Page 17 of InfraRed

These dates may have been started as an act of desperation and fear, but they’ve become my favorite part of the week. They’re the reminder I need—the motivation to keep pushing forward.

Even on the days that are hard. On the days when the panic makes breathing hard and opening my eyes is unbearable.

Casey

Remember when I said sometimes it’s a struggle just to force my eyes open? This is one of those mornings. My alarm hasn’t gone off yet, but my body is programmed to wake up at the same time every day. Even if the thought of opening my eyes makes me want to throw up.

My body feels tired and heavy. Even though my bladder screams for me to move. My breathing is ragged and shaky. Blood roars in my ears from my thundering heart. My mind wars against me, telling me to stay in bed, to give up, and to hide away right here for eternity.

I’ve always been shy, reserved even, definitely preferring home over a party. The panic attacks have been there for a while now, happening at the worst moments sure, but I mostly ignore them because they eventually pass, and I am okay again. Or I did.

Lately, the days of feeling okay are fewer than the following days of wanting to burrow under my covers and just evaporate into nothingness. The anxiety is suffocating. I know I need to get over it, but I feel like I’m freaking drowning for no reason at all.

Despite my mom not being the greatest, I know I’m loved and wanted. My life is easy compared to so many others out there just trying to get by. Though that will come to a screeching halt once my lease is up, but for the time being, I only have to worry about feeding myself and getting to and from school and danceclasses.

Every time one of these episodes hits, it’s harder to move past it than the last. Harder to force myself from bed and into the shower. Getting dressed seems daunting. Brushing my teeth feels pointless.

Yet, every time, I push through because the thought of making anyone worry makes it worse. The way I feel right now, though, I question who would even notice if I didn’t show up for class. Who would miss me if I stayed in bed and let it swallow me whole for once?

The answer for today is right outside my bedroom door, sleeping on my sofa in the form of a six-foot-two stepbrother—the other one. When I walked in my door last night after I finished my last class, he was on my sofa, polluting my air with the pungent smell of weed, watching some docu-drama on my television. He was hiding from someone. I assumed it was a girl, but you can never tell with Jagger. Sometimes, I regret giving him the code to my apartment.

Strangely enough, after Graham became a virtual ghost in my life, Jagger became a staple. We were never close growing up. He’s almost three years older, and I was the annoying little sister he never wanted. He would grumble when Graham always included me in whatever plans they had. I know I’m the reason he stopped joining those excursions when he was around fifteen. Then, I was placed in a couple of his classes during his senior year. I guess he saw how awkward and alone I was and took pity. Besides, I was older. Less childish, more subdued and quiet, so I didn’t get in his way. After he graduated, he continued to keep check on me, inviting me to hang out with him and his friends, which I declined. I knew he didn’t really want me around. There was no way he wanted his awkward, socially inept stepsister cramping his style because Jagger always had a popular lone-wolf vibe, if that’s even a thing. But he never went away like I thought he would, either.

He became a couch surfer when Lily vanished to California last year. He always says my apartment is closer than his, but I think he just doesn’t want me to be alone all the time. And though I have no proof, I always get a niggling suspicion he’s been asked to keep an eye on me. I’m guessing my dad put a worm in his ear since they work together.

And since he stayed last night, there is no way I’ll get away with avoiding the world today. There will be questions, and if he is doing all this for my dad, I’m sure he’ll report back.

So, begrudgingly and with more effort than it should require, I open my eyes, then blink a few times as I gather my thoughts—the will to move. My chest rises and falls with exertion and panic.Get it together, Casey. There’s no reason to be like this.

My heavy comforter gets tossed aside, and I slowly push myself upright. It feels as if lead weights are wrapped around me, sitting on my shoulders and chest, weighing down my arms and legs. Even lifting my head is hard.

A heavy breath escapes me as I close my eyes and force myself to move. My steps are slow, like I’m walking through sludge, as I make my way toward my bathroom. I turn on the shower, step out of my clothes, and into the hot spray. The hot water scalds my flesh as my head presses against the wall.

I freaking hate feeling like this.It’s so much harder to pretend to beMary Sunshinewhen everything hurts for no reason at all.

After spending too much time letting the hot water turn my skin raw, I finally shut it off and step out. I walk to the vanity and wipe the condensation away from the mirror, staring at myself. My blue eyes look cold and lifeless. Dark circles beneath them are such a stark contrast against my otherwise pale skin. Then, Ipick myself apart.

My mom is right. Nothing about me is appealing. My eyes are too big for my face, my nose too small, mouth too narrow. My body isn’t desirable at all. There’s definition and muscle in my arms, legs, and stomach from years of dancing, but not a single curve to be found. I’m too tall, too thin, with small breasts.

I stare too long at the tattoos covering my scars. The lace filigree with tiny hidden sunflowers that decorates my sternum hides where they had to open my chest, trailing down and across beneath my breasts. Bright sunflowers stand out against black and white flowers on my right arm, covering from my wrist to my shoulder, disguising where glass and metal dug into my skin. A mandala with more sunflowers decorates from mid-thigh to just above my hip, where they had to replace it.

Graham has called me sunflower since I was ten because I was obsessed with them. I can’t even remember when it started. Dad said it was with his mom and grandmother. I loved them because they were big and bright, in some ways, reminding me of my dad, but as time went on, I wanted to be like those tall flowers, standing strong and bold, catching the eye of all those who see them. I’ll never be that. I’m not eye-catching. Definitely not strong or bold. I’m not even sure I want attention. But sometimes, I just want to be seen.

Or maybe it’s their hidden fragility I relate to. They tower over the other blossoms with their faces turned toward the sun, but they break under the power of storms.

I open the medicine cabinet, brushing a finger over the bottles, then grab them, dumping a few pills in my hands. I’m not sure why I bother, though. They don’t seem to work anymore.

I toss them back, swallowing them dry, then get to brushing my teeth and getting ready for the day.

Once my hair is pulled back and a light coat of makeup is applied, I go to my room to dress. I tug on a pair of blue joggers, a white fitted tee, and my sneakers, then throw my dance gear into my bag and clothes to change into later. Today is ballet, and I cringe when I think about wearing my pointe shoes. They are in dire need of replacement, but it’s an expense I can’t afford right now.

My phone buzzes on my nightstand. I pick it up and swipe the screen. Uncle Henry messaged at five am like he does every morning with some fortune cookie affirmation stuff he started when I was a kid. It was his way of letting me know he was thinking of me when he was overseas. Back then, they came sporadically, but since he retired from the Marines, he sends one at the same time every day.

The next is from Dad. Like Uncle Henry, he messages me every morning, but he is telling me to have a good day, and he loves me. Their messages are everything, and though they don’t lift the heaviness in my chest, they help me remember why I have to push through.

I groan when I see the next. Lily reminding me about girls’ night tonight. I immediately start trying to figure out if I can talk my way. The last thing I want to do is go out tonight because Lily and Ashleigh always want a club. Lily because she loves dancing, music, and drinks. She thrives in the spotlight like the attention whore she is. Ashleigh because she spends most of her time working or taking care of her six-year-old daughter and her infant son.

When I finally make my way from my room, I spot my overgrown stepbrother on the sofa, sleeping on his stomach with one long leg hanging off the edge as he buries his shaggy head into a brightly colored throw pillow. He never makes it to Lily’s room like I’ve offered, always falling asleep on the sofa with thetv on.

---