Vicky - Living With

“Just get in the car.”

I’m not good at talking. Vicky knows this. She’s always known. The thing about Vicky is that she feels everything at full volume. Joy, sadness, anger—it all comes out the same way: loud, messy, and honest. When she’s happy, she laughs so hard she snorts, and then laughs harder at the snort. When she’s sad, she doesn’t hide it. She cries openly, ugly-cries with red eyes and wet cheeks, and she lets you hold her until it passes. living with vicky

I keep everything inside. Locked up tight. My therapist calls it “emotional constipation,” which is both accurate and humiliating. Vicky calls it “being a stubborn idiot,” which is also accurate. “Just get in the car

“I know,” I said.

I knew it was Vicky before I even opened the door. Only Vicky rings a doorbell like she’s trying to wake the dead. The thing about Vicky is that she feels

I used to think she was dramatic. Now I think maybe she’s just braver than me.