have been. . ." I trail, finding to find my emotions. How am I? I'm mad, exhausted mentally and physically, and I really just want to crawl into a hole, burying myself deep enough where human interaction is nonexistent, and I want to cry, then fall into a never-ending sleep. "I have been a lot better."
"So not much of an improvement since our last visit," she sighs. "But that's okay. It'll take time."
"Speaking of which," I sigh, "I don't think it's going to happen as soon as you think."
"Doubt is normal, Brooklyn, you'llâ"
"No, not that." I interrupt. "I'm, like, really messed up in the head right now, and things for me were getting better, but now they're even more worse than when I first arrived here."
"Change can do that. Especially without your parents with you, you're alone. You're living with people who discomfort you, and you feel sad about not being at home. It takes time to adjust. If you would open up more, some will be more prone to understanding."
"I'm sorry, but can you please show me your degree that proves you're actually smart? Because for the past four sessions, you've given me the same advice I can get from Facebook. It's ridiculous, and I'd rather go to a psychiatric hospital than hear something that I've heard thousands of times."
She's silent for a minute, absorbing my rant. I was snooty to her the first couple times, but not mean like I am now. She's actually a really good doctor, maybe better than my doctor back home, but she doesn't need to know that.
I'm a confused, broken and healing, mentally unstable girl who just needs help but can't find the right person to do it. I lost my parents, pretty much, and my dad was the only person who could help fully calm me down, but he's not talking to me. How I see it, is that everyone I come across seems to be either a betrayer, asshole, or a trigger. And the last thing I want is to relapse. . . though, I may be already doing it.
I feel my depression getting worse, now that Atticus confirmed all those words; I have more anxiety attacks, I'm restless, and I cry at least three times a day. I doubt everything now and I just want to sleep, but it's impossible for me.
I just want to go home.
"Brooklyn?"
I snap my head to her, clearing my thoughts. She looks at me expectantly, and I think she just asked me a question.
Wait, was my name the question?
"I'm sorry, can you repeat the question?" I ask.
She narrows her eyes as if trying to figure out what's going through my mind, and I shift uncomfortably. "I asked what happened since Thursday."
"Oh." I huff. "Um, lots of stuff."
"Like what?" She asks, twirling her pencil around her fingers, getting ready to write stuff down.
"Um. . . well, one of our foals died during labour Saturday afternoon. Actually, I seen it all, and it was. . . awful. Landon said that he wouldn't have survived long, if at all, anyway."
"Sorry, who is Landon again?" She furrows her eyebrows. "The name sounds familiar but I can't make connections."
"The boy who brought me here last week." I explain. "He's my housemate."
"Oh, right, the boyfriend." She nods, remembering him.
"N-no," I say, "not my boyfriend. Housemate."
She clicks her tongue. "Okay, and what else? As much as a horse dying is saddening, I'm sure it couldn't have made you this upset."
"It was. . . I was alone while it happened. She was in so much pain." I mumble, and start to feel my eyes well up with tears. "It was heartbreaking. There was so much blood."
"And how were you feeling?" She asks softly. "During that time."
"At first, I was confused, since all the animals were fine just minutes before, but then I saw that it was a mare, and that she was the one who shouldn't have been in labour that early; three weeks early. So, when I seen her, I was worried. Then the blood. . . God, there was so much blood, I thought I was too late. She was crying, and it was heartbreaking.
"Then I was scared. Scared for her because I couldn't help her, and nobody was home to deliver it. I was panicking after, because there was a leg that came out and wouldn't come out more, so I tugged and my hand got stuck inside her. I was angry at myself for not being able to do anything to help her. No epinephrine she could run off of; nothing to help with the pain at all. No morphine, no sedatives, which meant I couldn't even do an emergency caesarean.
"Finally one of the boys came home and helped me. I wasn't there to see what he did; he sent me inside after seeing that I was covered head to toe in uterus blood, and I just got done having another panic attack. I had a couple that day. I remember sitting on my bed, thinking about what I could have done differently to prevent her from being that way, but nothing popped up. He came inside over an hour later, and he was sad. Something happened, and I wasn't there to help him; to be there for him."
"And then what?" She asks, scribbling down some words.
"We comforted each other for a while before he cooked dinner. Everything went back to normal after that." I say softly, staring into space while I recall everything that happened this weekend.
"What else happened?" She presses further. "What has made you feel lost and betrayed?"
I look up at her when she said 'betrayed.' How did she know? I figured that my emotions were pretty hard to read but should she be right?
No, I scoff to myself, she's a shrink. She'd know whether it was true or not.
"Nothing." I say, not wanting to remember.
"There's always something, Brooklyn." She says softly. "What happened?"
"It's just a guy," I laugh. "He's nothing."
"He's taken a toll on you, it can't be nothing." She explains.
"It's none of your business," I mumble.
"If you want to leave my office at some point in your life, you'll need to start opening up to me, dear. Talking helps."
"Don't call me dear." I warn. "Second, my therapist from home said the exact same thing, and two years later and I'm in the same position."
"Progress," Boise says. "It's not just going to get better at the snap of a finger. It takes time to trust people, and I understand it's hard for you, I do. But truthfully, the sooner you open up, the sooner you'll get out of here. I don't want you in my office for the rest of your life, Brooklyn, and I don't mean that in a bad way."
"Sure." I mumble simply. "Time. Time can be shoved up your ass and shat out your mouth. 'Time' my ass."
"English, please."
"Oh, aren't you just an angel." I lip.
"Okay, so I don't think this is going to work," she sighs in defeat.
Really? I had no idea!
"It's time to try another method." She adds. "Follow me."
My eyes widen.
Okay, maybe I can make the other thing work out.
***
"You're, like, really late." One of the twins says once I come inside the house.
I'm usually home around five thirty-six from a taxi after therapy, and it's now eight.
Dr. Boise kept me hostage an hour and a half over when our session was supposed to end, and she decided to take her sweet time given that I was her last patient on Monday's.
I was mad.
"I know." I sigh tiredly.
"Where have you been? I haven't seen you since lunch, you weren't in class and you weren't on the bus." He comments, and I nod slowly.
"Out. I had to do something." I say, not wanting to press anything further. I didn't want to explain anything as much as I had to. Today's been rough as hell, and believe it or not, I just want to crash in that uncomfortable bed of mine, and that's meaning something.
"You being sneaky is suspicious, you know." He adds, walking around the island with a glass of orange juice in his hand.
"And I'm sure having a stranger show up on your door step unannounced and was declared your roommate was suspicious as well." I say sarcastically, trudging up the stairs. He follows.
"Are you okay?" He asks suddenly.
I shrug and continue up the stairs.
I collapse on the bed, watching my cast, and sigh in content at the fact I see the doctor again tomorrow about getting it removed. I've had this thing on for eight weeks, and I don't want it on anymore. I think the longer it's on the more driven I am to smash the thing off a cement block. I was done with this plaster three days into having it.
As far as life goes, getting this cast off is the best thing that's ever happened to me within the past few days.
Hopefully, tomorrow will be different, and I'll be better. I mean, sure I'll mope around a couple days, but then I'll be over it like my awful haircut in eighth grade that was from a dare. Because that's how I am: I get comfortable, I'm happy, it backfires and shoots me in the face, I heal, then I'm on my own. The process repeats itself, and for some reason I've taken a harder hit with Atticus than I have before, and trust me.
I've been through this a good seven times. Well, now I guess it's eight.
"You'll be okay," I say to myself. "Because that's who you are. You're Brooklyn Garcia May; you get happy, someone betrays you, then you forget about them, move on, and become independent. It happens every time, you're used to it. Stop getting hurt from people. Stop trying."
And I do.
From this moment on, I'm not here for friends. I'm here strictly for two years until I graduate, and then I'll be going back to the States for college and to get away from here.
No more teenage antics. It's time to grow up.
Watch out, world. Brooklyn May is here, released, and she's going to crush any jackass who decides to get in her path.