Breathing Room

Breathing Room

*Draft Notes: Scan for cohesion of revisions, special attention to verb tense issues*

It happens suddenly. In the grocery store, in the shower, on the way home from work. If you're lucky, you see it coming. The days preceding are stressful. Sleep is in short supply. You learn to anticipate it, but you're never ready for it, no matter how many attacks you've been through.
I wonder, every time I am short of breath, why I reach for you. Why I push her away and wish she were you (I still love her, I do. But she is not you.). If you had not been there that first night, would the instinct remain? Do I panic for you, or for your experience? You have fought off the small, persistent deaths of asthma for years. I, a novice, am not yet ready to face death without you. I don't want to be.
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It was not the first time you'd seen a woman's breasts. It wasn't even the first time you'd seen mine. But somehow, my new found vulnerability permeated everything. I was subject to death. I could no longer hide in the teenage invincible. My lungs had seized, and seized control of my thinking. I was subject to them and terrified of everything. Out of modesty, or some primal instinct to protect my failing vitals, I can't say. But that night I clutched the sheet to my chest with child-like tenacity. You cannot take this from me, my literal security blanket.
"I need you to relax, Raeven. Uncurl." You knew you were asking the impossible of me, but that had never stopped you before. You always seemed so impervious to my limitations. If you didn't acknowledge them then they weren't a problem.
"I can't help you unless you let me in." How many times would you say that to me? As always, they sent a thrill of fear and desire through me. Let you in? Too terrifying, too big, too exactly what I've always wanted to do. Your words brought on their familiar panic--heart racing, breath catching--in this moment lethal. I hated you for how simple you made it sound, how easy you made it seem to trust you, how easily you sent me spiraling into giddiness.
Not now stupid! Can't you see you're killing me? I thought it as loud as I could, but if you heard me you paid it no mind. You just kept murmuring reassurances and waiting *draft note: waited? Unsure of tense* for me to trust you. Somehow, the fact that you had been through this before (dozens of times, hundreds of times) seemed distant and irrelevant. You were you and I was me and you might be capable of miracles but I was small and untried. I could not master the waves you trod upon so easily. If I moved in any way, I may die.
I sat curled half in on my self for ten minutes, almost unaware of the growing cramps in my legs. All my feeling was centered on that small weight around my breastbone. Was it fading, staying the same? I would not allow myself to think Is it getting worse? I had learned quickly those words were taboo, those words brought on the panic.
There was little that night that didn't panic me. Each urge to cough, to sneeze, to move in any way terrified me. Terror itself spiked the fear that I would surrender to adrenaline. Fight or flight would do me no good against this enemy. I would literally scare myself to death if I could not master my survival instincts. But how could I calm down when deep, steady breaths were impossible? Each inhalation gnawed away at what little faith in my lungs I had left. I felt sure I would never relax again. Then I'd find myself jerking awake, exhaustion robbing me of my paranoid rigidity.
The jolt of waking would start the fear cycle all over again, leaving me certain I would not make it through the night. Eventually, after several rounds of panic-black out-panic, a sort of resigned numbness fell over me and I slept. Once I gave up hope, it returned to me. *draft note: gangly phrasing, needs help, may toss entirely*
The instinct to rock is universal. I don't remember how I wound up in your arms. Just the slightest back and forth sway, waking me with its gentle rhythm. Somewhere in the panic-pain-darkness you saved me. Your solid arms made me feel smaller than they ever had before. One wrapped carefully around my shoulders so I couldn't curl back into the treacherous fetal position. The other holding my head against your chest. Your body curled around mine, arms and legs making a tent of the blanket. Here in this nest of you, I was safe. I breathed in the warm of you and listened to your heart beat. Its slow, dutiful strokes guided my pulse as your breaths did the same. Remembering it now, I hear you murmuring "It's alright," like my mother has since the day I was born. Birth trauma and asthma, I suspect, bear a striking resemblance *draft note: saying vs. telling-last sentence unneeded/too obvious to draw the parallel?*.
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         If you had not held me through that first long night, would I long for it every time after? Would I have made through that night to this one? I have been through dozens of attacks, only a handful as bad as that first. None as bad as the one I am having now.
         I sit frozen against the mound of pillows she arranged for me. She sits attentive at the foot of the bed, hovering, anxious for action. She thrums with nervous energy, filling the room with vibrations that threaten to resonate with the fine tremble in my chest. The road to the emergency room is paved with good intentions. I distract us both with my needs *draft note: this phrasing or this one?* I distract myself by thinking of ways to distract her: a blanket, less light, an extra pillow. Like sending the expectant father for boiling water. I don't need this. I need my rock.
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         I knew the only way to be experienced with something was to experience it yourself, but it still seemed unreal and wrong the first time I saw you have an attack. Intellectually, I knew you had felt the slow shirking edges, the sudden shallow, the sharp fire many times before I ever had. I knew you hadn't somehow passed it on to me and would never suffer again (though if I could have taken it from you, I would have). I recognized instantly the wet bark that only a struggling lung can make, the strange half-curled, half-open protective posture. But the panic, the panic was all wrong. Not for me (I panicked now, of course). But on you--the rooster's gloves fit better than panic did on you. Perception and reality crashed and clashed with each shaking breath you drew. This wasn't happening. You weren't clawing at my hand in fear, your eyes were not wide, your legs not giving out from under you. You were unshakable. You had to be. If you cracked, it all shattered. I couldn't stand without your strength. So I sank to the floor with you, holding your head and keeping you still. You would be my rock. I would help you. I would do everything you needed me to do, but that didn't mean something was wrong. Everything was still ok. It had to be. I wasn't being strong, and you weren't failing. We were just doing what we needed to do.
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         We're just doing what we need to do. I need to graduate. You need to find yourself. She needs to breathe. So I'm lying here alone, pretending to sleep so she can relax. I'm not calling you so you don't worry. I did text you (atk no big call if u can) *draft note: good detail or distracting?*. I always do. Just that little gesture that makes me feel like you're still within reach. Still there to support me, if I really need it. I've taken two hits off my rescue inhaler (the recommended limit) without any change, but I'm still telling myself I'm not to "really need it" yet. That's why I'm lying in my drafty apartment instead of lying in a hospital bed. Why I'm not calling you, or an ambulance. Because if I really need you, you'll come through. Because I'm terrified of hospitals. Because if I don't move, it'll be ok. I've been through this before, it'll be ok. You've left before, it'll be ok.
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         I felt the familiar tight rise in my chest at your words.
         "I can't stay. I'm leaving in the morning." I knew before you said anything this conversation would leave me choking back tears, but this I was not ready for.
         "I just can't stay here with her anymore. I'm sorry. I hate to leave you like this, but I just can't do this anymore." I let a few tears leak down my check to disguise my ragged breath. Tears you were expecting. I don't know why I held this back from you. Why I didn't fall into your comfortable support. You would have held me without a thought. Noting between us had changed.
         And that's why I couldn't let you in. why I made myself stand strong and alone that last night. If you hadn't changed then I would. I couldn't stand to lose you for no reason. There was nothing wrong with us. She had been done with you before you moved in. So why were you giving up now? I couldn't let her take you from me. So I threw you away. If you couldn't stay then you weren't welcome.
I spent that night on my couch. You were in your bed. She was in mine.
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I know eventually she will come to bed and I'll have to say something. I can pretend to be asleep, but the morning will still come. Better to make some gesture now when I can hide behind exhaustion and cut it short.
She opens the door slowly, after the first hard shove that's required to free it from the moisture-swollen frame. She hesitates before stepping into the room, then hesitates again once she's closed the door and we're swallowed up by blackness. I know she is standing at the foot of the bed, waiting for a sign that she's welcome.
If I say nothing now she will wait, listen to my breathing for a minute and climb into bed with a sigh. She will move as if to snuggle in against me, then discover I am sitting up and remember that she must lie carefully next to me tonight. I will wonder if she is thinking about you, and I will know it when she starts to softly cry. I may or may not pretend that wakes me and comfort her, depending on how tired the attack has left me, and how softly she is crying.
         If I say something now, we will fight, no matter how muted and unspoken our argument may be. She cannot help but feel that I blame her and I cannot help but blame her. You are gone, and on nights like this your absence screams at us.
         "Come lay down love, I'm feeling better."
         I lay one arm across the top of her pillow, leaving room for her to be as close to me as she can without risking me. She does, facing me, which is a good sign. My attack was severe enough that she's more worried about me than the tension hanging thick and making it hard for us both to breathe. Perhaps it was my small act of openness, a gesture of truce for just tonight. Tonight, what we can't ignore we don't have the strength to face.
         "How's Adam?"
         The bluntness of the question hits me like a blow to the gut. I cough and dislodge her, but not on purpose. For once, she doesn't read anything into it, and settles back in once I lay back down. I use the excuse of catching my breath to think of something to say. Anything. This is just not something we talk about.
         "I don't know. I just sent a text, he didn't call."
         She nods and shifts and I know she'll say nothing else about it. But I can't let it go. I'm not even allowed to say your name, let alone her. If you're mentioned at all, it's by people too distant from our daily lives to know that you two broke up almost a year ago. Too removed from us to know I'll go on living with her after college. To know that "such good friends" doesn't begin to cover it. Way too casual of acquaintances to even guess that you slept with me too. That we were all going to have some kind of crazy life together and be happy, really happy no matter how weird it sounds to everyone else. Not even close to guessing that we're all dying inside and can't figure out how to let it heal.
         "He was doing pretty much alright the last time I heard from him, though."
         I wonder when my mouth became such a traitor. Minutes have passed in silence, and I'm just sure that I imaged her saying anything at all in the first place. Minutes more pass, and I hope against hope that she had already fallen asleep, that the crying won't start in spite my sorry attempts to head it off. I can't comfort her tonight. I can't handle any more grief. The tightness in the throat, choking with shortness of breath, need for sighing that is textbook grief will do me in. I can't bury your ghost tonight. If it rises it will take me with it.
         She takes a deep breath, and I brace myself for the tears. The air leaves her lips hot and slow, stirring the hairs on my arm. I can't tell if I'm imagining wetness against my skin or not. I'm afraid to move, curling around her in a hug might set me off, but if I hold her now it might still save things.
         "That's good. I'm glad he's ok."
         My mouth hangs open and my muscles tense. I feel like I'm hanging half off a cliff and any movement might send me over. The moment stretches on and I wonder what I'm meant to say to something like that. I draw breath to say anything, even something stupid, but she saves me by filling the silence herself.
"I don't hate him half so much as he'd like to think."
I wonder why on earth she's saying all these things to me. I don't need to hear them. But she's right. You wouldn't believe her if she said these things to you.
"I miss him sometimes. I couldn't stand to date him, but I do still miss him. As a friend." She sighs and rolls over, and I can't tell if that's meant as a "Ok, Raeven, give me some imput. Chase after me" sort of gesture, or if she really just needs to roll over.
I'm so tired of trying to guess at the hidden meaning behind every movement, every phrase. Of guarding and analyzing the same for myself for fear of accidentally "saying" the wrong thing. Regrettably, I now know exactly what you meant every time you would come to me and fall apart. What does she want from me? I don't know what to tell me any better than I did you.
She falls asleep without giving any answers. Just that last enigmatic statement about missing you. Is she trying to sympathize? Am I supposed to try and plead her case and bring you back? I don't know, and I'm too tired to care.
She needed breathing room, she'd told you. Things had gotten too serious. It was killing her trying so hard to be who you wanted her to be. She just couldn't do it anymore. But she still wanted to be friends.
You need breathing room, you told me. Things had gotten too confusing. It was killing you trying so hard to be who she wanted you to be. You just couldn't do it anymore. But you still wanted to be friends.
I need breathing room. No one's listening.