Breaking Through

Chapter 9

9

Hilary

I ran across campus, doing my best not to bump into anyone. My first exam on Monday was at ten in the morning, so I usually slept in a little. However, today I had last Friday’s test scheduled at 8:30 a.m., and I had totally forgotten about it!

Because of that, I ran like a crazy woman, my tote firmly under my left arm, my coffee mug in my right hand.

I stepped into the classroom at 8:33 a.m. and the professor was handing the tests to the students. My eyes scanned around, searching for a place to sit, but I froze. The classroom wasn’t full, but there were only boys here. Only men. About a dozen or more.

I barely registered as the professor said, “Miss Taylor, you’re late.” I opened my mouth to explain to him what happened, but no words came out. He sighed. “Take a seat.”

I glanced around. Would I take a seat? If I didn’t take this test, I would fail this class. Wasn’t I strong enough to push through my fear, my panic, to pass a class? I wasn’t so sure.

Shaking so hard I was sure I was going to fall on my face, I finally moved, taking the nearest empty seat I could find to the door. Just in case. Just so I could tell myself nothing was going to happen and that I was safe. This was a healthy environment, a respectful college. Besides, the professor was here, and he would never allow anything to happen to one of his students, would he? Well, he was also a man.

I closed my eyes and tried my therapist’s technique. The tap-tap of a pen, the chuckle of someone behind me, the whispers at my side, the footsteps of the professor … It was useless here.

I can do this. I will do this.

I took a deep breath and willed my heart and my breathing to slow down. Not so easy.

I can do this.

Just as I grabbed a pen from my tote, the professor handed me the test, then walked back to his table in front of the class. “You may begin,” he said.

I turned to my paper and started reading the words. I read the same sentence five times and still couldn’t absorb what it said, not when I was surrounded by men. Men who were stealing glances at me every few seconds. Men who smiled at me as if I were their prey.

Okay, okay. I was imagining things. Wasn’t I?

Calm down, Hilary.

I dared to peek to my sides, and sure enough, most of the guys in the classroom were watching me. Some scribbled a little, then looked at me for a few seconds, then returned their attention to their test, and the cycle went on. But a couple were blatantly staring at me, as if they could see the answers to the test in my face? I wasn’t sure.

Stifling a shudder that started in the base of my neck and fought its way down my spine, I did my best to block the men out of my sight and my mind.

Focus on the test. Focus on the test.

I stared at the words on my paper and repeated that mantra for about five minutes, until my hands shook a little less and my heart didn’t pound so painfully against my rib cage. Still paying attention to my pencil and the paper in front of me, I finally started the test. It was a challenge to ignore the world around me and immerse myself in economics 102, but I managed.

Until thirty minutes later, when the professor’s cell phone rang, and he excused himself, saying he needed to get this call. He exited the classroom and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone with over a dozen strangers. A dozen men. Men who probably had s*x on their minds.

My hands started shaking again, and I sucked in a ragged breath.

Focus, Hilary. Focus!

But I couldn’t focus, not anymore.

Then, a guy’s hand reached over my desk, and he dropped a folded piece of paper on my test. He quickly went back to his seat on my right, but not without brushing his hand over mine first. Wincing, I jerked back and dropped my pencil on the floor.

Shocked, I stared at the piece of paper as if it could bite me. The fold wasn’t too hard and the paper was half-open.

Go out with me, beautiful, it read.

I felt sick to my stomach.

Another guy, from my left this time, knelt down and retrieved my pencil.

“Here you go,” he whispered, putting my pencil on my desk. He lingered close, as if I would talk to him.

Something snapped inside me. I jumped from my seat, bumping into my desk and causing my test and my pencil to hit the floor. I didn’t care, though. The only thing I cared about was getting away from here.

I swiped my tote from the floor and rushed to the door. With my shaky, sweaty hands, I fumbled with the knob, fear clogging my throat. Why wasn’t it opening? Was the door locked? From the other side, the professor opened the door.

“Miss Taylor,” he said then paused. He narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you all right?”

I could barely breathe, much less talk.

Instead of answering, or even acknowledge him, I ran. I ran from the building. I ran across campus. I ran to my dorm building and into the safety of my room.

Although I still shook while recalling what had happened, now that I looked back at it, I felt stupid.

“I overreacted,” I said to Dr. Walker, my therapist. I was seated in her comfy armchair, positioned strategically in a corner of her office, from where I could gaze through the window and admire the view of the park below.

If I closed my eyes, I could still see myself in that classroom with those guys, and the seemingly locked door, and the missing professor. I knew I had seen and felt the situation in a more dramatic way that it had been, but that didn’t stop me from shaking all over again.

After the test, I locked myself in my room for the rest of the day. I even missed another final exam. Mariah came into the room twice, saw me in that state, and left without saying a word. During our first week living together, I had a major panic attack and I had to tell her about them, but I never told her why, what had first caused the attacks. And I never would.

At night, I got an email from Fallon White about my first day at her studio. That finally snapped me out of it. Immediately, I called Dr. Walker and asked for her help—with my current state and with contacting my professors and asking them to reschedule my exams. Thankfully, one of the professors listened to my therapist and let me take the exam another time, without many questions, but the other professor didn’t want to hear it. He gave me an incomplete and said he would email me soon about retaking the exam—or the entire class next semester.

This morning, I was out of my dorm and had already moved into my apartment in Santa Barbara. However, before I could settle in my new temporary home, I had to do a pit stop at my therapist.

I was trying to focus all my thoughts and energy on the fact that I had an incomplete. Me, the perfect A student, who barely ever missed a class my entire life. I felt pathetic for having an incomplete, and the possibility that the professor would just decide it wasn’t worth it and ask me to retake the damn class. However, hovering around those thoughts was the main reason I had come to the therapist: my dear panic attacks.

From a chair a few feet from mine, Dr. Walker pushed her red-rimmed glasses up her nose and stared at me, her dark brown eyes calm. “It’s normal for your fear and panic to surge again during situations like this.”

“Will I always react like that to these kinds of situations?”

“In extreme situations, probably. Yes. But you will be able to control your reaction. You won’t shake as much, or feel like fear is seizing you.”

“Hopefully,” I muttered.

“Be positive, because positive thinking brings good results. Say definitely.”

I scrunched my nose at her, not believing her. “Definitely.”

She winked. “I’ll pretend you meant that.”

I let out a little laugh and sighed. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Why do I think every male, regardless of age, only thinks about s*x, about having s*x now? That they see a pretty girl and immediately lust over her and imagine her naked?”

“Well, the truth is, most males do. But that doesn’t mean they are all perverts.” She gazed out the window. “Try to remember how you were before the incident when you met a strange person for the first time, or the people you walked by on the street. Even if not consciously, you processed how attractive they were, and you weren’t even aware of it.” She returned her kind eyes to me. “That’s the same with most men. They don’t will their minds to go there, to lust over girls and imagine taking them to bed. It just happens, and most of them are so used to it, they don’t even notice it anymore. Unless the female in question is absurdly stunning, and they can’t take their eyes off her. Then I bet they are conscious of their thoughts.”

“It all sounds so technical, as if there was a manual for male and female, and we had to conform to it, no questions asked.”

She chuckled. “Something like that.”

This woman knew how to push my buttons, and that was what made her a great therapist for me. I had tried four others before finally feeling like she got me, like she understood me.

“All right, I admit I do remember looking at guys and thinking whether they were attractive. To be honest, I still do sometimes. These moments give me a little hope that I will get over the incident and my fears someday. However, when I was sixteen, I wanted to do something about it if they were attractive, like talk to them, dance with them, get their phone number, whatever. Now, I want nothing. I just acknowledge they are handsome and move on.”

“At least the feeling is there. You think men can still be handsome. That’s a big step.” She pulled a notepad and pen from her table. “I suggest we make a list of all the things that you fear. Even silly, minor things, like spiders, cockroaches, fear of the dark, fear of horror movies, anything. Then we work our way up to the bigger things, like for example, your fear of being alone in a room with a man you don’t know. Then last items would be to kiss a boy you’re attracted to, and finally trusting a man completely.”

I blushed, thinking of how silly it would be to have a list I shared with my therapist about kissing boys. I wasn’t sixteen anymore.

“Just make a list?”

She shook her head, a slow smile taking over her sharp face. “Then, you go item by item from smallest to biggest and check them off.”

“W-what? No!”

“I understand your hesitation, but listen to me. Even if you don’t get to the biggest items, even if you stop in the middle of your list, you’ll still have faced many fears and you will feel stronger, more confident. You will know for sure that you can defeat all of your fears, one by one. And then one day, you’ll end up checking off the biggest items, even if you didn’t intend to, I’m sure.”

I narrowed my eyes at her. “It still sounds a little silly.”

“And that’s why you have to do it. Silly doesn’t go well with fear. You don’t need to fear this list. It’ll be perfect.”

I considered that for a moment. Well, she was right. It sounded so silly; I didn’t have to fear it at all. And I could always stop in the middle like she said.

“Okay,” I said, my tone low, guarded.

“All right.” She sat up straighter, her pen poised against the notepad. “What shall the first item be?”

I forced a smile. “That the professor will turn my incomplete into a fail and I’ll have to repeat the class?”

Dr. Walker returned my smile, but hers was real and it said, “Don’t be silly.”

Hard not to.

Hannah and Bia helped me bring my things from my car—and the rented U-Haul trailer—to the apartment. It wasn’t much, just my clothes and toiletries and books and other things from my dorm. And Hannah had brought a few of my things from our parents’ house too, like some more of my clothes, fitted sheets, and pillow covers, towels, etc.

At one point, I left them working while I went to the grocery store and bought all the necessary stuff: milk, bread, eggs, rice, pasta, red sauce, ice cream, soap, shampoo, and more. I also bought plastic cups, cutlery, and plates. Tomorrow, I would go shopping for real cups, cutlery, and plates, and for pans and all the little gadgets that made life easier. I had no idea what I would do with all these things after I moved back to the dorm, but right now, I didn’t care. I just wanted to enjoy my first time living by myself. Really by myself. No parents or roommates.

For dinner, Iris came over and brought some takeout. Now we were just missing Gabi—we even called her to say hi and she yelled at us, telling us she hated us for getting together without her. Then she laughed.

The girls and I ate while they all helped me unpack my things. They didn’t know where I wanted my stuff, but the fact that my clothes were out of the boxes and suitcases and neatly folded on my bed made things much easier.

“Excited?” Hannah asked, munching on her pasta with the help of the plastic fork.

“I am,” I said.

I felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. I was finally by myself. I was finally doing something by myself. Sure, going to college in L.A. was more than anyone expected of me at this point, but I knew I could control the situation there—somewhat. I just had to avoid everything. Go to classes, go back to the dorm. Period. And spend most of my weekends in Santa Barbara at my parents’ house.

Here, though, in this apartment, with this paid internship, I could finally feel like I was working toward my independence, toward my freedom—from my parents, from myself, from my past. Times like this, I really thought I would make it. Someday, I was going to heal and I would lead a normal, healthy life.

I hoped.