Page 220 of Disarm
I choke on my coffee. “Shut up.”
He kisses my forehead before we head out, thumb brushing under my eye where the circles are darkest. “I mean it,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to protect me from your brain.”
The thing is… I don’t totally believe that.
So I nod and let him think that I do.
My copingtoolbox this week is overstudying, overtraining, and sex to deal with all the feelings I don’t want to address.
If there is a paragraph in my notes that hasn’t been highlighted, underlined, and annotated, I feel personally attacked. I spend extra time in the weight room, even when Coach says, “Go home, Burton, you’re done.” Shooting drills until my shoulders burn, like maybe I can sweat the dreams out. Every night is a blur of messy sheets, sweat and Miguel cuddling me to death after making me come more times than I can count.
Typical college masochism.
The safety plan that’s hanging on the fridge states otherwise.
When you start ramping up in these ways, check the following:
Are you sleeping?
Are you eating?
Are you isolating?
Let’s do a little mental welfare check, shall we? Sleep, barely. Eating enough to pass a casual inspection, but not enough to convince Miguel. Isolating? Not exactly. I’m around people all the time. I’m just… not letting them see past the surface.
Martin
Stats study group? I promise not to cry this time.
Caleb
No promises on my end, but yeah. Library at 3?
Martin
Bring snacks or I’ll tell your boyfriend that you’re surviving on water and the will to live.
I throwa granola bar into my bag. It counts.
In the quiet moments—walking between classes, standing in line at the café, brushing my teeth—I catch little intrusive flashes. Not full scenes. Just… snapshots.
My mother’s boyfriend’s hand on the cupboard, blocking it.
An empty fridge.
Mom on the bed saying, “You know what happens when you stay too long in a life that hurts.”
I shake them off like spiderwebs. Keep moving. If I keep moving, they can’t stick.
That’s always been the rule.
Dr. K does not buyit. “You look exhausted,” she says.
“Wow,” I say, faking a laugh. “Way to make a guy feel good about himself.”
She tilts her head. “You’re joking,” she says. “But I want to name it. I’m hearing ‘I’m fine’ from your words and ‘I’m barely holding it together’ from your body.”
I scrub my hands over my face. “Nightmares,” I admit. “You were right. Psych lecture left a residue. My brain decided to turn it into late-night programming.”
