Sugar. (H.S.)

a million years ago.

For two years after that fateful day, I really believed that Green Eyes was real. When I turned ten, my mother started noticing the circles under my eyes, and the thing with the lights. And the bedsheets. And my collection of shoes.

After that there was a slew of child therapists and doctors. Anxiety and OCD aren't common in young children. My mother never mentioned Green Eyes, and I didn't ask. Hallucinations sometimes happened with anxiety disorders.

The most frustrating part for my parents was that no one could tell us what caused it. When I was 9 I became convinced that unless I said the traditional Jewish bedtime prayer, Shema, for every single member of my extended family, they would die. This happened despite the fact that no one in my family was in the least bit religious, never mind Jewish. But still, I said this prayer every night for everyone from my parents and sister to my great-uncle Jack, whose last name I can't remember and probably never knew, to my Oma's sister, whom I'd only met once.

The medication only helped sometimes. I knew it was working when the world wasn't as colorful and interesting as it normally was. Or when I couldn't remember things clearly, felt like I hadn't slept in days, and tried to put my shoes on backwards. But it did make the compulsions mostly disappear. There were no more talking dolls and green eyed boys. For awhile. 

It got worse when The Thing happened. 

From the first time I stayed overnight at my friend Caroline's house, I knew my parents weren't in love. Her family wasn't nearly as wealthy as mine, but that wasn't something you tend to notice as a child as long as they had the best barbies. But we did have other similarities.

Her father was hard working, and often came home late, just like mine. Her mother was devoted and kind, although sometimes a bit shrill, just like mine. She even had a new baby sister, with rosy red cheeks and only a small tuft of hair on top of her head, just like Poppy.

But when her father came home just before supper, Caroline ran into his arms and he lifted her up and held her tight. He kissed his wife on the cheek, and they embraced as a family. This seemed normal, because my family did the same thing, but everything was off. There was no barely concealed rage from Caroline's father, no hesitation behind the affection from Caroline's mother. No tension. No stress. No hostility.

That night I slept soundly for the first time in years. Caroline's sister didn't have to wake up crying because she could hear her parents screaming at each other in the next room. Caroline didn't have to wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night because her father finally returned home from the bar, stumbling his way up the stairs.

When I went home later the next day, that was the first time I realized my life was not normal.

I can still remember happy moments. Poppy and I grew up at the height of our social circle in the heart of California. From the outside, our lives were practically a dream. Fancy parties held in our living room, rich men with their housewives doting on baby Poppy and I. Playing in the giant flower garden, watching important business men come and go. My father proudly displaying our drawings on the kitchen fridge. My parents holding hands in the front seat of the Mercedes when we would take long drives at night just to see the stars. Poppy and I giggling in the back seat.

But there was bad moments. Really bad moments. But nothing was as bad as when The Thing happened.

My father killed himself two weeks before my twelfth birthday. Poppy was only six years old when she sat with my mother and I in the waiting room of the hospital, watching as the doctors told us that they were sorry, that they had done everything they could, but our fathers heart had stopped beating. 

I remember feeling like I had been shot. Or that someone had physically reached into my ribcage and pulled out my heart, tossing into onto the sterile floors. Blood spewing from my chest, my eyes, my mouth. 

That summer we buried my father with the flowers we used to grow in the spring and paint in the fall. 

My mother, on the other hand, turned cold. Froze solid. She didn't cry in the hospital when they told us. She snapped. Told me to get ahold of myself and be normal. Because you are okay. Because we will be okay. Don't cause a scene. Sit up. 

And I listened to her and did what she asked. I swallowed the hot, wet taste of shame and abandonment and sat up straighter. Because her and Poppy were all I had left now.

After that everything spiraled out of control. My OCD became worse, as did the anxiety. Depression was tacked on a few years later. I washed my hands until they were red and chapped, brushed my teeth until my gums bled, Lucy was no longer allowed to clean my room, because I was the only one who could get my pillows to lay right, even if I had to remake my bed ten times every morning. I hardly slept, because at least several times a night I would suddenly be absolutely positive that Poppy was no longer breathing, and I wouldn't believe that she was okay unless I checked on her myself. And someone was always messing up my shoes because they never stayed perfectly symmetrical.

 The doctors said I would never really be cured, but with medication and determination that I could live an almost-normal life. That seemed like a lot of bullshit to me. Nothing worked after that day. My mother was too cold to care, Poppy was too young to understand. No one else knew. So I developed my own system for coping. I shut everyone else away, and I planned my way out of Woodside, California. 

A Million Years Ago - Adele