CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

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2020

          Sophomore year appeared to drag on even longer than freshman year.

          The novelty of college had since worn off and I found myself trudging through each day like one did during a snowstorm, struggling to lift their legs and keep moving forward. I didn't find much motivation to keep my momentum, as everything felt pointless and I was living for the thought that each passing day brought me closer to graduation, but that shouldn't be the point of college. I was meant to be enjoying my time—people didn't refer to college years as the best years of their lives for no reason, as everyone enjoyed reminding me of—which only worsened the guilt and inadequacy feelings.

          Generally speaking, though, I was okay. I was stable.

          Though I spent the vast majority of my time hating every single thing I produced for each of my courses and felt too stupid to even sit next to my peers, school allowed me to keep my mind busy and far away from things I shouldn't be losing sleep over. The trial was done and dusted and it was something I wouldn't have to worry about for a while, something I should be excited about, but there would always be a gnawing feeling resting at the base of my skull that would never let me rest. I wasn't sure if I could fully blame these suffocating feelings on my anxiety or if there was some hidden truth behind them, so I'd remained stagnant, choking on nothing, and no one managed to explain why.

          My legal knowledge was non-existent, so I didn't know whether a retrial would be a possibility or not or if they would be able to cut their sentences short for good behavior. I didn't want any of them to get out earlier than planned, as I'd need that time away from them and safe to properly process everything that had happened and how lonely and isolated I'd felt, and it would never feel fair if they somehow managed to still get the upper hand.

          More than ever, I was feeling the despair brought by the need to be perfect, the perfect victim (and, Lord, I loathed that word and hated referring to me as such, like I was weak and powerless in the middle of all of this), the perfect woman, but that was unattainable. I knew that, and I still kept chasing an impossible standard in hopes it would be enough to save whatever was left of my dignity and self-respect. I knew it wouldn't be easy to deal with a negative legal outcome—if they had gotten away with just a community service conviction or a simple fine, where no actual consequences would be suffered—but I had failed to consider the implications of a temporary positive outcome.

          It reminded me that everything good had an expiration date, and I hated it.

          If anything minimally positive had come from all of this, my social life was more active than ever, even if I wasn't that active of a participant.

          With Ingrid and Savannah living for the college nightlife and me being a people-pleasing introvert who could never say no to anyone (a fact about me I was terrified would be weaponized against me in court, evidence that I hadn't refused consent, when I had, in fact, refused to do a single thing I wasn't comfortable with), our apartment was known as the party place in the building. As always, I still didn't enjoy those parties, and would much rather stay hidden in my bedroom, but the apartment was always filled with people and it was borderline impossible to find some peace and quiet. Therefore, I was forced to mingle and socialize with strangers, which made me break out in hives by the end of the night.

          It gave other people—and, in a way, me—the illusion that this was something I could grow accustomed to and learn to enjoy as time went on, but I felt like a fraud.

          I refused to drink anything that wasn't prepared by my own hands or by Ingrid or Savannah, which made people think I was impossibly boring and uptight, like they had forgotten all about the frat party. I could deal with that, as being seen as unapproachable by men was the least of my concerns and it would help me sleep better at night, knowing I wouldn't betray Chase just by accidentally leading guys on (not that it was my fault if they thought me being nice was a sign I wanted them to get into my pants). I knew everyone could tell how awkward I felt, purposefully running away from conversations and completely fumbling those I couldn't avoid, and my body language was clear evidence of how uncomfortable I felt. Whenever I caught a reflection of myself on adequate surfaces, staring at them like a moth drawn to a flame, I found myself with arms crossed, hair shielding my face from curious glances, and it was no wonder people were aware this was the last place I wanted to be at.

          It couldn't be less obvious that I was my parents' daughter. They were naturals at chit chatting and mingling, while I remained unable to not feel like I was making a fool out of myself by even being present at the party. People must have been thinking about how arrogant and pretentious I was, believing I was far above their mindless drunken chatter, and the thought of being disliked made my eyes well up with tears, which, in turn, would make me retreat even further into my personal bubble and widen the gap between me and everyone else.

          I wanted to be normal, to fit in, but it felt impossible.

          I also wanted to be with Chase, as every atom in my body ached to be with him, but there was no way I'd be able to sneak out of the party and come up with a plausible excuse under such short notice.

          Sometimes I was successful at thinking on my feet, but those were rare occasions; most of the time, I was way too consumed by my thoughts and my anxiety to do so, meaning I had to plan everything in advance. Most of the stuff I was so deathly terrified of never ended up happening, but, in my head, the fear justified the mental strain of agonizing over potential outcomes as long as I remained safe. I had to weigh every option, consider every possibility—are there any lacunas in this excuse? Will it be believable enough? Can I ensure I won't be followed?—but it was for the sake of something much bigger and more important than my personal comfort.

          "Made you a drink," Sav told me, after appearing out of nowhere, and handed me a mojito and a ginger and lemon cookie to munch on. I could only imagine how miserable I looked for her to decide that was what I needed. "You okay? You're looking a bit pale."

          "I think I maybe should have eaten something before the party," I replied, which wasn't a complete lie. My stomach was rumbling almost as loud as the bass melody from the song blasting from the speakers, and my legs struggled to hold me upright. It was a miracle I'd managed to get out of bed. "I'm not feeling too well, so thanks for the cookie."

          She tossed her braids over her shoulder and turned around to lean her back against the wall, mimicking me. "Yeah, I feel you. I switched to water a while ago and have been devouring these cookies. I don't know what they put in these things, but they're so addictive." She dramatically closed one of her perfectly manicured hands into a fist, which made me wince with how sharp her nails were. "Ingrid, on the other hand . . ."

          "What about her?"

          "Every time I see her, she has a brand new drink in her hand. She was upset about something earlier, though she wouldn't tell me what it was"—a pang of guilt rushed right through my stomach like a spear, as I'd withdrawn so deep inside myself I hadn't paid much attention to the girls—"and you know how she is. She never knows when to stop. I tried to get her to drink some water, eat something substantial, but she wouldn't listen. I don't know what to do."

          Savannah went on and on about Ingrid's drinking habits, which worried me, but I couldn't understand how and why she routinely found herself in those situations and dragged us into them by association, the designated mess-cleaners. I wasn't one to talk, not with my poor coping strategies and inability to deal with frustration in a way that didn't involve either tears or isolation, but I knew my limits, and could imagine I was strong willed enough to stop myself from being consumed by an addiction. Ingrid wasn't, and it was obvious.

          I felt horrible to even allow that thought from crossing my mind, but it was true. I was stronger than Ingrid Vogel herself, who turned to alcohol (and, sometimes, even heavier stuff) whenever things didn't go her way, and I didn't need anyone to sort out my problems in my place. I'd have Chase regardless, and had been fighting like hell to keep him, even with everything stacked up against us, and I hadn't given up the way she had. She'd give up because she knew we'd be there to pick her back up, and maybe I truly was a terrible friend, but there were times I didn't know how much longer I could go on bending and breaking myself for her sake. I'd given too much away already.

          I regretted those thoughts instantly and wanted to believe that wasn't me thinking rationally—it was the combined side-effects of a poor diet, horrid sleeping habits, and all the stress I was crumbling under, though it was no excuse.

          I remembered none of it had been her fault, and she had her own issues, even those she didn't speak about aloud. I couldn't blame her for that, considering the portion of my personal life I'd shared with her was microscopic, and it was only natural for people to want to have boundaries and keep secrets. It wasn't my place to judge and, whatever she was going through, whatever had made her spiral out of control made my heart ache, especially because I was physically incapable of pulling her out of that dark hole. I would if I could, and could only pray she knew that.

          We later found out Ingrid had, in fact, had too much to drink.

          It wasn't the kind of drunken state she'd sleep off, either. She was barely coherent by the time one of our random guests alerted us to what was going on, and, had we gotten there moments too late, it might have been too late for her as well. Savannah was hysterical while we waited for an ambulance to arrive, watching our apartment empty like the kitchen had erupted into flames, and I was the one with vomit in my hair.

          Ingrid had to get her stomach pumped that night, an event no one forgot about. She apologized profoundly, swearing she hadn't done it on purpose, that she would find help, and Savannah would always be there to pick up her pieces and clean up. I'd done all the dirty work, though, and I didn't need them to thank me because I'd done what a friend would have without expecting anything in exchange, but I suspected Ingrid wanted me to feel like there was some transactional value attached to it.

          I'd held myself together for a while after that, but I couldn't take it any longer. The second my mind screamed at me that I was being used, that I was being tested to see how far I could be pushed until I broke, until people realized they couldn't depend on me any longer, I felt about to explode. I didn't know how to exist without being liked, and the thought of them hating me was unbearable, even when all my thoughts about them the whole evening had been abhorrent. The craving for perfection was suffocating me, draining me dry right down to the bone, but it only made me understand why addictions were so hard to kick. They became a part of you, sucking all the life out of you until they became everything, the only thing about you worth noticing.

          Even so, I knew I'd still keep trying to be present. I'd give them all the best versions of myself, even when I wouldn't do the same for myself out of fear of being called selfish or egotistical.

          And still, I slept at Chase's that night. With my friend in the hospital, I still turned my back on her and fell right into the arms of the only person that would ever truly matter.

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2021

         Junior year ended up being a slight improvement when compared to sophomore year in a few areas, but I felt my anxiety deteriorate as time went on.

         With senior year and, consequently, graduation creeping closer and closer, I grew restless, mind racing with the thought of everything I needed to be prepared for. I hardly felt ready for any of it, even halfway through junior year, and people would often tell me I was jumping the gun unnecessarily, including my own parents, but they didn't know a thing about the turmoil in my head. I continued feeling stupider than my peers and inadequate, overcome by a severe case of impostor syndrome, and that reflected on my grades and will to participate during lectures or to devote any extra effort to anything that wasn't Film Theory adjacent.

         In general, my professors were far too busy to care about me individually, and I was still keeping my grades at an acceptable enough level, just not high enough to ever dream about graduating with honors, but I didn't mind and wouldn't if they didn't, either. I'd always been a reserved person, often too mortified to speak up and say the wrong thing, so my silence and reclusion would probably have been a lot more concerning if I was as outgoing as Savannah, for example. She was one of those people who thrived in college, with Ingrid reminding her that's where she'd probably end up peaking and triggering a week-long argument between them that culminated in Sav moving out for a whole month.

          At that point, I'd grown far too numb to their unnecessary arguments to even care, especially since that one hadn't even felt particularly serious to me or like it had truly struck a nerve, so I didn't even blink. At least they weren't attempting to get me to choose a side between them anymore—if they were, they didn't do so verbally or in an obvious manner, so I could argue I hadn't even noticed it—which allowed me to stay neutral and not get involved, which helped maintain whatever was left of the harmony in the apartment.

          I saw myself as being far above that kind of stuff, remembering none of that would matter in a year. I wouldn't be thinking about petty arguments, but I'd be obsessing about whether I'd achieved my goals and become the person I'd wanted to be when I was younger. However, that forced me to have the smallest idea of who I wanted to be later on and what I wanted to do with my life, something I had yet to dedicate my less than precious time to.

           Chase was the only aspect of my future I was certain about, and he was the thing I'd been running after and working towards all this time, which made me feel quite pathetic in retrospect. While everyone else around me—mostly everyone else, to be fair—had the faintest idea of where their future would take them, what they wanted to pursue a career in, what their interests were, or what they were good at, I had nothing going for me besides famous parents I routinely ignored and my relationship with Chase, which didn't feel nearly as steady as it used to.

          Back when it was still a novelty, back when we were still testing the waters, we'd still find new places to hide from the world. Now, there was this persistent fear he was settling for what was comfortable and not for the person he actually wanted to be with, and, though he hadn't said it to me directly, it only made me work harder to be who I assumed he wanted me to be—smarter, more mature, more well-spoken, more devoted. Some of those things had strict limits, as I couldn't reach out for him in public or even look his way for a fraction of second longer than normal without my heart rate instantly panicking, and I had to make up for the lacunas and my mistakes in private.

          As we both got busier, the opportunities to sneak around decreased, and so did the variety of places where we could meet. It was embarrassing how little of my home city I knew, like I hadn't been living there my whole life, like it was a childhood friend I'd kept at arm's length and hadn't bothered to catch up with whenever it wasn't convenient, so I wasn't of much help. I knew that frustrated Chase and it wasn't helping my case, either, as it infantilized me and strengthened my already unbeatable inferiority complex, but I always tried to justify things in my head—I was letting him take charge, I was letting him make the decisions that brought the results that would harm him the least, and I wanted to look out for him.

          In my head, I really was doing everything right.

          Whether that matched the real version of events, that was a different story. Trying would only get me so far, and there would come a time when it would no longer be enough, especially when I constantly felt like I was walking across a platform of shattered glass.

          So, I did the one thing that I could. When the spring semester ended and people left for the summer, I took advantage of the trip to Madrid I'd been planning for years to visit my grandparents and asked him to tag along. It was a metropolis, sure, but it was remote enough, too out of the way for us to risk running into anyone we knew, and, as long as I succeeded in keeping those two sides of my life strictly separate, it would be a pleasant change of pace and scenario.

          I wasn't sure whether he knew how huge of a deal and how personal that trip was to me and I hadn't had it in me to even mention it, wanting to keep him as relaxed as possible, even when we'd be in the vicinity of people related to me. He'd go sightseeing while I'd spent time with my grandparents and reconnected with my roots in search of motivation to keep holding on, to believe in the promise of brighter, better times. The sun would do me good, I was certain of it, and I intended on making the most out of our summer abroad.

          The scalding sun of early June brought me to tears as soon as we landed and, as I knew I'd made sure to ask my grandparents to not pick me up from the airport as there were some errands I needed to run beforehand (lie, lie, lie), my first instinct was to reach out for Chase's hand. It was the first time I'd ever done it in public and my heart nearly burst out of my chest, as though it was a scandalously illegal gesture, but I'd deal with the guilt later.

          We enjoyed the sun, just me and him, and I brushed up on my Spanish and ability to love other people besides him. I hadn't felt loved by anyone in a long time, Chase aside, and being in Madrid left conflicting emotions in my brain—I didn't want to leave, as that would shatter the illusion of the fairy tale we'd been living under the bright blue skies, but I also couldn't wait to head back home with my newfound confidence in myself and my future. Things still felt dangerously shaky and I could feel Chase's walls growing progressively taller whenever reality crept in and reminded us that paradise wouldn't last forever. I wanted to crawl underneath his skin, weave myself around his bones and get lodged in the spaces between his ribs, the warmest place even in the cold grayness of home, but I couldn't impose my presence.

          For a while, we allowed ourselves to pretend everything was fine. For a while, I gave myself a pass to believe it was sustainable, mostly because I didn't know what I'd do if that, too, turned out to be false, a lie brought by my hopeless romantic tendencies. I'd devoted everything about me and everything I had to our relationship, rebuilt my entire life around him, and blindly trusted him with that and my silly, fragile little heart. It was the biggest act of bravery I could muster.

          In the warmth of Madrid, I vowed I wouldn't turn my back on him, even when things got even harder, even when the distance and the isolation and the lying became unbearable. It would have to be worth it.

          He'd have to not break my heart. Every day I prayed he wouldn't be capable of such cruelty.

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we are DONE with the past timeline. it's been a long time coming.

rude comments towards penn won't be tolerated btw <3 you're free to not agree with her and think she's a terrible friend, but please consider the following: how far can you push someone until they break and are people-pleasers exempt from it? are they supposed to be permanent caregivers? are they not allowed to reach a breaking point?

one more thing: my characters' opinions don't necessarily reflect my own. i say this in every single book i post, and it's true. it's even more important now. if you've read anything else i've written, you know where i stand regarding addiction, and you know i think they're a real bitch to deal with and to treat, but they're very real and they ruin lives. they kill. people consumed by addiction are not thinking clearly; though you can't excuse every single terrible thing they do (and you shouldn't), remember where that's coming from, and remember that, most of the time, it's not THEM doing and saying those hurtful things. 

substance abuse isn't the only addiction there is, and penn here has her own issues to deal with (and she probably wouldn't be saying these things if the circumstances were different. but i digress). not to blindly defend everything she does and says, but it's just some food for thought.

on other news: stop disrespecting people's hard work and creativity. be original. thank u xx