Sleeping in Reality

Grotesque. Muggy, South Bay weather. It's a California winter.

Zoning on a classic red, cracked, brick wall, I recount my day. Thinking of every word, expression, and action that landed me in my awkward situation. Currently seated at a blue, paint chipped bench, I pick off the remaining life in it, while awaiting the cold shrill of my mother's car brakes.

Lost in a million, great excuses ready to be used, the truth weighs heavy on my chest, replicating a suffocating feeling. The anxiousness piling in me was rendering me deaf to the sound of my name being called. I hop into my mother's car, and avoid her usual, unamused look. This isn't the first after school detention she's picked me up from. She's tired of it.

Realizing I'm not in the mood to talk, she wakes the engine, and it roars in protest, ready to sleep again. The drive became filled with the sound of overplayed pop songs on the radio, and muddy fields, filled with fruit poking their heads out, yelling for help. They don't want to drown, and I can relate.

I didn't realize the drive to our house was over until I heard the driver door slam shut. The sound shaking my thoughts and dragging me into reality. My mother doesn't deserve the unanswered questions, or the distance from my mental absence. I'll tell her tonight, not my Hoodini excuses, but the troubling truth I've recently found out.

Walking into the front door of the house, the sweet aroma of champurrado filled my senses, and had me off my feet, floating towards the kitchen. Temporarily forgetting my inner turmoil, I pour myself a cup of home. I relish in the anxiety and stress washing off in waves each time my lips touch the mug, and steam hits my face.

Mindlessly pulling on a string from the couch, my troubles return, and fill my stomach with lead. A metaphorical chain tightens on my neck, ankles, and hands; making it difficult to stay comfortable.

Noticing my discomfort, my mother asks me if I'm okay, and places the back of her hand over my forehead, checking for a temperature. I did not have a cold, but was I sick? I had something stronger than a cold or flu medicine can fix. It would be much harder to get over.

My mother's crouched stance in front of me, her worried, pleading eyes and constant questioning gave way for word vomit, regret, relief, and -

"I like girls," I blurt out.

It was never meant to be gotten over. No, a cold, flu, and fever medicine cannot help me, because I am not sick. I was embraced, accepted, and choked for being dramatic.