Page 56 of Kylo
“I’d be happy to hear if you want to tell me.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Rue
As long as I could remember, I was someone who fretted about everything.
My maternal grandmother, who watched me after school used to call me her ‘little worry wart.’
To be fair, a lot of that came from the impossible standards set by my high-achieving parents. They’d both done what they were supposed to do. Got good grades in high school, joined all the extracurricular activities, volunteered. Everything they needed to do to secure their places at a prestigious Ivy League.
They met there, dated, but took their studies most seriously. After college, they got good jobs, saved, married, and bought a house. Then came us kids. And we were all expected to be just as good as our parents were. Better, even.
The problem was, I didn’t thrive in sports like my siblings. I also hadn’t been born with any innate artistic or musical skill. And I was entirely too clumsy for dance or gymnastics.
School also didn’t come as easily to me as my parents hoped. Once I was old enough, though, to feel their disapproval, I put the pressure on myself to do better. I spent all my free time studying, applying myself, doing extra credit.
The external and internal pressure continued on through high school as college loomed.
As hard as I tried, I didn’t get into my parents’ alma mater. Or any of the hopeful schools they had for me. I didn’t even get into my personal top five.
Then, finally, I got an acceptance letter.
I sensed my parents’ frustration, but was determined to do well, to succeed, to make them proud, get a good job, the whole nine yards.
Pretty soon after I moved into my dorm and started classes, though, my anxiety began to spiral.
“My roommate hated me,” I told Kylo. “And she made it painfully clear.”
So I felt unwelcome at my “home,” and made the library where I spent most of my time. I figured that was maybe even a good thing; I would study more.
But then I had several professors who were really difficult to please. The lower they graded me, the harder I worked, the more I studied, the less I slept.
“The anxiety turned toward really debilitating panic attacks. I started missing classes. I fell behind. Things got… dark.”
Kylo reached across the table, placing his hand over mine and giving it a squeeze. Like he knew where this was going.
“I don’t really even have much memory of this part. But I guess I was down for so long that my roommate reached out to administrators about me not getting out of bed, bathing, eating, anything. I guess they called my parents.”
I remembered them showing up as this united front with stern faces and a plan.
Of course they had a plan.
They always had a plan.
I was going to take the year off, recalibrate, then try again.
“Going home just made it worse, though. It felt like a failure. It was a failure. I think two months passed. I didn’t even get up for Christmas. I just slept my whole life away.”
Eventually, they decided I needed to go away. Get professional help.
“I spent a few weeks at a treatment center, having therapy, getting on medications.”
“Were things better after?” Kylo asked.
“Not at first. Not for a while, actually. I had to do outpatient work with a team to keep adjusting things. That’s when my parents showed up with Ernest,” I told him, remembering him in all his long-eared, wrinkly glory. “They—or more specifically my shrink—thought having the responsibility of taking out, feeding, bathing, and playing with a dog might help. They also went with a Basset, figuring he would be happy to spend his time in bed with me when I didn’t feel like getting up.”
“Well, he certainly does like his rest,” Kylo agreed.
