Meet Me Backstage

17. Little Talks

⚠️ 𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗚𝗘𝗥 𝗪𝗔𝗥𝗡𝗜𝗡𝗚: This chapter includes a first-person depiction of a panic attack and general discussion of the experience of PTSD/CPTSD.

SKYE

My chest clenches and all I hear is white noise. It's like the line that connects me to the world has been severed. My heart tears at my ribcage as though it's trying to crawl out of my chest and tears fall down my cheeks.

This is so embarrassing.

I slide my key card in the lock, slip into the room, and close the door behind me before crumbling to the ground. The scent of chlorine is still fresh on my skin.

Sometimes I get it in my head that I can have a normal life and do normal things and then stuff like this happens.

How am I going to explain this to Jacks? To everyone?

The first time I remember having an attack, I was 6 and my uncle was messing around pretending to be a monster. He popped up from behind the couch and grabbed my shoulders. I started wailing and sobbing and ran to the closet to hide.

I remember hearing my parents telling him that I was sensitive and easily startled.

After a minute, the closet door opened and in crawled Ollie. He somehow knew exactly where to find me. He didn't say anything at all, he just closed the door behind him and sat next to me in the dark.

Most of the family learned pretty early not to startle me. I usually reacted to being pushed, grabbed, or—as was with the unique case of Teddy Barnes in fourth grade—having a macaroni turkey thrown at my face. Ollie certainly made him regret that decision when he avenged me by biting the tips off every one of Teddy's crayons.

I've gotten a lot better through therapy and I do a pretty good job of avoiding triggers these days. There aren't a lot of instances in adult life where people physically invade your space like that.

Except when a world-famous pop star throws you in a hotel pool.

I'll admit, I didn't see that one coming.

I pull out my phone and hit play on my music, letting the rhythm of the guitar soothe my mind as I set the phone down on the floor beside me. It almost doesn't matter what the song is, but in this case the random shuffle seemed to pick the right one—"Swing Life Away", Rise Against's soft-yet-punchy acoustic rock anthem.

I tap my fingers on the carpet, following the pattern of the guitar and closing my eyes.

After a minute or so, I take in several deep breaths and stand up, grabbing my phone as I make my way to the bed. I hit the mattress and curl up, dialing the only person I can talk to about stuff like this.

"What the hell, sister, it's like 5 am." Ollie's groggy voice on the phone is music to my ears. I attempt to say hello, but it comes out as a choked sob. "Skye? What's wrong? Are you okay? What happened?"

"I h-had a p-panic attack," I stutter out, sniffling and wiping my eyes.

Panic attack is such a mild phrase—more like a PTSD meltdown in front of all my coworkers.

"Are you okay? What triggered it?"

"One of the guys tried to throw me in the pool."

"Bastard."

"Ollie, he was just being playful. He didn't mean anything by it. Nobody knows about my issues."

"I can still kick his ass."