Unbroken

I’m going to die. Every time.
    I figured out ways to manage most attacks before they get out of hand: meditation, and breathing exercises, and visualization stuff. And just having the pills in my purse makes a difference—knowing that if one hits, I can make it stop. But I wish they weren’t such a crutch for me, always there, tempting me with that numbness all over again. I wish I could be done with the meds for good.
    This time, I don’t need to open the vial. I force myself to slow my breath, and repeat the mantra I designed to steer me through it.
    I’m here. I’m OK. I can get through this.
    Slowly, I feel the panic dissolve, until I can hear the distant crash of the waves again, and the call of the gulls circling on the beach.
    I’m here. I’m OK.
    I look around at the clutter. Better get to work.
    I head out to my car and unload: I brought boxes and packing tape, and a carton of extra-thick refuse sacks. I start in the hallway, and work my way into the kitchen, sorting everything into three categories: trash, donate, and keep. It’s tough work, and by the time the light fades outside the window and the sun sets, I’m hot and sweaty and tired, but the kitchen isn’t even half-way packed.
    My cellphone rings. Daniel. I put down the packing tape and answer. “Hey babe.”
    “Hey, is everything OK?” Daniel sounds concerned. “You said you’d call when you got there.”
    “Oh.” I stop. “Shit, I’m sorry, I forgot. I figured I’d just get right into the packing,” I add quickly, like an excuse. “Get it done faster.”
    “Oh yeah? How’s it going?”
    I look around at the mess of boxes and garbage sacks. “It’s way more work than I figured,” I sigh. “I don’t think I’ll be back by next week. There’s just so much stuff !”
    Daniel laughs, low and comforting. “I had a feeling. Remember when my Uncle Greg died, and I had to go pack up his office? There was like, twenty years of old newspaper clippings all filed away to sort.”
    “Right.” Some of the tension in my chest eases. Daniel understands—he always understands. I picture his brown eyes, and lazy smile; he’s probably sprawled on the couch with a beer by now, his reward after a long day in the law library. “Still, I’m sorry.” I add, biting my lip. “I wanted to be back to study, and you have that first big final next week.”
    “It’s OK.” Daniel sounds unconcerned by my delay. “I’ll probably be in the bunker working all weekend. Except, I miss you.”
    “I miss you too,” I reply softly.
    “Hey, how about I come down and help out?” he suggests. “Two pairs of hands will be faster than one, and I could use the break. I’ve been staring at the same chapters on contract law so long, it’s all a blur.”
    “No!” I yelp loudly. “Thanks, I mean, but I have to study too. Here. I figure, with all the peace and quiet, and the ocean….” I’m babbling, I know, but I can’t help the panic that rises in my chest whenever I think about Daniel here, in this town, in this house—my past clashing up against my future. I’ve worked so hard to keep them apart, make it a clean break, that somehow I know him being here would be too much for me to take.
    “It’ll just be another few days.” I promise him quickly. “A week, tops. Not even. I’ll pack, and study, be done in no time.”
    “Don’t work too hard,” Daniel warns me affectionately. “Or do I have to text you reminders to eat and sleep?”
    “No,” I protest. “I can take care of myself!”
    “And remember to meditate. You know you get panicky—“
    “I know.” I cut him off quickly.
    “OK, well take care, call me tomorrow.”
    “Love you.” I whisper to him, and hang up, alone in the now-dark room. Despite my protest to Daniel, I realize that he’s right: I haven’t eaten all day. My stomach growls restlessly.
    I look around. I brought groceries with me, I could just cook a simple pasta on the stove, or nuke a frozen meal, but then I’d have to sit here to eat it, alone with all these ghosts…
    No. I need real food, and more importantly, I need a real drink.
    I grab my sweatshirt and my keys, and go.
    There’s only one place in town to get a decent drink, or food served past 9pm: Jimmy’s Tavern. I pull into the parking lot, already mostly full with beat-up old pick-up trucks. I find myself nervously scanning the rows for that familiar flash of cherry red. No sign of it.
    What did you expect? I scold myself. The way