The Silicon Valley Connection

11 | faith - emotionally exhausted

Aidan and I were finalizing the preliminary design proposal pile in a private conference room of the Galileo Library when he blurted out, "My brother was at the coffee shop with Kacey earlier today."

I briefly pause in the rearranging of my papers and rotate to lean onto the edge of the conference table, crossing my legs. "We're thinking of the same person, right? Vietnamese? She has auburn brown, shoulder-length hair? My new roommate?"

He nods sheepishly. The spacious room diminishes to a dense quietness, and although I'm not claustrophobic, the burnt orange walls start to change that as they seem closer than before. I shove my books in my bag in silence, hoping and praying the forceful grip hides my trembling hands well enough.

Dread suddenly begins to collect in my throat like an annoying, itchy turtleneck, clawing and clogging up my airways. Disgusted, jeering voices overflow, spilling out into my consciousness.

Maybe I should try the 10-to-1 breathing method? No. That's way too obvious. Aidan's already looking at me, probably thinking I'm some type of freak. Having an impromptu anxiety attack in one of the most public places on campus was not what I had in mind at all. In front of Aidan, no less. I wouldn't even be surprised if he just got up and left...it wouldn't be the first time a guy has done that.

aidan

Shit. I knew I shouldn't have said that so soon. I definitely triggered something, and if we're going to make this deal work, I really hope she can look past the sibling ties I have with Hunter and attempt to open up to me, bet aside, because I really enjoy having her in my presence.

I sit at the edge of the table next to her, gently leaning my elbow into hers.

"Faye."

Nothing.

"Hey. Talk to me. I know he's my brother, but I need to know what he did so I can best help you."

And if I need to pummel him into next week.

When I raise her chin, her weary and tear-filled eyes prompt me to speak again. "Faith. Please. I have first-hand experience of how infuriating he is." I swipe gently at a runaway tear. "There's obviously something else that's been eating at you since I told you about Kace, and between you and me, I believe now's as good a time as any to let someone know."

"Okay," she replies, her voice barely more than a whisper. Her voice grows a bit stronger, but I still sense unsteadiness.

faith

I was not only a third wheel but the DNF, aka the Designated Negro Friend, of the group. Hunter was a senior, and Shayla and I were juniors, with them also dating at the time. All three of us were surprisingly decent friends back then, and being upperclassmen, we even shared a few classes together, with chemistry being one of them.

Hunter asked me to be his partner for the Fall Exhibition. I was skeptical at first because of how much he supposedly hated the sciences, but I was still naïve and agreed.

Needless to say, he did absolutely nothing for the project.

It was only the end of the first week when I emailed my teacher to join a different pair to become a group of three or work on the project myself. He replied within an hour and told me to come into his office to discuss further. I went into Office Hours on Monday morning to explain and give specific instances where we initially made plans to work on certain things and how he gave insufficient reasons for why he bailed at the last minute every single time. The teacher surprisingly understood the situation and let me choose whether to join a group or work alone. So, I joined two other girls, creating a group of three, in class later that morning.

Hunter didn't show up to class that day--I figured, so I texted him about how I decided to join another group of two and explained that he didn't carry his portion of the weight.

Long story short, he did not take it well. The flurry of offensive, life-threatening, degrading text messages popped up like an evil whack-a-mole. Every time those grey three dots appeared on the screen, my heartbeat pounded in my ears a level louder, and my phone always threatened to slip out of my clammy and numb hands despite me clutching it for dear life. Tears stained the collar of my shirt that was a part of my high school's dress code; the salty taste made my already dry throat rival the hottest of summers in Arizona. I fumbled over my own words, trying to explain the scenario and messages to my principal without completely breaking down.

Each text was the equivalent of a gong crashing, blasting in my eardrums. My panic and the strength to keep it contained swells like a grand crescendo during a concert as I recall his last text to me before his week-long suspension.

Your blood is on my hands, bitch.

Shayla, of course, took his side and blamed me for the entire thing. But, after failed attempts by our homeroom teacher for us to make amends, I had taken the hint that she wasn't going to come around, and when she tried to talk to me during his suspension, I had begun to heal--or at least convinced myself I did and cut her out of my life.

We haven't talked since, and I don't regret that decision to this day.

A year and a half of therapy had helped me realize that since then, anxiety was an unknown variable in an equation that I had to live with for the rest of my life. With my self-confidence and mental strength depleted, pessimism was my go-to for any inconvenience in my life, making the ability to connect with others a challenge.

I may have forgiven, but the hidden, emotional scars didn't let me forget.