“It’s not like I feel good about it.” Pete confessed, alone on his way to work that next Monday. “It’s not like I think that what I’m doing is ‘ok’. But I can’t just leave her alone. I can’t just let myself die or quit my job. It’s not that simple. Besides …people have done far worse.”

  He had followed through on his plan to use the Vicodin. The drowsiness the pills brought on, dulled the intensity of his panic allowing him to survive the weekend under the guise of “flu recovery” But now he faced returning to his job, and five days was far more daunting than two.

  There was a moment during the commute when he looked nervously into the rearview mirror. “Weird.” He said. “I swear it’s like somebody’s sitting back there.” He stared at the empty backseat a moment more. “Freaking paranoid.” He scolded himself, trying to push the sensation aside.

  When he arrived, he told his boss Cynthia that he was still “recovering” from his sickness and got her approval to stay inside catching up on paperwork.

  “All about buying time to get better.” He rationalized shutting his office door behind him and turning on the computer. The solitude, Vicodin, and the distractions of the internet managed to get him through the work hours successfully that first day.

  The remainder of the week followed a similar pattern. From Pete’s point of view, it was a solid strategy. Go through the motions and try to battle back from the mental misery.

  Unfortunately, however, Cynthia did start to notice his lack of productivity and called him into her office that Friday afternoon.

  “So,” she started as Pete stepped in, “What’s up?”

  Pete liked Cynthia a lot. He thought she was a great boss. Intuitive, funny. But closing the door behind him, he realized, his fondness for her might be his undoing. “I should’ve seen this coming. It’s my own fault. She’s too good at reading me.”

  That kind smile. Gentle eyes behind her oversized glasses. He looked at her in the warm light of her office. “She’s just so damn approachable,” he admitted. And although he tried to commit himself to staying guarded, it was only seconds after he sat down, that he burst into tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to regain his composure. “Something is… wrong with me.” His voice trembled as it occurred to him that this was his first real confession. “I don’t know what’s going on. It’s like I’m constantly panicking. Always scared. Last week...”

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  He spoke on, sharing roughly half of what had been happening, leaving out parts that still seemed too crazy to admit. Though there was a moment of unfiltered honesty when he tried to explain Derealization.

  “It’s kind of like I’m looking at a swimming pool,” he said shakily. “Like I’m looking at this pool, and I see all the pool toys, and rafts floating on the water. They move up and down, and side to side just like they’re supposed to.”

  He swallowed as the anxiety built just saying the words.

  “But I can’t see the water in the pool. You know? I can’t feel it at all. I know it’s there, because I’m watching the toys float, but I can’t sense it. Like the most important thing in the pool is invisible to me, now.”

  The tears continued.

  Cynthia adjusted her glasses, pushing them up into her curly hair. “It’s okay,” she said quietly. “It’s okay.” Her voice was comforting. Soothing. Wise beyond her years.

  “I knew something was going on. You haven’t been yourself lately.” She walked around her desk to where Pete sat with his head down, rubbing his knees. She placed her hand softly on his shoulder. “I bet you feel like you’re the only one, huh. Like nobody has ever gone through this?”

  Pete looked up. Surprised at what she’d said, suddenly desperate to believe in whatever she had to say next. “Yeah, I guess so.” He managed.

  “Well, you’re not alone, you know.” She continued. “When I had my baby, I had postpartum, something that I’d heard of, but didn’t know much about, and I didn’t realize how bad it could be, but it got to the point where I would be holding my daughter, convinced that I needed to stay away from windows, so I wouldn’t accidentally throw her out. It was a nightmare.”

  Cynthia gave him a moment to register what she’d told him. This, her own small confession. “I thought I was losing it, Pete. Completely crazy, but I realized that I needed to get some help. And you know what?”

  “What?” Pete asked, now hanging on her every word.

  “It did help.” Cynthia smiled at him, reassuring.

  “Look, I think you need to take care of yourself. You won’t be good to anyone if you’re feeling this way. There are laws in place to protect you if you’re experiencing serious mental health symptoms, and we can address that together if we need to. You’re not going to get fired. You’ve got a week’s worth of vacation days. Let’s use them first so you can still get paid, and then we’ll go from there.”

  Pete felt a massive weight lifting from his shoulders. “A week?” he thought. “I might not lose my job after all!”

  “Okay,” he sighed, shaking but relieved. “Thank you, Cynthia.”

  “Of course,” She said. “You do great work. Go home and get better. And let me know if you need anything at all.”

  A few minutes later Pete was walking out the door.

  “Funny.” he thought, getting in his car. “Helping people is literally my job and I still had no idea that talking to someone would feel this good.”

  He drove home, lighter. Hope growing within.

  And in the higher planes of existence, the golden threads of Pete’s conscious thoughts, the ones that were supposed to have flung themselves into the void long ago, were somehow spinning nearly in unison in his mind.

  No Light to orbit, no connection to anchor them. Yet they remained stable just the same.