Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151333 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 757(@200wpm)___ 605(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
My mother texted me once to ask what was wrong. I typed out a huge explanation that took up my entire phone screen, and she never replied. That's six inches of tiny words. I don’t know if she just doesn’t care or if she feels guilty. Or maybe she got distracted by something on QVC. I guess it really doesn’t matter since the end result is the same for me.
An hour ago Megan dropped me off at home and now I’m sitting on my bed with Gus in my lap, as I hold five written prescriptions I can’t afford to fill, and a treatment plan I won’t be able to commit to. I can’t pay for weekly visits to a psychiatrist who specializes in eating disorders, anxiety, and depression.
I’ve never considered myself depressed, though. Sad and frustrated sometimes, but not depressed.
Either way, I won’t be able to go to find out.
Two nights ago, I sent a text to Jude telling him how I was, and he responded with a Great. Hope you continue to feel better.
It seemed short, almost cold and formal. He didn’t even call me Sparkles. I was hoping he would, because it always gives me a little burst of happiness, and it’s been a while since I felt that way.
Maybe I am depressed.
Since I came home from the hospital on a Thursday afternoon, Rebecca convinced me over the phone to stay home until Monday morning and not go back to school or work yet. I have a doctor’s note for school, so I’m not worried about issues there, but I am worried about missing so much of my paycheck. I pay the electric and cable bill at the house. Not because my mother can’t afford to pay it, but because she forgets to. Lights and TV are two things I’m not willing to live without, so I’d rather pay myself to make sure I don’t end up sitting in the dark.
I’ve spent my entire Friday cleaning my room and researching the ailments I was diagnosed with to see what I can do to feel better without expensive doctors and prescriptions.
At five p.m., my phone chirps with a text.
Jude: Hey.
I stare at the screen with surprise. He’s never texted me on his own before.
Me: Hi.
Jude: How are you feeling?
There’s a constant burn in my stomach. It feels like there’s something stuck in my throat and chest. My ears hurt and my insides feel jittery. I’m exhausted and have brain fog.
Me: Much better, thanks.
Jude: Good. I have your hat and your book bag.
Oh, shit.
Me: I totally forgot about those.
Jude: I can swing by after work and bring them to you. I’m leaving in about ten minutes.
Me: You don’t have to do that. You can give them to me Monday when I go to school.
Jude: I’d rather bring them to you tonight.
Geez. He really wants to give me my stuff back.
Me: Okay. You can just leave them on the front steps and I’ll grab them later.
Jude: Can’t I just hand them to you like a normal person?
No, Jude. I look awful with no makeup on and I haven’t had a shower in days and I feel grimy. And I don’t want you to see me crawling in and out of the window because opening the front door is a huge nope.
The chirp of the message app pulls my attention back to the screen.
Jude: Are you avoiding me?
Me: Of course not. I just don’t feel well.
Jude: I thought you said you felt better?
Me: I meant I felt better than before, but still not great.
Jude: Got it. I guess I’ll leave it on your front steps, then.
Me: You don’t have to, but thank you.
Forty minutes later, my phone rings, and his number lights up my screen.
“Hello?” I say.
“It’s me. I’m at your house.”
Damn!
“You can just leave the stuff. You really didn’t have to come all the way over here.”
He clears his throat. “Actually, I did. I ran into your friend earlier. I asked her how you were, and she said she was worried about you. She said something like ‘especially about you having to live in that house.’”
My heart leaps up into my throat. I can’t believe Megan actually said that to him! She promised she wouldn’t say anything to anyone.
“Really?” I say casually. “What else did she say?”
“That’s all she said. But it was pretty obvious she’s concerned about something.”
“Megan is a drama queen. I’m fine.”
“Skylar, come to the front door. Just let me see that you’re okay.”
I haven’t seen the inside of the front door in years. I’m not even sure if my mother uses that door anymore. I think she uses the garage door to get in and out and to have her new treasures brought into the house, which still requires careful navigation through rows and piles, only with spider webs.