Lavender Gray

A crowd is chasing after me, and I am running as fast as I can. My blood is burning inside my veins, and my heart is palpitating rapidly. They all want a piece of me, and I am running to save my life. I cannot hear what they are saying, but I can tell how terrified I am that they might reach me and rip my guts out. “Oh no, it can’t happen again!” I sigh, gasping for air.

When I wake up, I see the light dimmed while hearing the heart monitor beeping with each beat. I realize I was dreaming when I hear the machine beeping faster and louder, which I infer makes the nurses jump into the room to check on me.

“Is there anything wrong, Mr. Sky?” “Do you need anything?” “Perhaps Dr. Mayers can prescribe you another valium,” the two nurses near me say, almost synchronized.

“I’m alright,” I tell them. “It was just a nightmare.”

Then they tell me that I am under observation for the next 24 hours and that any sign of stress or anxiety should be noted and reported immediately. It is only now that I realize I am in a hospital bed, surrounded by the sick grayness of the walls and a gelid atmosphere reinforced by the air conditioner set at the lowest temperature. The nurses explained that I had an episode of an intense panic attack, which, although rare, can lead to vasovagal syncope — a sudden drop in heart rate and blood pressure caused by anxiety and high-stress levels.

“Although you passed out, it is harmless, but we still need to prevent you from being under stress in the next few hours since it is pivotal for your nervous system to rest right now.”, they exclaimed.

I nodded and chose not to engage; I was so tired I could sleep for hours. They asked if I wanted pills for sleeping, and I agreed. I was too exhausted to think about how I got there, or what led me to this. All I wanted was to rest as much as I could since my whole body felt sore and my mind wouldn’t stop racing for a second.

While waiting for the nurses to come back, I felt something burning inside my chest — a familiar feeling that used to show up when I was at my worst. It was an agony hard to soften and a pressure that reminded me of how miserable I could be when things got out of control.

Two days later, I was at home informing the school that I would be away for a week. I didn’t go into the details, but I was certain that the words “personal reasons” and “mental care” were enough to justify my absence. I checked my phone out of habit, and as usual, there were no replies. Should I tell my family about what happened? Should I talk to my friend about it? How did I manage to get to the hospital? I soon noticed that thinking of these questions made me feel agitated again, so I managed to stop.

My family lives far away, and Keyla, my only friend, might be too busy dealing with her own problems. I knew I had to be strong for myself if I wanted to make it through the day. I left the hospital with a 4-page prescription and was willing to prioritize my health.

The idea of passing out in front of someone again makes me panic without hesitation. For a loner like me, dealing with something this serious feels like hiding myself away in my shell again, stopping the world from seeing me through the cracks. I was never good at being vulnerable, and I wasn’t in a good place to make an effort this time.

I was far from feeling pity for myself, and I didn’t think I was the only one in the world who always felt like they didn’t belong anywhere. I just wanted to take good care of myself and give myself all the kindness I needed to get through this and hold on to the hope of a better life. Once again, I knew I needed to change, but I didn’t know how or where to start.

After being at home for almost three days, I finally got a call from my mom. “Hey, Gabriel! How have you been, dear?” she said in a loving tone.

“Hi, Mom! I’ve been good! You know, doing the same, teaching my kids, working out, and trying to live a healthy life!” I said shyly.

“Oh, that’s good to know!” she said. “Listen, your dad needs new sunglasses. He feels like the sun is burning his cornea, so I wonder if you could help us buy him a new pair.”

There are usually two reasons why my mom calls me. She is either in need of money or affection. I usually have neither to offer but have no choice other than to give in to her pleading tone. I am far from being a bad son, but I feel guilty thinking that I cannot offer them more. They always tried their best to raise me, and now it is my turn to give back for what they have done for me.

“Sure thing, Mom!” I told her with a little hesitation. “Just let me know how much it is, and I’ll transfer the money.”

“Oh, what a lovely son you are! We are so blessed that we can count on you to help us. I love you more than anything!” she finally said, exasperated.

I told her I loved her back and was finally able to hang up. Will I ever get the chance to really feel loved by someone? To feel loved without having to give something in return? To love and be loved unconditionally? I guess these are answers that only time will tell.