Shells by Emily Borsetti

I blame the stuffed shells. 

Up until then, I coordinated everything as best as possible, timing the family buffet line perfectly, pouring my drink when most people rushed to the food, casually waiting at the fringe until their plates were fully loaded and they found a seat. It’s a newer practice, one of the many small adjustments I’ve made in my life. Sleep more, drink more water, carry my rescue medication, wait until I can successfully navigate a family food line alone. It prevents anyone from asking if I need help with my plate or—like last time—just scooping potatoes onto my plate. I thanked my oxygen-wearing aunt and restrained myself from reminding her that I was okay. It’s my brain, not my arms! So much less stressful if I’m navigating it alone. 

But it was at the stuffed shells tray where I hesitated a second too long, giving my uncle’s second wife a chance to slide up next to me. 

No, third wife. Susan. 

Everyone is quick to suggest mental exercises for the brain, but I think they mean Suduko or Wordle for people my age. Instead, I’ve taken to rehearsing names, a private little practice, before I’m around other people. Prevents more of my stumbles. Tonight I sang out the names along to the tune of a Christmas song. Mike, Bobby, Susan, Neil, Maria, Sarah, Elle and Adam. 

“Hey Em!” Susan says as she loads a salad mix on her plate. 

I smile back, wishing her Merry Christmas, as politely and quickly as possible, before shifting my focus back onto the food tray. I scoop out two shells, before realizing I’ve already placed two on my plate. 

Hmpf.  

I didn’t realize I did that already. 

I put the spoon back, as smoothly as possible. 

It’s alright, automatic habit, not to worry. Clear the face, just move on. 

“Need any help?” Susan asked as she deftly scooped shells before moving around me.

It takes me a beat longer to realize Susan is waiting for me to answer. 

“Oh no, thanks.” 

I scoot out quickly, settling for my plate at hand, rather than more time in line. Ignoring the Aunts and Uncles table, I move to the smaller room, looking for an empty seat. 

“Em!” my cousin calls, “come sit here, we’ll make space!”

After 10 minutes of eating, my plate looks unchanged. After 15 minutes, I manage to properly position my very festive napkin over my extremely festive paper plate to disguise my untouched food. At 16 minutes I make my escape. At 17 I’m stuck at the garbage can, answering the same questions my aunt asked me last month, and at 20, I’ve found myself hiding out in the bathroom. 

You’ve got about five minutes before someone starts up a search party for you. 

I know I’m lucky. Lucky to have a family and people to spend the holidays with. I’m grateful to have such a large support system, people who ask and care about my health. But, as I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, as the moment builds up, as I think about it all, I hear that tiny voice whisper from within. 

But maybe they don’t. 

Where were they when I couldn’t drive? 

Or when I was hospitalized, pick a time, any time? 

Where were any of them days after any one of my seizures happened when I was holding on by a thread? 

If only they actually saw what you looked like. 

Then they would really get it. If any one of them saw you, they would really understand the before, during and after. Not just the jumbled words or the misspeaks. They would see me disconnect, become not me. How long it takes me to recover. The fear that it’ll happen again, because I know this has just started for me. 

The spiral is here before I even realize.

Breathe. 

Breathe. 

BREATHE!

I force myself back to the mirror, force myself to find my self, and look. Direct eye contact is still new to me, but it brings me back. Back to the moment, to myself, to now. 

In and out, maintaining eye contact with myself, I take control back.

In. Thank god they weren’t there any of those times. 

Out. Thank god they never saw. 

In. Thank god I have them. 

Out.