by Holly Bourne
Twenty-one
At my next appointment with Sarah, I told her about the party. She wasn’t impressed, funnily enough.
“I can’t believe you’re not proud of me for doing all those shots.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes over her pad full of notes.
“I work for the NHS, i.e. the institution responsible for keeping people alive and healthy. Do you know how much of our budget is spent each year looking after underage binge drinkers in A&E?”
I flung the wooden caterpillar I’d been playing with back into the toy bin. “But I willingly did something that could make me sick. I did an exposure all on my own accord!”
“I don’t think you drank all that, sambuca, was it?”
I nodded, defiantly at first, then a bit meek and ashamed.
“Well I don’t think you drank all that because you wanted to try an exposure.”
“Well I’ve told you that’s why and I don’t care that you don’t believe me.”
I crossed my arms.
I did care.
Just a bit.
Sarah left us in silence for a while, her favourite trick. Then she said, “One, you know you’re not supposed to drink alcohol on your medicine, even if your dosage is really low now.” She ticked it off on her finger. “Two, I find it unlikely you’d do an exposure that extreme, of your own accord, in an environment like a house party. And, three, you just told me about your date with that Oli guy and it sounds like you’re pretty upset by what happened with him, and by how your friends reacted.”
“So?” I bet she thought she was Miss Marple. I bet she was imagining herself in an ITV Agatha Christie drama.
“So,” Sarah said, all calm as always, “I think you did all those shots to escape the bad thoughts you were having about your friends.”
I shook my head, all no-no-no. “I didn’t have bad thoughts about my friends. They are cool and understanding and awesome.”
“And where do they think you are this afternoon?”
I blushed. I didn’t reply.
“Where?”
“Well, it’s half term.”
“Where do they usually think you are on Monday afternoons?”
“They think I’ve got last period free,” I said to my toes.
Sarah did a triumphant face. It involved a tiny eyebrow raise and a smug grin she struggled to hide.
“I do have a free period last thing on Mondays! That isn’t a lie.”
“But you don’t go straight home, do you? You come here and see me.”
“So, it’s not the whole truth, so what?”
My skin was all prickly. I felt like a hedgehog, my spikes up, ready for a fight, or protection, or whatever it is that makes hedgehogs put their spikes up. Or are they always up and they just roll into a ball? I was too busy pondering this to initially realize Sarah had produced a sandwich.
She put it on the table in front of me and instantly, every other thought – about Oli, about Guy, about the girls – vanished.
I felt sick.
“No, Sarah, not today, come on.”
She gave me a small smile. “I warned you we needed to keep doing exposures – to see how you handle them on your lower dosage. Now, have you had lunch?”
“Yes,” I lied.
“Well, you can still manage a sandwich, can’t you?”
I didn’t want to touch it. I could already see its poison, glowing, invisible to everyone else, through the cardboard triangular box. I reached out slowly and took the packaging. With my fingers shaking, I turned it over and looked at the sell-by date.
I dropped it instantly. “TWO days past? Sarah, seriously? There’s meat in it.”
Sarah picked it up off the floor and put it back on the table. “What’s your number right now, Evie?”
“Why are you doing this? You didn’t warn me. You didn’t say it was today. Put it away, please!”
“Your number, where are you on the anxiety scale out of ten?”
My palms were already damp with sweat. My throat felt like I was wearing a boa constrictor as a necklace. And I was quite sure I would’ve felt less doom-filled if the four horsemen of the apocalypse had cantered in.
I gulped, hating her. “Eight out of ten.” It came out all raspy.
“Okay, eight, that’s quite high. Breathe with me, Evie.” She did an exaggerated breath in and out. I tried to copy her but the snake around my neck tightened.
“Why?” I asked. It came out in a whisper.
“Why are you so scared? You’ve done it before. Nothing bad happened.”
I went from scared to angry almost in a second. “That wasn’t the same! That was only one day past, and it was ham, not chicken. Not even normal people eat chicken past its sell-by. And something did happen, I felt sick all day!”
“From the panic, not from the sandwich.”
“There is no way of proving that. I definitely felt sick, and I’m sure it was from that sandwich. And if I did it then, why do I have to do it again now?”
Tears were on standby, threatening to jump out at any minute. My heart felt like it had been plugged into a generator. A generator powered by The Earth’s Inner Core.
Sarah got her uber-calm voice out of its box. “I’ve explained to you before that you’re going to experience heightened anxiety now you’re cutting back on your medicine. It’s really important we continue with exposures, so you can prove to yourself things are still okay even when you’re not on your medication.”
“Why don’t I just stay on them?”
“You can,” Sarah soothed. “But you told me you wanted to come off them. It was your decision.”
She was right. I hated being on them.
Why I wanted to come off my medication
I hated worrying that I wasn’t sure who I was. What was Evie? And what was a chemical I took that changed my brain? I hated the way they made my feet burn at night. How, in summer, I had to soak flannels in ice water and wrap them around my toes, just to cool them off enough to get some sleep. I hated that I wasn’t sure if I was better, or if I was just dependent on a mind-altering medication. I hated that I’d started taking them way below the age you’re medically supposed to because I was so sick. I hated that I’ll never be entirely sure what impact that may’ve had on my brain. I hated how they’d made me puff up. I hated that it was too dangerous to just come off them suddenly, and that therefore I was technically “trapped” with them. I hated how if I ever had children and I was still on them, it might damage them in the womb. I hated how I felt weak for going on them in the first place. I hated how I never felt happy or sad since I’d been on them, more just…numb…
But at that moment, in that dankish therapy room, I didn’t hate anything as much as the idea of eating that sandwich.
“Not the whole thing,” I bargained, my voice wobbling, all my emotions desperate to tumble out like the traitors they were.
“Just one triangle.”
“Three bites.”
“One half, you’ve done it before.”
“I wasn’t so utterly terrified then.”
“That’s the point. Come on, Evie, you’re strong, you’re brave. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’ll…I’ll…get sick.” And then the tears came and I sobbed them out so hard I could hardly breathe.
“So, you get sick, so what?”
“I’ll throw up.”
Sarah shrugged. “So? You’ll still be alive.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Using logic with me. It’s never worked before, it won’t work now.” My hands shook so hard I swear their energy could register on an earthquake machine. My voice got louder. “Do you not think I know it’s unreasonable? Do you not think I don’t spend all my time telling myself it’s stupid, bullying myself: ‘Stop being so bloody illogical, Evie, you’re ruining your life.’” I smashed my hands on the table just to use up some energy. I was shouting now. “Just because it’s illogical
doesn’t mean it’s any less scary.”
Sarah kept her voice calm; it was the utter opposite of mine.
“Just one triangle.”
“Oh, fuck it.” And I picked up the disgusting, smelly out-of-date sandwich, ripped open the packaging and shoved as much as I could in my mouth.
“Good girl.”
I started to chew but my mouth was so full. Two days out of date, two days out of date, TWO DAYS OUT OF DATE.
I choked.
“Come on, Evie, just keep chewing, then swallow.”
There was no saliva in my mouth. The mayonnaise tasted sour. I heaved.
Poison poison poison poison poison.
“Keep chewing, keep chewing.”
I thought of everything in the world other than what was in my mouth. I attempted to picture a calm lake. When that didn’t work, I pictured all the people in the world who have worse problems than me. Real problems. Sick people. Lonely people. Poor people. Starving people. Starving people would eat the sandwich instantly. Starving people would be grateful for the sandwich. They wouldn’t even know about sell-by dates. Because they had real problems whereas I was just a self-indulgent, selfish, stupid, stupid, WEAK, self-indulgent brat.
Oh God, the sandwich, it was still in my mouth. Turning to a sludgy paste, wedging itself around my gums, sticking in a lump between my tongue.
Two days out of date.
I pictured the bacteria growing in the chicken flesh; I pictured the microbes in the sauce multiplying, the lettuce wilting. And now it was all in my body, my weak stupid body.
No. I couldn’t. No. How much had I swallowed already?
No. No. NO.
I spat it out, right there, onto the table. All over the tissue box. I heaved, dry retched. A piece of bread that had wedged in my throat spilled onto the wooden top, thick with mucus. I gagged, I really was going to be sick. Hold it in hold it in hold it in. I hated Sarah. I hated the world. I grabbed her water glass, downed it. I tried swilling my mouth out but I’d had too much water and it spilled down my chin. I knocked the glass over as I choked, spilling it everywhere.
Then I dropped to the industrial carpet, gasping for breath. I tried so hard to breathe but the sobs…the sobs wedged in my throat, stopping the oxygen.
“Evie. EVIE? Calm down. BREATHE, EVIE.”
My eyes bulged out of their sockets. I could hear this odd donkey-like heehaw breathing. It was me. Where was my air? I was going to black out.
Sarah’s hand was around my hand. Squeezing tight.
“Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Let’s breathe in for three. Come on, one, two, three…”
I tried, but another sob erupted, blocking my windpipe.
“Stop crying, Evie, listen to me. In for three, one, two, three…”
I concentrated on her voice and managed to grab a quick gasp of air.
“Good girl. Now out for five. One, two, three, four—”
I managed till four but another sob bubbled. I coughed on nothing.
“In for three…
…out for five…
…in for three…
…out for five…
…in for three…
…out for five…”
Soon my sobs dulled to a whimper.
Soon my breathing came back.
Soon I was able to get up off the carpet.
Soon I’d meet my friends for coffee and pretend that it hadn’t happened.
Twenty-two
I went home to change before I went to meet the girls for a half-term catch-up. I had dried phlegm all down my jumper, I’d cried my make-up off, and my fringe had separated into tear-drenched clumps.
I prayed Mum was out before I unlocked the door. She did admin for the small estate agents down the road and I could never work out her hours, as it was sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoons. She didn’t appear to be home so I tiptoed inside. Rose wasn’t in either. All I could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock on the landing.
For once, luck was on my side.
I hovered over the loo, letting the smell of stale bleach turn my stomach and coughing up any remaining sandwich. When I was satisfied, I lay on my bed and observed myself for signs of illness. This is hard when, generally, signs of anxiety are the same as signs of illness. It’s such a torturous circle. I eat something, I start to worry I’ll get sick, this releases adrenalin which makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. That, of course, makes me think I am actually sick, so I get more scared, and feel more sick.
Over and over. Day after day. So much life lost.
I focused on my breathing, trying to slow my body down. With time, it slowed. I wasn’t ill, I didn’t think. I’d spat the chicken out in time. Or maybe it was never going to make me sick in the first place. Maybe the sandwich was fine. Maybe sell-by dates are ridiculously over-the-top and I shouldn’t live and die by them.
Maybe…the word of hope.
Maybe I won’t ruin my whole life, just my teens.
Maybe one day I’ll be like everybody else.
Maybe one day I’ll be happy.
I brushed my teeth until I spat out blood. I stood in the scalding shower until my skin turned tomato. I brushed my teeth again. With a dash of make-up and a quick blast with the hairdryer, I left the house once more. I would just about be on time.
As I walked, kicking up piles of soggy leaves, trying to get the last bit of angst out of me, I thought about how Sarah’d finished our session.
When I’d finished crying, she’d sat on the arm of my chair, asking prying questions.
“Your new friends, Evie, what are they like?”
I thought of yesterday and managed a small grin. “They’re spinsters.”
“What? Aren’t you a bit young to be calling yourselves that?”
I smiled again. “It’s a private joke.”
“I see.” She paused. “Why haven’t you told them?” she asked.
Because I’d lose them. They wouldn’t get it. They’d treat me differently. I wouldn’t be “normal” to them any more, even if I never freaked out ever again. Once they knew, they’d always be watching…waiting…wondering if I was going to lose it. I didn’t want anyone else to look at me like that. I’d had enough with Mum, Dad, Jane and everyone at my old school.
“It just hasn’t come up, that’s all.”
“Have you talked to anyone at college, about coming here? Have you even hinted to anyone?”
And even in my state, I felt a goo when I thought about Guy. I smiled again. “There’s this one guy.”
“Guy?”
“That’s his name actually. Guy. Guy the guy.”
Sarah didn’t comment that I’d brought up another boy. She must’ve been losing track. It was my life and I was losing track. Things, life, just kept happening. Was it always like this? Or had my life been on pause for so long that I was on fast-forward now to catch up with everyone?
“And what did you tell Guy?”
“I didn’t tell him as much. He was at the party, when I did the shots you don’t approve of. He looked after me. And I got in a state about being sick, and he was…nice. He mentioned he had a mate with head problems once.”
So nice. So unlike-Guy nice.
“Maybe you should think about opening up more, Evie? People are much more understanding these days.”
I thought about meeting the girls for coffee later. How we’d chat, and laugh. How much I enjoyed feeling normal around them.
“Hmm.”
And I retched again, just to get her off the topic.
Twenty-three
Oli wasn’t in film studies the first day back after half term. I came in late and found his seat next to mine glaringly empty. It should’ve had a neon sign on it, flashing, “you’re a bad person, you’re a bad person”.
I could’ve messaged him to ask how he was.
I didn’t though.
I just sat there, torturing myself with how selfish I was, imagining how much he was hurting. An
d yet still not messaging.
A film played on the screen at the front of the classroom. We weren’t supposed to watch films during the classes – that was our homework. But Brian was hung-over – on a Monday – so he turned off the lights and put on Dogville, this totally screwed-up film with Nicole Kidman in it.
Of course, there was rape in it, which pissed me off. “Important” films had a tendency to do that. Like a storyline can’t be meaningful unless there’s been violence against women. It was like the rule of films. If an actress makes herself ugly for a role, she automatically wins an Oscar. If a scriptwriter shoves in a rape, the film’s automatically “important”.
Time sludged on by and I tapped my foot on the carpet – excited for lunch, excited about seeing Guy again. I hadn’t heard from him at all over half term…but maybe he was shy? Thinking about him distracted me from my self-loathing around Oli. Would it be awkward? It would definitely be awkward, but in a nice way.
The bell finally went and I made my way to our usual spot on the grass next to the college smoking area. It wasn’t as busy as normal, the biting wind putting everyone but the most determined smokers off. I wondered how long we’d be able to keep this up – it was getting colder every day. There he was. Wearing his beanie again. All alone as the others hadn’t arrived yet. I put on my prettiest grin – the one where I close my mouth and tilt my head down, and because I’m short I look all demure.
“Hey,” I said, sitting next to him, my knees all bandy with nerves.
He didn’t look up. “Oh, hi,” he said, with the least amount of enthusiasm in the world.
I bit my lip. “Umm, did you enjoy the party? I’ve not seen you since… I was so drunk.” I found myself giggling in a really dumb way. Guy opened his rucksack and pulled out his rolling tobacco and Rizlas.
“Yeah,” he replied, with even less enthusiasm than before, which was a scientific feat let me tell you. “You were, I guess.”
“Thanks for looking after me…”
“Whatever.” He sprinkled some tobacco onto his papers and began to roll while I stared at the back of his hat. Completely stunned.
Awkward silence descended. Or maybe it was only awkward for me? Guy just sat quietly, smoking.
