The Way We Get By

18 // Liam

I look down at my phone to see that Ramona has texted me.

help

I know what it means, and it makes me put a little more pep in my step, so to speak, as I wrap up Angel and I's conversation.

"I suppose not. But we're not done talking about this," I scold without giving him an opportunity to respond before I grab my keys and climb out of the car.

While I'm concerned about Angel's very out of character behavior, Ramona's text is more urgent at this exact moment. When I left to go pick up Angel from school, she was recovering from a bout of panic attacks that she's been suffering from all morning.

I took the morning off of work just to make sure she wouldn't do anything stupid, and I need to be there in case she decides to try and break open one of my razors or some smart idea like that.

I can hear Angel not far behind me as I make my way into the house, and I pounce up the stairs and down the hallway towards where I left Ramona.

After throwing my coat on our bed and closing our bedroom door, I hurry over to our bathroom where Ramona is sitting on the floor with her knees pulled to her chest, her phone right next to her with our text message screen displayed.

She's staring straight in front of her at the shower, each breath causing her more pain and slowly suffocating her. I sit down next to her and place her phone safely up on the counter before reaching up to the first drawer and pulling out her medication.

"I—I already, took—"

"Okay."

I place the orange container back in the drawer, as I know what she meant and I don't want to make her force the rest of her sentence out.

I feel as helpless as I do every time, because I know there's nothing I can do. She doesn't like being touched when she's having a panic attack and she doesn't always like it when I try to talk to her. So I just sit facing her and rub her shoulder, softly reminding her to breathe every time she begins to get worked up again.

This morning she woke up anxious for apparently no reason, though I'm willing to bet it's because she's not sleeping very well. I can't blame her considering the stress that we've been under these past few weeks.

And after twenty years of learning to live with her and her depression, I've learned that stress makes her mental health spiral down into a dark, bottomless pit of shit. But she's stayed sober for eight years and she's been clean for five, so for that I am eternally grateful.

After the medication gets to Ramona, she calms to a steady, more stable rate. I'm careful not to suffocate her or make her more anxious, so I wait for her to find her way to me. It takes a minute, but after a beat of calm, comfortable silence, her head falls onto my chest with a relieving sigh.

"You okay?"

For a moment I hear nothing, but once Ramona has settled comfortably into a spot in my arms, I feel her nod.

"The kids. Just... Just worried."

I look down at my wife and breathe in her perfume as I bring my lips to the top of her head

"I know."

Ramona takes a deep breath and I feel her body continue to shake when she leans into me. She seems cold, dressed in nothing but a tank top and my sweatpants, but she probably won't admit it.

"You cold?"

She shakes her head, and I look down to see her hair trace around her face like a deep, dark abyss of brown. I can feel the goosebumps on her bare arms, though, and I reach up to unzip my sweater. She pulls away to let me take it off, and she gives me an annoyed, yet appreciative glare as I place the grey fabric around her.