by Isobel Irons
Tash’s CD is still in the player. “Waiting Game” by this band called Banks. It’s slow, haunting.
I’m so tired. With each breath I take, my chest seems to be moving in slow motion, like I’m breathing water instead of air.
Five o’ clock traffic. It happens, even in a small town. Luckily for me, it’s not quite bumper-to-bumper, like you get in the city. There’s a lot of other cars, but they’re moving pretty fast.
Until they’re not.
I don’t notice when the taillights on the semi truck in front of me turn red, until it’s too late.
PART IV: CRASH & BURN
I’m guessing by this point you’ve tried to put yourself in my shoes, at least once. But you can’t. Because even if you come close, even if you try to imagine the worst possible thing, it’ll still be your choice. You’ll still be mostly in control of your own thoughts, how far they go, and when they stop.
That’s how it works, for most people. You think, therefore you are. You choose, and then you act. You react, not on instinct, but by decision. That’s really all that separates a human being from an animal, or so we learned in biology.
But what if the world was different?
What if I was the norm, and you were the ‘special’ one? What if everyone’s delusions instantly became their reality, and any accidental, passing thought could mean the difference between tenuous safety and certain disaster?
What if you couldn’t control the words that came out of your mouth, or hide your most embarrassing emotions?
What if your body never did what you wanted it to, no matter how much you exercised, or how many pills you took?
What if every bad thing you ever thought might happen, actually did happen?
What if the world was really that cruel, for everyone?
Would it be like hell on earth? Or just a more honest, realistic earth? Would it be chaos? Or would we find a way to adapt, and rid ourselves of our ‘chains, which hurt the mind?’
You tell me. You’re the sane one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My life flashes before my eyes.
That’s what people say, right? When they’re on the verge of death, everything comes back to them in a bright, surreal blur. For me, it’s kind of like that, but the things I see are new.
A woman’s face, filled with concern, leaning through a shattered window. Her lips move, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I blink, and she’s sitting behind me, holding my head with her hands. I blink again, and there are more faces. Blue t-shirts, and someone familiar. This guy I know from last summer’s internship. I think his name might be Joe.
I blink again, and I’m moving. Only I can’t move. Staring up at the ceiling of an ambulance, feeling myself being rocked from side to side, but my arms and legs are disconnected. Joe is talking about interactions, looking at me like I’m supposed to say something. I try to shake my head, but I’m strapped down to a board.
I’m so tired. I think I’ll go to sleep.
The next time I open my eyes, I’m indoors again. Lights pass above me, and I can hear people talking all around me. Everyone seems to know my name. They’re all trying to talk to me, all at once. Or maybe they’re just talking about me. I’m not really sure.
“Grant, you’re at the hospital. Your dad is on his way.”
“Grant, we need you to wiggle your toes for us. Can you do that, Grant?”
“Grant, are you taking any medications?”
“Grant, we’re going to move you into a bed now. Try to keep your head still.”
“Grant, you need to keep your eyes open, okay?”
Everyone seems to want something from me, and it’s exhausting. I try to close my eyes, to retreat back into the silence, where nothing can bother me. I like it there, in the darkness. It’s peaceful and warm.
But they won’t let me stay. I keep trying to tell them it’s better this way, for me to stop thinking, stop existing. But no one will listen. They keep dragging me out, back into the cold. Whatever cozy blanket of numbness was on me before, it’s gone now. I’m cold and everything hurts. Somewhere, I can hear my mom talking, but I can’t move my head to see her.
“He’s on a few antidepressants, officer, but they’re all prescribed. I don’t think this had anything to do with that. A girl he works with said he was having problems with his girlfriend. I think he was just upset and a little bit tired. You know how kids are; sometimes they get so wrapped up in being teenagers that they don’t notice the world around them.”
Is this real life? I feel like I’d be freaking out more, if this was really happening. Maybe this is all just a dream.
My dad leans over me. “You’re going to be okay, buddy. Just try to relax. You were in a little accident. We’re just waiting on a CT scan and some blood work, then we’ll see if we can get you something for the pain. You’re going to be alright.”
I blink at him, feeling weirdly freaked out by the words he’s saying. I’m pretty sure ER doctors aren’t supposed to make promises like that. He’s smiling, but it’s forced, like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.
What if he’s lying? What if I’m dying? Or brain damaged? Or paralyzed for life?
For once, I don’t have the will to follow those thoughts down the rabbit hole. Whatever happens now, I deserve it. I’ve been waiting for something like this—something bad—to happen for as long as I can remember. In a way, it’s kind of a relief. I wasn’t crazy. I was right. Everyone else kept telling me I was overreacting, or obsessing over something that was never going to happen.
And now it has.
I guess that means I win, or something. Now I can die.
“I’m sorry, Dad.” I push the words out through gritted teeth. My jaw is locked, and I’m not sure if I’m doing it or if I’ve lost control of the muscles. Moisture burns my eyes and leaks down my temples, pooling in my ears. Tears or blood; it makes no difference.
“It’s not your fault, son.” My dad reaches out to put his hand on my shoulder, then pulls it back. I see blood on his fingers. “Accidents happen. The important thing is, nobody else got hurt.”
Right. Well, at least that’s something. At least I didn’t kill anyone.
I close my eyes, clawing my way back toward the darkness. I’ve finally done it, I’ve found the solution: I don’t need to change; I just need to be alone. I need to quarantine myself away, where I can’t mess up anyone’s life or hurt them on accident. A desert island, that’s what I need. Somewhere so far away from other people that it genuinely doesn’t matter how many weird rituals I do, or how many panic attacks I have. Because no one will see.
At least I figured this out now, before I let my parents spend thousands of dollars on a college degree I’d probably never finish. At least I solved the problem, before I tried to do something stupid like move in with Tash, or get married. Because if things stay the way they are, or—God forbid—keep getting worse, that would be like condemning her to a lifetime of torture. Of taking care of me. Of pretending she doesn’t notice how screwed up I am.
The important thing is, nobody else got hurt.
If I break it off now, things will suck for a while, but then she’ll leave. She’ll move to LA with Margot and we’ll never see each other again. I’ll wait a few weeks, then break the news to my parents that I’m going to check myself into a mental institution. Or hell, maybe I’ll just move away, to Alaska or something. My head hurts, and I can’t really think about the specifics right now.
“Hey buddy, I need you to stay awake, okay?” My dad is shaking me. But his voice keeps getting further and further away. Unless I try really hard to focus, it feels like I’m fading.
Good. Let me fade. Let Grant Blue go away for a while.
My breathing is labored. Weak. It hurts to pull oxygen into my lungs, anyway.
So I stop. I ignore the voices telling me to try harder, to be present. I embrace the dark, and let everything else go.
###
Time pa
sses in a drugged blur. I’m in the hospital for a while, that much I know. I remember Dr. Marx, this guy who plays tennis with my dad. He’s a plastic surgeon. At one point, I remember him saying, “You’re going to have a pretty wicked scar, but as long as you stay out of the sun for a while, it should fade.”
Gen was somewhere in the room, too, because I distinctly remember hearing her say, “Cool, just like Harry Potter!”
It’s not like the movies, though. No one comes in and holds up a mirror to let me see what I look like. And I don’t really care. In fact, the only thing I care about is the fact that Tash hasn’t come to see me. Not once.
But it’s probably better that way, because I don’t know what I’d say to her if she did. I don’t feel anything lately. The combination of painkillers and sedatives make it seem like that’s a good thing. My dad probably told them about my anxiety, and had the nurses keep me under as much as possible so I wouldn’t freak out.
That way, I can’t have a panic attack when someone finally gets around to telling me I’ll never walk again.
Or whatever is wrong with me. I really can’t tell the difference between reality and worst case scenario daydreaming anymore. And also, for the first time, I’m honestly not sure which reality is worse.
Eventually, they get around to telling me the facts. I hit a semi truck on Highway 91, going about 45 miles per hour. If I’d been going 65, which was the speed limit, I’d be dead. If my car had been even six inches taller, I’d be dead. If the trucker I hit or the cops who responded to the 911 call had suspected anything and asked for a blood test, I’d probably be facing a DUI for driving with so much Klonopin in my system. If I had hit a regular car instead of a semi, someone else would probably be dead, or at least seriously injured, in which case I could’ve gone to jail. As it was, I was too injured for anyone to think about that at the time. Because my airbag didn’t deploy quickly enough, my face hit the steering wheel, hard. Twice. I was covered in my own blood, and I looked much worse off than I was. My spinal column was bruised, and I’m lucky I’m not paralyzed. In fact, my Dad says if I get enough rest, there shouldn’t be any permanent damage. Except for a rather badass-looking scar over my right eye, from the steering wheel.
And the end of the day, I’m really lucky. Everyone keeps telling me how lucky I am.
Mr. Perfect. Most likely to succeed. Going Places. Destined for greatness. ‘You had a close call there, Grant, but it wasn’t your fault. No real harm done.’
What none of them know is that I would’ve welcomed the self-harm. I’ve had enough time to think about it, lying in the hospital and counting the number of spots on the ceiling, and I would’ve been okay with being crippled for the rest of my life. Because at least then, I’d be as messed up on the outside as I am on the inside. Then I wouldn’t have to pretend anymore. No one would expect anything from me, so I wouldn’t have to worry about disappointing them.
After a few days, my mom comes to take me home. As she and Gen help me down the hall into the guest bedroom—because my room is upstairs, and my mom thinks that’s hazardous—I finally break down and ask her about Tash. She gets this look on her face, and she and Gen glance at each other before Gen frowns and looks away—like she’s afraid of getting in trouble for something.
“She called the day of your accident,” Mom says. “But no one was home—I was picking up Gen from piano practice—so she left a message on the answering machine. It…uh…let’s just say it wasn’t very nice. When I got home and heard it, I called to see if you were still at work, to ask you what happened. That’s when Melody told us you and Tash were having a fight, and then the message—and your uncharacteristically reckless driving—started to make sense.”
She helps me into bed, and I lay there for a few seconds, just looking up at her and trying to process everything. Gen leaves the room.
“I don’t…” I shake my head. “I don’t remember having an argument.”
“Well…” My mom shrugs, then starts fussing around with the pillows, like it’s not that big of a deal. “Your father says you accidentally took too many of your meds, so you were probably kind of out of it. Maybe it’s best if you don’t remember. Whatever happened between you, I’m sure it’s best if you give each other some time.”
I nod, knowing she’s probably right. I’ve always known that waiting it out usually makes people change their opinion, or fill in the blanks. That’s why I bite my tongue, to keep the frenzy of thoughts from overflowing into my mouth and spoiling the cool, collected image.
But even though I was going to break things off anyway, even though I’m pretty sure I’d already decided to let Tash go, because that’s what’s best for her…I can’t remember the moment I told her the truth. I can’t remember how I told her, or what her face looked like. And imagining watching her heart break is almost as torturous as knowing I’m the one who did it.
“Can I hear the message?”
My mom stops in the doorway. I realize it’s been so long since I said anything, she probably thought I was falling asleep. Her face is sympathetic, worried.
“No, I’m sorry. I had a feeling you were going to ask, but…in the end, I decided listening to it would do you more harm than good. You don’t need that kind of negativity right now. Let’s just focus on getting you better, okay? Then maybe you can write her a letter or something, and say goodbye properly.”
Properly. Right. Because that’s the first word I think of when I think of Tash—proper.
I lie back against the pillows, exhausted. “Okay, Mom.”
Of course, she’s right. Calling Tash right now would only make things harder, for both of us. She’s a great OCD wingman, my mom.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result. They say it’s a quote from Albert Einstein, or sometimes Mark Twain. Someone really forward-thinking and prosaic. But as usual, they’re wrong. That inaccurate and extremely unhelpful definition of insanity—which has since been abandoned by the medical community, since no one could really find a living, breathing example of what the antonymous sane person looked like—was first published in a Narcotics Anonymous manual in 1981. I looked it up once, after a kid in my fifth grade science class said that if I was really OCD, that would make me insane.
I think about that, replaying the entire conversation in my head, as I pop another Zoloft. The irony doesn’t escape me, just like I can’t to escape it. Narcotics Anonymous, for people who take too many pills on purpose.
I think I’ve had about twice my normal daily dose by now. Maybe more. Maybe less, though, since I’m not really sure how many days it’s been since I left my bedroom. I know I’ve showered at least twice in the last couple of hours. No matter how many pills I take, I can’t seem to stop thinking about all the germs I might have picked up when I was in the hospital. It’s not that I care about getting sick, because I don’t. I just know that if I do have something, Gen will be the first to get it. She’ll be the first to die.
Then, my mom will get it. Then my dad. It doesn’t matter whether or not I die, then. Because I’ll already have lost everything I ever cared about. Then the OCD will have finally won.
All my life, I’ve been going back and forth between fighting this battle and pretending it doesn’t exist. It’s kind of a miracle I never gave up before now. The OCD always takes everything I love, and leaves the rest, almost like it knows. I used to love pizza when I was a kid. I used to love summer, and ice cream cones, and swimming. Now I can’t get near a swimming pool, or the lake, without hallucinating bacteria—actual, visible bacteria—in the water. I imagine it creeping into my nose and mouth, burrowing down underneath my fingernails, until I’m permanently contaminated, and no amount of showering or scrubbing can make me clean again.
But that wasn’t what I should’ve been afraid of. I realize that now. I’ve always been contaminated. The bacteria is invisible—or maybe it isn’t real
ly bacteria at all. Maybe it’s just this unquantifiable illness that only shows itself fully in my own mind. My infection has no symptoms I can prove, and no cure. But that doesn’t mean it’s not contagious. Maybe that’s why I never wanted to tell anyone. Not because I thought they wouldn’t believe me, but because I was afraid they would. Like that kid in my science class who didn’t want to sit by me anymore, after I told him. They’d all see me for what I really was, on the inside: a freak.
Ab-normal. Un-clean. In-sane.
That’s the real definition of insanity, I’ve decided. Not doing the same thing over and over again, and expecting a different result, but believing you’re capable of becoming something you’re not. Like a fish who truly believes he can breathe out of water, if he just tries hard enough. If he can just get far enough away from the water, then maybe he can adapt. Maybe he can change.
But people don’t change. If there’s one thing I know with absolute certainty, it’s that. They might be able to fake it for a while, but they can’t really be anything other than what they were meant to be. Wishing doesn’t change molecules, or biological facts. Hoping doesn’t mean it’ll happen.
The first time I saw my face in the bathroom mirror, I was glad. The scar running through my eyebrow, combined with the dead look in my eyes, makes me look kind of dangerous. Unstable. Not at all like the dependable, safe high school valedictorian everyone thought I was.
For endless multiples of seconds, minutes and hours I sit alone in the dark, too angry to talk to anyone. Too afraid to move. Too tired to care. I ritualize on auto-pilot, reorganizing my closet from top to bottom. I count everything, then I count it again. I only eat because my mom brings food up to my room, all wrapped up in plastic the way I like it.
Actually I hate it. I hate the way the plastic forks always break. I hate how pathetic and weak they are. I hate how I can’t even eat like a man, like an adult. How at 18 fucking years old, I still need my mommy to do my laundry and feed me breakfast, lunch and dinner. How I probably always will.
