I collapsed. And not in some petty, bad romance novel thing where she collapses to her knees as the smallest thing goes wrong. I mean, completely, legs gone, can't breathe, shaking all over collapsed with a side of panic attack thrown in for good measure.
I managed to get my phone and I managed to text my Dad (thank god for auto-correct in these moments). He comes upstairs, whining about how demanding I was being. He comes into my room to see me, lying on the floor, having trouble breathing, and just sits next to me, holds my hand and then just sat there with me, held me up to give me a drink, and then just lay me back down.
He did grill me about my messy room, and I did feel shittier because of it, but at least he sat with me.
I hated that I couldn't move. That I couldn't feel my hands. That my legs wouldn't stop shaking. That my hands and feet were burning and numb at the same time. That I couldn't catch my breath. That I couldn't not feel sick, but couldn't be sick either.
But he didn't leave, just sat there until I could sit up, and then he moved me to my bed. Where I'm about to go to sleep, but I just wanted to document the fact that, even as I was immobile, shaking, crying and in pain, my dad sat next to me, (he may have called me a dramaqueen and get prissy about my room) but he sat there for a long time, holding my hand and talking to me.
It counts.
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