Mom. Dad. Sister. Emma. Grace. Bethany. Kids.
In my head, I repeat the list, inhaling slowly with one name, exhaling with the next. I roll the names around, separating them into groups.
Family. Roommates. Mentor. Mentees.
I feel my arms, still shaking next to me as I lay in the bed that is too soft, wrapped in the blankets that are too warm. My left wrist stings, reminding me of my reality. A dog paws at my arm, and I am reminded to add her to the list - my actions impact her too, after all.
Mom. Dad. Sister. Emma. Grace. Bethany. Kids. Priscilla.
Eventually, the rhythmic repetition of my list lulls me to sleep, where I finally find a bit of peace.
The peace never lasts long; three hours maybe. It is broken by the jarring tone of my 8 a.m. alarm.
I am not the only one who hates this sound. I hear Emma groan from the next room. At least she can go back to sleep I think, rising from the bed slowly, so as not to strain my muscles. They are still tense from last night’s compulsive shaking.
Three hours sleep was not enough to clear my head of emotion. I add the white little pill prescribed for such instances to my morning routine and practice my smile as I adjust a scrunchy to cover my left wrist.
The pill bottle’s rattle is too quiet today as I set it down on the cluttered bathroom counter. Almost empty. No more refills.
Damn.
Soon I will have to find a new way to drown the thoughts. Before March it was easy. I was too busy to think. Consumed with class, friends, jobs, volunteering, traveling - there was no room for this emotion to take place in my head. Before March, everything was easy; everything was moving. Now, the world stands still, and it is my mind that is allowed to race.
***
Today the boy has been asked to build a boat, one that will float and hold things. The girl must design costumes for the play she is studying. Both should be fun. Both are fun, for the kids.
“I want my boat to be able to hold all my legos,” he says.
I put on my practiced smile and give a slight laugh. “We’ll need a much bigger box,” I reply.
“And my football too!” he exclaims. I force a laugh again and don’t mention that the football would float without the help of a boat.
Together, we build a boat that holds over 50 pounds.
“A little engineer,” I say, and this brings a small but real smile to everyone’s face, including my own.
The day goes on. We eat lunch. We play Minecraft. I excuse myself to the bathroom to cry. We play catch.
***
The days repeat like this, marked by small events.
Wake up, take a pill. Adjust the scrunchy, practice the smile. Six hours entertaining children, filled with forced laughter and an unnatural amount of bathroom breaks. Come home. Try to hold on until the next morning. Repeat my list.
First, the pills run out. This makes the smiles harder to fake.
Then, I graduate. There is no celebration for this supposed accomplishment. The only change is no more classes. One less thing to fill my time with.
Next, the kids are out for summer break. We are forced to come up with things to fill our time, confined in this house. We take up baking. I add weight to my reasons to cry at night.
The days become hot, sweltering really, and yet we force walks as an excuse to get out of the house. The kids become more restless. Camp is canceled, their birthday parties are held on Zoom. They ask to play catch with the neighbors, to visit the store, to see their friends. The answer is always the same, and I feel worse saying it than they do hearing it. I want these things too; to be able to fill my time with things other than board games and baking and crying.
Graduate school starts. I learn that I can’t even cope through avoidance anymore. Covid has taken that too. I cry through my zoom classes, which I attend in that too soft bed, wrapped in those too warm blankets. I hide my face behind my glasses and a cup of tea, hoping no one notices anything is amiss.
***
October comes. On the 11th day, I turn 23. To celebrate, we break the rules. My list, which I have laid awake repeating to myself alone for so many nights, comes together. Not all of them, but enough.
We gather in San Antonio. I sit with these people on a stiff grey couch with a bubbly drink in my hand and I listen to them laugh. Priscilla stretches out on the floor of this stranger’s house that we rent, as if she has already made it her own. I watch my list smile at each other.
I push down my wooly left sleeve to make sure it covers my wrist. We play games that involve cards and drinking. We laugh. As the night passes, I find that I am no longer faking my smile. This realization brings me back to reality all too quickly.
Everything in me knows that this moment, like all moments, is doomed to end. I am reminded that these people will simply turn back into a list, repeated nightly, as we all return to our quarantine corners. I am reminded that tomorrow, when I am back in that too soft bed, wrapped in those blankets that are too warm, the world will stand still again, and my mind will begin to race.
I want to not want to die.
The laughter comes to a screeching halt.
I’ve said that out loud.
The air feels ice cold as my list stares back at me. I begin to reach for a blanket. Before I can wrap it around me, something else engulfs me in warmth.
Arms.
Friends.
Love.
A support that brings contentment, a feeling that I allow myself to think may last.
I want help. I need help.
I get help.
***
A selfish part of me is grateful for this experience; these months where I had no distractions; these months where the world stood still and my mind was allowed to race.
On Monday mornings, after I have spoken to Melody, I sit in my bed that is no longer too soft, wrapped in blankets that are no longer too warm. In these moments I forget the tragedies that COVID has brought to so many people. Instead, I think of how lucky I am for the lesson it has brought me. It taught me to stand still. It taught me that sometimes your mind needs to be the one doing the moving.
In these moments I am selfish; I am grateful.
