by Halli Gomez
He took me off melatonin, and my naps were replaced with putting together puzzles of cities I’d assumed I’d never see in person but still found myself interested in. If this whole future thing worked out.
When I told that to Dr. Gannon, he smiled. I doubt that’s what influenced him, but on April 4, he told me this would be our last session here. I was going home.
My neck twitched. It was out of control. My face scrunched up. Good stress or bad stress? I wasn’t sure.
“I’m happy with your current doses of clonidine and Lexapro,” he said. “And, except for this brief tic explosion, I feel you are too.”
“Yeah, it’s fine.” I said between face scrunches. “I’m not as tired as I was.”
“Good. We’ll keep monitoring it and change it if we have to. So, how do you feel about going home and back to school?”
School? And face Khory?
I shrugged, then stared at my lap. “I didn’t tell my girl—ex-girlfriend I was coming here. She probably thinks I’m dead.”
“Well, I’m not going to tell her. You need to start speaking up for yourself. If something hurts, say so. If there’s something you love, say that, too.” He reached down beside him, picked up a piece of paper and a pen, and handed them to me. “Let’s make a list. Things you’re going to do to help with the Tourette, OCD, and anxiety. What do you think you should call it?”
I tapped the pen against my leg and thought about my other list. The one where I chose death over life because I had no choice. Now I had options.
I wrote the word OPTIONS in capital letters on the top.
“Good title,” Dr. Gannon said.
And together we came up with four:
1. Adjusted medication
2. Chiropractor for pain
3. Therapy with Dr. Gannon
4. Visualization techniques
I chose two. The empty warehouse and the feeling of weightlessness. I already felt ahead in this game.
APRIL 6
My decision to live came with requirements. I thought my parents would be happy I chose life and give me a little breathing room, but that’s exactly what they did not do. Mom decided to stay in Richmond a little while to help babysit me. I was cranky about it, but the alternative was more time at the hospital for mentally unstable and at-risk kids. I wasn’t sure which category I fell into.
That was the first requirement: twenty-four-hour supervision. I wondered who had the overnight shift and would watch me sleep.
When I got home from the hospital Saturday morning, I noticed the knives were gone, the box of cold medicines and aspirins wasn’t in the hall closet, and if I had to guess, the gun had disappeared, too.
To show good faith, I dug out the pills I’d hidden in the bathroom drawer and took the scissors from under my mattress. I handed them to Dad.
“Thank you,” he whispered, then walked away with his head down.
It wasn’t a surprise the second requirement was that he would dispense my medicine.
And onto the third: Dad would drive me to school every day, and Mom would pick me up. They weren’t kidding about the babysitter thing, but honestly, I was happy to be off the bus. Or more accurately, not to have to walk down the aisle.
Monday morning, Dad pulled into the carpool line, I got out and turned toward the school. Apparently I left one prison for another. I glanced around for staring kids who might make a smart-ass comment about me getting out of a police car, like the ones in elementary school, but no one seemed to care. Probably because it was the butt crack of dawn and no one was awake yet.
“Your mom will pick you up after school,” Dad said.
Like I forgot. “Okay,” I answered. Like I had any other choice.
“Hopefully you and your mom will get to know each other better.”
That would be one positive outcome of all this. I nodded, closed the car door, and began the ten-count-bend-down to my locker. Another positive fact was that it only took me eight ten-counts to get there from the carpool lane. It was ten rounds from the bus lot. I made a mental note to write these down. Apparently my OCD didn’t just involve the number ten, but lists as well.
I scanned the hallways for Khory. I didn’t call her when I got out of the hospital but probably should have sent her a text: “Hey, it’s me, I’m alive.” After that big reveal, though, I was stumped. I’d done so many things to her; a simple sorry wouldn’t cut it. How does someone apologize for lying to their girlfriend’s face about suicide and then expect forgiveness?
I opened my locker and dug out my books for B day. My neck twitched faster, and my hands squeezed tighter. I had until the afternoon to figure out what to say. I closed my locker, and the smell of coconut surrounded me. I turned around.
Khory stood in front of me with tears in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my chest. The smell of her hair made me weak. Funny, but I considered that a positive thing. Man, I was on a roll this morning. I hugged her. She pushed me back and crossed her arms.
“I know you went to your mom’s.”
I nodded.
She studied my face. Was she looking for the rest of the story? Or forgiveness? Happiness? A renewed sense of loving life, not that I’d ever had one? I still wasn’t one hundred percent sure what I felt or what my face would show.
“I’m sorry I told my parents and your dad about the list. I was so worried.” Tears trickled down her cheeks.
“It’s okay. Really.”
It wasn’t a lie. I wasn’t mad at her for trying to avoid having another dead person haunting her life. I told myself I wouldn’t lie about this anymore, but I prayed she wouldn’t ask if I’d given up the whole suicide idea.
I was only sixteen, and with medical advancements these days, I could easily have lived to be ninety—older if I had genes like Mrs. Blackwood. So at least seventy-four years of neck twitches, hand squeezes, and strange looks, which was the reason for the fourth requirement: I had to see a psychiatrist.
I took a chance, leaned in, and kissed her. Partly to taste the strawberry lip gloss, but mostly so that she couldn’t read something I wasn’t sure I could explain.
“I’m happy to see you,” I said.
The bell rang. We broke apart to head to our first class. Khory dug in her backpack and handed me an envelope.
“Here. Let me know what you think.” Then she walked into Language Arts.
I made my way to Visual Tech, leaned against the hallway wall, and stared at the envelope. I thought it might be a breakup letter, but she kissed me earlier, so maybe it was a love note. Plus, breakup would be by text. I opened the envelope and took out the letter.
Dear Judge,
Steven Wesley killed my sister, Krista Lauren Price. I know. I was there. People say I was lucky to survive, but since that day my life, and my parents’, have been filled with fear and heartbreak. I’ll never get my sister back, and I miss her every day.
I can’t begin to imagine why someone would do what this man did to her, and for a long time I was so angry, the only thing I thought could make it right was for him to die. But now I truly believe that everyone on this planet has something to give. Something positive. At one point in his life, Mr. Wesley was a teacher. He could use the time in prison to teach others to read, or write, or do math. If there isn’t anything productive he can share with others, he can do his part by being on trash or bathroom-cleaning duty so others can be free to develop skills and become functioning members of society.
With this letter, I am asking you to spare his life and not give him the death penalty. Everyone has a purpose. They just have to find out what it is.
Sincerely,
Khory Lynn Price
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once again Khory proved how brave she was. If she thought the guy had a purpose, imagine how far she thought I would go. Did I have the right to waste it?
I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope when Jay caught up to me.
�
��Hey, dude, my bus was late. Sucks not to have a car.” He smiled and threw up his hands. “Did you see your mom? How did it go?”
“It went okay. She came back with me. Make up for lost time kind of thing.” I shrugged. He didn’t need to know her real purpose.
“Cool. Gotta go. See you at lunch.”
Then he was off at a pace I’d never be able to keep up with.
Friends. I had to add that to my new list. I took out my phone and opened to the note section. My original List of Ten pulled me down like gravity. Today was April 6, the tenth anniversary of my diagnosis. And like I planned, it was the death of something: my old life. Just not as final as I originally envisioned. I took a deep breath and clicked on the trash can. Already I felt lighter.
Then I started a new list.
1. Get to know Mom better
2. Only eight rounds of ten from the carpool lane to my locker
3. Friends (Khory, Jay, Diego, Rainn)
I didn’t expect to have a lot, but really, how many people could you hang out with at one time? The more friends, the more drama. Then you had to add things like birthdays, and if you stayed in touch, you’d have to know their wives’, husbands’, and kids’ birthdays, too. I smiled. There I was, thinking about the future again.
Author’s Note
When I was eight-years-old, I told my mom I wanted to die.
That was the year my life changed. Diagnoses, doctors, and medications became a regular part of life. We learned what Tourette syndrome was, experimented with medications, and participated in a study.
But having a name for what was happening to me didn’t make things better. If anything, they got worse. I learned this disorder would never go away. No one else I knew had it, or at that time, in the 1970’s, had ever heard of it. In fact, people didn’t care what it was called, only that you acted strange and scary, and they were afraid of you invading their personal space. I spent a lot of time hiding in my room back then, getting lost in other people’s stories.
I’m not going to lie and say I learned to adjust quickly. I thought about ending my life many times throughout my childhood. It took me a long time to get to the place where I am at today. Maybe because I didn’t have the resources we do now, or books written about people like me.
I don’t want anyone to think growing up was entirely miserable. I had friends, we roller skated, made up dances, and swam. Many people stood next to me, encouraged me, and counseled me throughout the years. And still do. I’ve come a long way. Do I still hate having Tourette syndrome? Absolutely. Do I let it hold me back? Absolutely not.
I’m happily married (28 years when you’re reading this.) We have two children and two dogs. My life has been filled with careers that I love. I have no top-secret explanation as to how this happened, except possibly hope and love. From others and myself.
What compelled me to write this book? I get asked this question often, and there are several answers. To let those who have neurological disorders, or are contemplating suicide, know they are not alone. I am here. I understand. I’m living it. No one can really understand unless they are members of this group.
It is also to help others see us. The words in this book are bold and blatant. I don’t sugarcoat anything for a reason. If we act like we’re happy when we’re not, or if we allow people to treat us poorly, we are not doing our part to make our lives, and those of others, better.
I’m writing this in 2020, and if this year has proven anything, it’s that we must look beyond the mirror.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Like Troy, I am obsessed with lists. So naturally I have one for the people who helped make this possible.
1. Deborah Warren you are an extraordinary agent and an extraordinary person. The day we met at the SCBWI Carolinas conference changed my life and not because you loved this story. Your kind and encouraging words made me believe this dream could come true.
2. Suzy Capozzi, my editor and story champion. My last big outing before the world changed was to New York where we met face-to-face. You shared your visions for Troy’s story and I knew it had found the perfect home. I am truly grateful for the way you took care of us both.
3. Thank you to the entire team at Sterling—editorial, marketing, library marketing, sales, and designers—who got behind this novel made it the best it could be. Kalista Johnson, you identified my comma problems (too many and too few) thank you for helping me clean it up. Elizabeth Mihaltse Lindy, you clearly understood this story and it shows in your design of this stunning cover. Blanca Oliviery, thank you for answering all my questions, and letting me know if I was going in the right direction. Go Team Khory!
4. Rebecca J. Allen, Richelle Morgan, Michelle Leonard, Julie Arts, Jessica Vitalis, and Kate Manning. The most talented group of writers. I gave you a manuscript that was extremely personal and asked for your honest opinions. It is because of your honesty and encouragement that we are here today.
5. Helen Segel. My first reader. Number one fan. Mom. So here we are, career number three. I had my doubts, but you knew I could do it. Knowing you had such confidence in me made me want to give it all I had. And guess what? I have a book!
6. Barry, Danny, Debbie, Joanne, Julianne, Karen, Kelly, Mike, Neal, Phil, Rita, and Suzie. Writing a book isn’t just about having an idea and learning the craft. A book is like a child and we know it takes a community to raise one. And wow, what an incredible community we have.
7. Julia and Joe Granieri. My martial arts instructors and friends. No words can describe how I felt when you gave me the opportunity to stand at the front of the class and represent your business. Thank you.
8. Debbie, Jimmy, Carly, Steve. We may be a small family, but the love and support we have for each other is bigger than the universe.
9. Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators (SCBWI), I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for this organization and its amazing members. The conferences and events taught me how to write, allowed me the opportunity to find critique partners, and a venue to meet my agent.
10. Tourette syndrome support groups. I belong to several online, and although I don’t contribute much, just knowing there are other people like me in the world makes the hard days easier and the pain bearable.
11. The21ders. The process of getting a book published doesn’t stop when you have a contract and publishing date. In fact, that’s when the hard work begins. Thank you all for your insight, knowledge, and most of all, friendship.
12. Last, but definitely not least, David, Aidan, and Riley. I love our creative household, and I love you all for cheering me on as I pursue this dream. You were the ones who said “sure, what the heck, do that manuscript critique.” And the rest, as they say, is history.
RESOURCES
The visual aspects of neurological disorders can be compared to the top of an iceberg, while numerous other disorders and concerns hide below the surface. Anxiety, depression, and thoughts of suicide are a few that may be found there.
It is important to know that while many things in life can remain private between friends, suicide cannot be one of those. It is not something a person or friend can handle alone. If you or anyone you know has thoughts of suicide, please reach out. There are many avenues for help.
Tourette Association of America
Tourette.org
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline
1-800-273-TALK (8255)
Crisis Text Line
(Text HOME to 741-741)
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention
Afsp.org
Risk Factors and Warning Signs
afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs
National Alliance on Mental Health (NAMI)
Nami.org
1-800-950-NAMI
