The Bottom of the Ocean

IV. The Paradox and Skittles as antidepressants

The moment the music club parts ways, I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Now I'd like to believe anxiety is different for everyone. Some get paralyzed in their seats, some can't sit still in their seats, some can't breath, some start hyperventilating and so on, so forth. In my case, I get disgustingly sweaty, hungry and dizzy. On other days I feel sluggish and and scared to do anything.

"Are you sure that's anxiety? Do you think your suffering is on par with others?"

No, would be a simple answer. I've seen so many others writhe and weep during an attack or even just while anxious in general. Some say they're overeacting, and honestly that might be so. But how exactly do we know? Is it anxiety? Is it something else?

That's the thing, you can never know for sure.

A doctor can diagnose you with something based on their knowledge and what they see, but it's all predetermined until a new sickness comes and everyone tries to make sense of it.

We know actors are acting because they're playing a role. Because they have a life outside of the script and because a different name pops up in the credits or just because there are credits in general.

Yet here we are, trapped in ourselves. We can't see the script nor know when the credits are going to roll, we can't say for sure if we're sick or just broken until someone says so, it's like we can't even trust our own brains.

And if so, let's say that our brains our traitorous scum, then how exactly are we supposed to trust other people's minds?

"They'll always look for flaws, they'll diagnose you with their idea of wrongness, they might be completely right or wrong or both. But you'll never know, love, not when you can't even distinguish whether your overthinking or underthinking anything. Those music club kids must be talking up a storm about you, huh?"

The worst kind of paradox, I'd say.

And that brings us back to yours truly, Avalanche Maxwell dry heaving over a toilet seat. Sweat soaked palms digging into pants and eyes damp with tears.

When I realize nothing is going to come out, I grab some tissue and wipe my mouth shakily.

The stall is cramped but clean, which at least helped with my nausea. There was no writing on the walls or too much dirt as I've seen high school bathrooms on television, even the locks and ventilation worked properly.

"Looks more like a prison or hospital bathroom." I mumbled to myself, leaning against the door and contemplating when I should get out. But seeing as Life was probably hanging around right outside the door, maybe I shouldn't.

I sighed and ran a hand through my hair, which awkwardly got stuck in a small tangle I had to undo.

I felt guilty. Guilty of thinking people I just met capable of talking behind my back when, again, I just met them. And does the fact that I'm thinking this way mean that they're currently thinking that way of me too?

God I was dramatic, I wish my brain could just be quiet for five minutes.

"Please." I heard Life chuckle from outside the door. "You know you love me, if you didn't then you wouldn't be breathing anymore would you?"

I wanted to talk back to my hallucination but then I heard the door open and shut my mouth.

Three unfamiliar voices bounced off of the walls of the girl's bathroom, chattering about random things like the state of their hair, some stuff they saw on tv and Evangeline's name came up a couple of times but in conspiratorial whispers as if afraid that she might hear.