Page 2 of Ruin My Life
Andrea sits back, releasing me from her claw to shrug. “Because you’re chronically in your head.”
Fine, she makes a valid point. Once upon a time, seemingly in an alternate universe, I was the life of the party with a smile permanently plastered on my face and a spring in my step. Shitting sunshine and pissing rainbows.
Whatever the saying is.
I can usually fake it well enough to avoid concerned whispers behind my back. Or nagging texts from Ma with links to new dating apps. Or the not-so-subtle follow-up text from Dad reminding me to take my medication and respond to my mother before she assumes I’ve offed myself in a ditch somewhere.
The key is staying suitably numb enough to function the way they expect. To be pre-diagnosis Remy. To cruise on auto-pilot, flashing programmed smiles and repeating regurgitated, acceptable responses like, “Everything is great! I love life!” To pretend my heart isn’t a hollow organ taking up valuable real estate in my chest.
Doctors don't tell you the impacts of this miserable brain sickness. You're an inconvenience to everyone. Having a bad day? Hide those tears before you’re told to up the dose of your happy pills. Did your useless brain decide to focus on the same bullshit chained to your ankles since you were sixteen? Better keep it to yourself or someone might try to give you some ‘much-needed’ advice like, “You should join that yoga class my depressed sister goes to!”
Don’t even get me started on the list of homeopathic recipes Ma’s friend Cathy flings at me like frisbees.
People want to feel useful. Helpful. Appreciated. I’ve become a master of masking to avoid the disappointed looks, exasperated sighs and repetitive advice.
As if I wouldn’t do anything on this godforsaken earth to feel alive again.
Give me a brain transplant. A lobotomy. A fucking exorcism.
If it’ll bring me peace?
D, all of the above.
“Aaaandyou’ve been abducted by the tiny sadistic aliens in your brain again,” Andrea groans, flopping dramatically into the corner of the couch, her spiked seltzer held high to avoid spilling.
For the first time all night, I let out the closest thing to a laugh: a scoff-snort. Andrea is the only one who doesn’t handle me with kid gloves after the catastrophe years ago. She also doesn’t take no for an answer, especially when I’m wallowing through a depressive episode.
Like right now.
I swirl the grotesque contents of my cup, blowing out a breath. “It’s just been a bad week.”
She huffs, “I know, right? Everyone is freaked out after the shitshow on campus.”
“The fight at the athletes' dorm?”
Her brow lifts. “More like someone— probablymultiplesomeones— beating a guy to shit for no apparent reason.”
I grimace.
Shaking her head in dismay, she sighs, “Poor dude doesn't even remember much since he got a concussion.”
“Remind me to never go to a party there.”
Andrea levels an unamused glare at me. “Babe, you don’t goanywhereunless I drag you kicking and screaming.”
I give her the middle finger and slump into the couch, resigned to drown in Febreze-flavored liquor.
“Maybe I'm not in the mood to socialize… ever.”
She sits up, crossing her legs like a child as she levels her soulful brown eyes at me. The playfulness has vanished; in its place is a look only my best friend can give me without making me feel like a pathetic piece of shit. Because from her, sympathy doesn’t equate to pity.
“The date didn’t work out, did it?”
I contemplate not answering but it’s Andrea— she’ll keep drilling me until I give her the truth. The girl can detect lies like a police dog sniffs out drugs.
“No.”
She nods, mulling over the confession like a sour candy.
