Learning How To Breathe

Close your Eyes

"T-Tommy? I-I need you." I whisper, struggling to breathe.

"Sarah? Hold on, I'm on my way. Don't hang up, okay? Stay with me, just talk to me." His voice is reassuring.

"I feel like I can't breathe." The words are a struggle to say.

"Press buttons then. Just so I know you're there." He tells me, so I dial the number one over and over. The monotone beeping fulls my ears.
1111111111111111111111
Because there's only one person who truly cares.

The door to the house opens within the next 10 minutes. A wave of relief crashes over me.

"Oh, what a handsome young man you are. My my, those muscles!" My mother's unnaturally loud voice makes me cringe. I can hear him walking up the stairs.

"Sarah, unlock the door. It's me." I struggle to stand, weak kneed and lightheaded. I manage to get the door unlocked, my hands still trembling. Tommy immediately wraps his arms around me and I begin to sob again, my whole body shaking.

"It's okay. I'm here. It's gonna be okay. Everything is gonna be okay. I'm right here, love. You're safe, I promise." He whispers in my ear and I close my eyes tightly. Tommy's embrace is warm. Comforting. Safe. Real.
He walks me to the bed, and holds me close. Tommy pulls the quilt up to my shoulders, all the while whispering in my ear.

"You're safe. I've got you. I'm here now. I'm right here. It's all gonna be okay, love. I'm not going to leave you. I'm right here."

He's right here.
He's got me.
It's all going to be okay.
Everything is okay.
He's not going to leave me.
It's okay.
Is it okay?
Maybe.
Am I okay?
No.
Will I ever be okay?
I don't know.

It feels like an eternity has passed when Tommy wakes me up.

"You've got an appointment with Dr. Moore in two hours." He tells me, pulling me out of bed and handing me a towel. "Go take a shower, you smell funny." I glare at him jokingly and he laughs, kissing me on the cheek. Laughing. How long has it been since I've laughed?
The question plays around in my mind as I let the hot water run over my body, praying for it to wash away my problems. Once I'm done, I quickly slip on my grey sweatpants and pull Tommy's sweatshirt over my head. It smells just like him, a sharp mix of his cologne and minty fresh toothpaste. I smile, thinking of his obsessive habit: brushing his teeth before and after every meal. I meet him out front in and climb into the front seat of his pickup truck.
As Tommy drives, my thoughts drift to the last time I was here. My mother had kicked my father out for the third time. The arguments had lasted for days, each one ending with more alcohol, screaming, doors slamming, and more anxiety.
"We have an appointment with Dr. Moore. The 12 o'clock." Tommy's voice is full of confidence, his sweet Southern drawl causing the young receptionist to blush.
"You can have a seat over there." She says, pointing to the familiar waiting room. Off white walls. Blue cushions on the chairs. Dull gray carpet. It looks like every other waiting room. Someone could walk in here and never expect to be surrounded by so many problems. But the problems are everywhere, swirling around inside people's heads, like a thick, heavy fog. Anxiety works like that, warping the good and safe things and blowing up the bad ones, until you can't tell the difference between them. Like you're stuck in a tiny room with not enough air, only the sound of your heart screaming to keep you company. And all it does is get worse, until you can't take it anymore. Until you're hanging by a thread, over a pit of fear.