Page 57 of Atlas

I chose this, and I had my first consultation earlier today. Talking to doctors doesn’t mean I have to do what they say. I’m an adult, not a kid, and that means that I make all the decisions for myself.

We’re sitting in our motel room at the end of the double bed. It’s hard as a rock and at the same time, has enough bounce in the old springs that it’s like a diving board. We risk getting launched off whenever we move.

I’m frozen, but the turquoise bottle of pills in my hand seems to burn my palm. The tiny letters on the white label are barely discernable except for my name in the top right corner. That looks huge.

I apply pressure to the lid and pop it open. The tiny white pills stare back up at me. So small. So frightening. I know these are supposed to reduce anxiety, but just the sight of them sends mine through the damn roof. I know that I can’t want help and then not try to get better. It’s silly to be afraid of this. There are only ten pills in there. Just enough to see if they work. I hate having to think about becoming dependent on something, but how is living the way that I’ve been living even an option anymore?

Willa slips her hand into mine. “You don’t have to take them if you don’t want to. The doctor said you could do it just when you need them.”

“I don’t want my life to be controlled by pills.”

“It won’t be. These aren’t that kind of pill. As needed, the doctor said.” She voices exactly what I’m thinking, as she sooften does. “She listened. She heard you. I think this is a good place to start. If you don’t like them or they don’t help, then we can try something else. We’ll do our meditating and breathing exercises and anything else you want to try. Running. Painting. Yoga. More blow jobs. Anything.”

That last suggestion gets a smile out of me. I shake out one pill and recap the bottle. It’s crazy to think that something so small can make such huge changes if you take it. Then again, that’s coming from someone who hasn’t done anything other than the natural version of drugs. I’ve smoked a few cigarettes, some weed, and done mushrooms once. It was all terrible. I thought the weed would calm me down, but it ramped my anxiety so badly I felt like I was literally going to die. Don’t even get me started on the mushrooms. That was a high school experience, done completely by mistake. A friend put them on all on the burgers they served and didn’t tell anyone they’d mixedthosekinds of mushrooms in with the regular kinds.

I need to just do this and get it over with. I set it under my tongue. It’s slightly chalky and tastes gross, but I force myself to let it dissolve.

Willa climbs into my lap and knocks me back on the bed. The old springs kick back violently. The whole bed bounces, followed by some not so gentle aftershocks. My upper back protests, the newly healing scabs itching and stretching tight. The yoga this morning hurt too, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. Other than some small twinges, it was surprising how refreshing it was.

She wraps herself around me, her way of keeping watch and keeping me safe. I shouldn’t be so damn anxious about taking a fucking anti-anxiety pill. The thought makes me laugh.

“Are you okay, do you feel strange?” Willa asks, all concern.

“I’m fine, it’s just the ridiculousness of it all. Maybe I need anti-anxiety meds to take before I take my anti-anxiety meds.”

“Do you want to try some of those breathing exercises?” she asks.

She’s crushing my chest. I wrap my arms around her and hold her close. “Yeah. That might help.” I can barely inhale with her pressing in like this and it’swonderful.

She starts, laughs wryly, and lifts up. “There. Sorry.” She inhales steadily for a few beats and lets the air out through her nose in a measured rhythm and repeats.

We do that for a few beats. It takes me that long to realize that my heart is no longer slamming into my ribs. The blocked bullshit in my throat is missing. My breaths aren’t forced. The oxygen goes straight into my lungs. My muscles are no longer clenched. The most dramatic difference is that my stomach relaxes instead of spinning. I don’t feel high or anything. Just…serene.

I can tell that the anxiety is still there, but it’s background noise instead of driving my life.

The rush of euphoric relief that hits me is so strong that my eyes sting. It’s not so much the anxiety that scared me, but the fear of it, the loss of control to an unknown entity. I thought I was going to be fucked for life and that itself gave me so much anxiety. I can see now how it was at the point where I was getting anxiety about anxiety about anxiety.

Willa isn’t doing her deep breathing anymore. She’s staring down at me, and I can tell that sheknows.

“This gives me hope.” My throat is scratchy.

She collapses against me, her body smashed into mine, wrapped so tight that I can’t tell where she starts and I begin. I adjust so that we’re palm to palm, foot to foot, chest to chest.

“Atlas?” Her breath is warm against my throat.

“Hmm?”

“I’d like to tell Lynette about us. She’s going to figure it out anyway, soon enough. It’s not like I can hide that I’m in love with you.”

My mouth opens, my lips part, but I can’t make a sound. My heart is racing, hammering so loudly that it’s all I can hear. It aches too. Violently. So badly that it makes my throat close up, but not with panic.

“I’m sorry,” Willa whispers while I’m over here melting down in my head. “Not for feeling it, but I’m sorry if that scares you or if it’s too soon. You don’t have to say it back. I’ve loved you for so long, in so many ways. Practically from the first second I saw you. It was because of you, that leaving Seattle and going through those classes was bearable. It was you who gave me hope. When we bought the building and started renovating it, I fell into that deep friendship love with you. Over the year, it turned into this passion. Not just physical, but the feeling that if you weren’t in my life, it would hurt so badly that I wouldn’t recover. I love you so much, with so many different kinds of love.” She stops, grasping my shoulders, staring down at me with the most intense expression. “You can tell me if you’re freaking out. I kind of am.”

In my head earlier, when I thought about bringing Willa to the garage, I so easily inserted her into the category of oldlady. That’s a huge deal, but it slipped so effortlessly into my brain. I don’t want to call her my girlfriend. Jodie was my girlfriend. I want Willa to be more than that.

I want to tell her that I love her too, but it’s hard for me. She’s so sure of herself and it’s that certainty that makes things look easy for her when I know that they’re not. For me, those words and any commitment are so hard for me to grapple with. Mostly because if you care about someone, you want what’s best for them. Before I talked to Willa about my anxiety issues, it was hard for me to see myself as best for anyone.

Willa must pick up on my thoughts because she looks me in the eyes and says, “You don’t have to be worried about letting me get in your head. I’m already there. It doesn’t scare me. If you want to let me in other places, you don’t have to be afraid to do that either, but you don’t have to tell me now. I know that you care.”

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