Opening up my email, I blindly attach it, fumble in my desk for an orange sucker because it’s the next best thing, and fire it off.
I lean back in my chair and try to tell myself I’m not rattled, both about the panic attack that just went down and about my strange reaction back there in Philippe’s office.
“Shit!” My eyes fly open, and I nearly leap out of my chair.
I’m in such a hurry that I nearly fall out of the dang office chair. I scramble to bring up my sent emails. My orange sucker falls out of my mouth and lands in my lap. It sticks to the leg of my best pair of dress pants, but that’s the least of my worries.
Because I just realized I didn’t attach the report I fixed. Nope. There is no Data for Monthly Report attached.
But there is a Diary Therapy Thingy.
I attached the freaking diary I’ve been working on for the past two months. My diary.
My. Life. Is. Officially. Over.
CHAPTER 2
Philippe
An hour after yet another epic meltdown, I have my office door shut and locked with the lights turned down low to try and help me relax. My phone is off—both my office phone and my cell. So far, the non-communication, privacy, low-light thing has yet to help. My muscles are still coiled so tight that I feel like I’m going to get a double Charley horse in both of my thighs. My stomach hurts—like an I need to puke kind of hurts. My head aches, and my chest also feels like I’ve tried out a new career in inhaling fire.
It might be preferable to this one. Maybe I should make an appointment. Talk to someone. Tell someone how I can’t sleep at night. About the dreams. About running this company that my dad created from nothing and turned into a multi-billion dollar success story. Tell someone about how hard this is for me, even after nearly four years. About how I still feel like an imposter because my dad died too soon and too young, and I miss him. I know I’m never going to be him. Ever.
Dad stopped working at the office years before he died. He ran things mostly from home and on the road because family always came first whenever it was possible. My dad was a freaking superhero. And I’m…not. I push myself, and I know what I’m doing. I went to an Ivy League school. So why do I always feel so lost? I delegate as much as possible, but then I feel ridiculous for doing it. For passing off work, even the small stuff. I know people think I’m entitled because I don’t book my own appointments or do my own reports. But I also I know it’s what other departments are for, and an assistant. Other execs have them. All of the execs here have an assistant. Plus, there are other departments like accounting, marketing, and HR for a reason.
I’m a shit leader. I know that about myself. I’m smart, but I don’t have the people skills my dad had. Also, I’m freaking tired. All. The. Time. I’m exhausted. The bone-deep kind of tired that never goes away. I never felt like that before Dad died. At first, I thought it was grief. Now I feel like it’s a part of me. I never had anxiety or panic attacks before. But now it’s getting worse.
In grade three, our class did choral speaking. There was this huge competition and, long story short, I peed my pants right there up on the stage because I was so nervous. I think even that would be preferable to the panic attacks and Sutton seeing them. I managed to keep them a secret until one afternoon, she walked into my office and found me under my desk. After that, I don’t know. It’s like she books everything for me. She knows all about my life. She freaking picks up my food and my dry cleaning. So, why not let her watch me have a meltdown too? At least she’s professional about it. I know she’d never tell anyone. She’s way too nice.
I haven’t been the best person lately. Okay, for like, four years. I’ve been a huge asshole. To everyone. I know that. I just wish I could stop. I want to get this under control. I just don’t know how. With medication? Are there other ways? Not just the panic attacks and the anxiety, but the not sleeping thing. The being a jerk thing. Although, if I could get rid of the other three, maybe the assholeness would take a break. It’s hard to be patient when you haven’t slept in a week.
I need help. I can’t keep putting this on my secretary.
My inbox pings as one email comes in, and I nearly leap out of my office chair. I see it’s from Sutton—the report I demanded. I think about leaving it, but I want to fire it off with the correction to the other execs from this morning’s meeting. I know it was missing a zero, and I could have fixed it myself, but no. I just had to be a jerk. Rub her mistake in. Even after she walked me through the sixth panic attack that she’s seen. Or is it the seventh? The eighth? I’ve lost count. Lost count of how many I’ve hidden from everyone. How many I’ve had on my own. How many Sutton has seen.
My neck feels like it could crack, and if it did, it would probably be a relief. The muscles there are bunched so tight, it’s feeding into the headache that’s settled behind my eyes. The
