Mirror

III

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PRECAUTIONS

    YOU CAN'T MESS UP IF YOU DON'T HAVE THE CHANCE TO.

    The window was covered with a sheet. Mirrors were faced down, reflective surfaces tucked away or stuffed at the bottom of a drawer. When I say I turned my room upside down, I mean I turned everything around. Even my phone sat face down each time I wasn't using it, and when I was—I had it at the brightest setting.

    I won't admit it, at least not verbally, maybe not even mentally, but I was horrified. And that was an understatement. Each limb and muscle in my body had a constant underlying ache in them as a sign. Occasionally they'd spike and I'd shut my eyes and rub my temples, and hoped it would go away. Then there was my heart: a complete mess. It was if it was on a constant caffeine rush or something, no matter what I was doing.

    All that, times two, was the closest I could get to describing it. Oh, and no sleep.     

Another aching wave hit my body an hour later as I sat at my desk. The fairy lights along my back wall were on and music played through one earbud. I scanned the crumbled list on my worksheet with one leg pulled close to my body.

    For the past few days I varied from sitting at my desk, to my bedroom floor or on my bed, reviewing the list. Sometimes even the bathroom floor. At first I was tempted to throw it away, then I switched to wanting a dozen copies, and then to burning it. A part of me said, "this is ridiculous" and another part of me said, "wake up—this is real".

    Maybe I was overthinking it, probably am, but now that I think about it; I'd written that same list before. A couple months ago, in a different order, in a different pen, and where did that get me?

    A sigh slipped my lips. This was doubtful thinking. As Dr. Nate described it. My mind loves getting the best of me and working up for nothing. I slouched deeper in the chair the more in thought I got, and that nausea thickened. Prying my heavy eyelids open and reaching for my phone, it took one too many seconds long for the screen to turn on. A hovering shadow peered over my back, edging closer to my shoulder like oozing liquid.

    I instantly dropped my phone back on the desk and turned to the list I'd rewritten on the journal page I had opened. Rather than using my phone, I clicked the button on my headphones to turn my music up. Is it my sleep? When did I wake up today?

    My brows furrowed when I thought about it. The pen that wasn't in my hand two seconds ago, stopped fidgeting in my fingers.

    When did I fall asleep?

    Aren't you a hot mess.

    A groan like sigh followed right after. This whole thing. God, it's a mess—not me—, and it's getting to my head.

    When was it not?

    Naturally, my eyes drifted from my journal to above my desk. Taped to the wall were a bundle of multi-colored sticky notes Dr. Nate gave me. They were a reminder to look at when I needed an explanation for things I couldn't find the words for.
I read the same one I did almost habitually: Every part of us plays an important role in our lives. Whether you think it's good or bad, they're never invalid/wrong.

    Something of a frown tugged at my lips. That note was one of the first ones he gave me after the incident. What would he say if I brought up my suspicions? Would he be disappointed? Or mad? Would he feel like everything I worked on with him went to waste the same way I did? All over a single worry.