by Sara Barnard
I wish it hadn’t taken me so long to learn this lesson, but at least I got to learn it eventually.
I’m in such a good mood I decide to take a detour on the way back to Dad’s so I can drop in on Mum. It’s been a week or so since I last saw her and I want to share my good news with someone. It’s after 8 p.m., so I’ll have missed Bell, but at least I can see Mum.
My key to their house is in my bag at Dad’s house, so I knock. It’s Keir who opens the door.
‘Hi!’ I say, and the look of surprise on his face – at my presence, my greeting or both – pleases me.
‘Hi, Steffi,’ he says. He steps back so I can walk past him and turns slightly. ‘Joanne, Stefanie’s here.’
Mum comes out of the kitchen, her brow furrowed. She opens her mouth to say something, but it’s at that moment that Bell, my tiny, excitable half-sister, comes flying down the stairs, wearing a Tinkerbell nightie. ‘Steffi!’ she shrieks, then launches herself at me.
Bell is at the age where everything and everyone is exciting. As her big sister, I am basically goddess incarnate.
‘Hello, Belly,’ I say, hoisting her into the air. She shrieks again, then throws her little arms round my neck. Bell is five, but she’s very small for her age. ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’
‘Yes,’ Keir says meaningfully, raising his eyebrows at her. ‘Belinda should be in bed.’
Bell rests her chin on my shoulder and nuzzles my neck. ‘Can you tuck me in?’ she asks me.
‘That’s why I’m here,’ I say.
‘See?’ Bell says to her father. ‘I was waiting.’
Keir rolls his eyes, but he smiles. ‘Go on, then – off with you.’ He turns to me. ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
Keir tried to do the chummy stepfather routine for years, but we never really got along. For one thing, it always felt like he was trying too hard, especially in the days when I couldn’t speak to him. Things changed around the time Clark died, when I was thirteen. I came and stayed with him and Mum for a while to give Dad and Lucy time to grieve on their own, and he was so patient and kind to me it was pretty hard to stay antagonistic towards him. He doesn’t try to act like my dad any more, but I let him be a friend.
I carry Bell back up the stairs to her bedroom and sit with her for a few minutes as she tells me about the fight her toy elephants are having (one ate all the peanuts) and her recent decision to become a world-class ballerina. Bell is a chatterbox, and it’s one of the things I most love about her.
By the time I get downstairs my tea has cooled to the perfect temperature and I sit with Mum and Keir, sipping it.
‘So you were actually talking?’ Mum asks. ‘To Rhys’s parents?’
I nod, beaming. ‘We had conversations.’
‘Oh, Steffi.’ I don’t think she’s ever looked at me with such happiness. There are actual tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so pleased. I knew it would happen one day.’
‘I think it really helped that I was signing at the same time,’ I say. ‘It was like a life jacket. Does that make sense?’
Mum’s smile falters. ‘Are Rhys’s parents deaf?’
‘No, just Rhys.’
‘So why were you signing to them?’
‘Because that’s how they all speak,’ I say. ‘It’s totally normal to them.’
‘It sounds like an important step,’ Keir says, and I notice the look he gives Mum. ‘That’s such good news, Steffi.’
‘It is,’ I say, a little defensive now.
‘But do you think . . .’ Mum pauses, then persists. ‘Do you think you’d have felt the same if it wasn’t a deaf household?’
‘It’s not a deaf household,’ I say, frowning. My happy glow has started to tarnish. ‘And, no, I wouldn’t. I told you that. The BSL really helped.’
‘But, Steffi . . .’ Another annoying pause. ‘It’s great that you talked to people you didn’t know, but I don’t want to think you’re . . . hiding behind BSL. You won’t always have that . . . life jacket.’
‘Why won’t I?’ Frustration is building in my throat and chest. ‘It’s not “hiding” behind it. Would you say Rhys is hiding behind it because he uses it?’
‘But Rhys is deaf,’ Mum says, almost triumphantly. ‘He’s who BSL is for.’
I push my mug away from me. ‘I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I am happy!’ She reaches for my hand. ‘I just worry, love.’
‘Well, stop worrying!’ I snap, snatching back my hand. ‘Just be supportive. For God’s sake.’
‘Stefanie,’ Mum says warningly. ‘Don’t use that tone, please.’
I bite down hard on my tongue to stop myself responding. Nothing’s changed. And, now I’m sitting at this table, I’m wondering why I had thought it would have. Mum still feels the same way about BSL as she did when I was six years old and Uncle Geoff first suggested it. She still thinks it’s like admitting defeat, like accepting a disability.
Except, to be honest, she’d probably be fine with me having a disability. So long as it was one she could point at, one she could explain.
‘I should go back to Dad’s,’ I say.
‘Oh, Steffi.’ Mum sighs, like I’m being difficult or something. ‘I’m just trying to be realistic. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.’
God forbid.
Mum has had an anxious daughter for sixteen years, and she still doesn’t seem to get the concept of little victories. That spending an evening where I wasn’t feeling sick every time someone asked me a question is actually a really big deal, and the fact that it might just be a one-off is the kind of thing I’m already worried about. There’s no such thing as getting your hopes up if you’re anxious. Little victories are everything in a world where worst-case scenarios are on an endless loop in your head.
But Mum has never been OK with my ‘issues’. When I was a child who couldn’t speak, my dad tried to be patient and understanding, but Mum got frustrated and angry. She was basically ready to try anything to get me to talk. She tried both the carrot and the stick, offering treats if I spoke and then threatening punishment when I didn’t. She tried reverse psychology, telling me that she was really enjoying the quiet. She guilt-tripped me to tears by telling me I was making her life so hard – didn’t I see how much I was upsetting her?
Once, when I was eight, she lost me on purpose at the supermarket. I went to get apples, confident that she would remain in the same place, and returned to find her gone. I wandered the aisles with increasing panic until I was rescued by a couple of shop assistants, at which point I burst into tears. I can still remember the looks of bafflement on their faces as they tried to talk to me only to be faced with my tear-stained, rigid face. I remember how they started talking to each other as if I couldn’t hear them – ‘She must be deaf. Or maybe she’s got . . . you know, special needs? What! She might have!’ – before making an announcement over the tannoy, asking for the parent of the ‘quiet girl’ to come to customer services.
‘For Christ’s sake, Steffi,’ Mum hissed at me as she led me – sobbing all over again – away. ‘You have to be able to talk in an emergency. What if you really did get lost? Do I need to put a label round your neck with our address on it? How do you think you’re ever going to grow up if you can’t talk?’ She gave my arm a shake. ‘Well?’
I was such a wreck by then I couldn’t even talk to her. It took me hours to get my voice back after that particular incident, and I refused to return to the supermarket for months.
‘I won’t do it again,’ she promised. ‘It was just an experiment, and it didn’t work, so it won’t happen again.’
She never said sorry, though.
Keir eventually drives me back to Dad’s house, where I grab Rita and take her for a walk in the dark. I tell her about the Golds and my mother and metemgee and Atonement. I ask her if she thinks I’m hiding behind BSL and she cocks her head at me, then pokes her wet nose into my hand.
I smile. ‘I love you too,’ I say.
Steffi’s list of diagnoses – age five to present
Selective mutism
Anxiety disorder (various)
Situational anxiety (school)
Then updated to:
Generalized anxiety disorder (severe)
Social anxiety (severe)
Panic disorder (moderate)
Glossophobia (fear of public speaking)
I meet Jane, my CBT therapist, the following Tuesday afternoon after school. I see her once a fortnight for an hour that’s usually filled with going through my worksheets from the last couple of weeks and making plans for the next lot. I used to think CBT was a transformative kind of experience, something you learned once and then had forever, as if the T stood for Training instead of Therapy, as if my mind can learn commands as easily and permanently as a dog learning to sit and stay. But CBT is a process, like pretty much anything, and it takes work. A lot of work.
And a lot of worksheets.
‘How did you get on with the experiment?’ Jane asks, flipping over one of the sheets and scanning it quickly. She gives me one of her therapy smiles.
‘Well, I did it,’ I say. ‘So . . .’
‘Well done,’ she says. ‘And how did it feel?’
Part of my CBT is to do behavioural experiments, and this time it had been to go into town by myself on Saturday morning and buy any three items in three different shops. It didn’t matter what the shops were, so long as one of them was the supermarket. Jane and I had filled in the preparation sheet at our previous meeting. I had to write down things like what I worried would happen and how likely I thought a particular scenario was. Like, ‘I think if I go to the deli section of Sainsbury’s I will have a panic attack and die.’
OK, so the point of the exercise is not to exaggerate, so Jane wouldn’t actually let me write ‘and die’. But the panic attack bit – that’s a real worry. Do you know how horrible it is to have a panic attack in a public place? Very. That’s how horrible it is. Very horrible.
Anyway, after I got back from town I had to fill in my review sheet, which is basically comparing the reality with my original expectations. I hadn’t had a panic attack, for example. In fact, I’d made it to Boots (new mascara), WHSmith (a set of new pens) and Sainsbury’s (milk) and back home again without freaking out once.
‘This is excellent progress,’ Jane says, smiling. I study that smile carefully, looking for cues. It actually looks like it might be a real smile. ‘Really excellent, Steffi.’
‘This is stuff ten-year-olds can do,’ I point out. As weird as this might sound, I don’t like getting credit for stuff that my rational mind understands is really simple. It just reminds me how pathetic I am.
‘Could you have done it at ten?’ she asks.
‘Well, no, but—’
‘Well, then,’ Jane says. Her smile is definitely real now. ‘How are you getting on at school?’
I shrug. ‘OK, I guess. I answered a question in my Maths class.’
‘That’s fantastic!’ Her whole face actually lights up. ‘Out loud?’
I nod. ‘It was a bit of surprise, actually. I didn’t realize I was going to.’
‘And how did you feel?’
‘Awful,’ I say. ‘Like I wanted to throw up.’
‘That’s understandable,’ Jane says smoothly. Nothing ever seems to throw Jane. ‘This is all an adjustment period, like we’ve talked about. It’s not a small thing, taking medication. And that’s what I’m here for, to talk it all through.’
‘Why is the solution to everything talking it through?’ I ask. ‘Why’s there such an emphasis on talking? It’s not fair.’
‘Because being part of society involves living with other people,’ Jane says. ‘And we’re not a telepathic species. Talking is an essential part of understanding each other.’
‘I can understand people just fine,’ I grumble, flicking my fingernail against the skin of my thumb.
‘But can they understand you?’ Jane asks gently. ‘Remember life is about dialogues, not monologues.’
I look up at her. ‘Do you want to write that down so you can use it with your other clients?’
Jane laughs. ‘That’s not the first time I’ve used that phrase.’ I laugh despite myself and she grins. ‘How would you feel about working on talking out loud in class over the next couple of weeks? Maybe answering some more questions? Or even asking them yourself?’
My stomach twists. ‘Um.’
‘Let’s start a new sheet,’ Jane says enthusiastically, reaching for one. ‘It may help if you think about it in advance – what questions you could ask, that kind of thing.’
‘I’m not sure . . .’ I trail off. The words just run out.
Jane, attuned to my vocal patterns, looks up and puts her pencil down. ‘Go ahead,’ she says encouragingly.
I take a breath. ‘I’m not sure that will help me right now.’
She nods. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well, I think if I feel like I have to do it, it’ll worry me more. When I spoke in Maths, it was totally unplanned, and even though it made me feel bad, that was only afterwards, not before. You know?’ My voice picks up speed and comes out a little garbled, but I manage.
‘That’s a good point,’ Jane says. ‘And it’s really good that you picked up on that. What would you like to work on instead?’ She points to the sheet and smiles. ‘You know I like to use my sheets.’
‘The going-into-town one was good because it was, like, active?’ I say carefully. ‘So . . . I don’t know what that means. But . . . you know?’
Jane nods again. ‘I do know. It’s more helpful for you to be doing something that could involve talking, rather than simply knowing you have to talk.’
‘Yeah . . . I think so.’
She thinks for a moment. ‘How are you getting on outside of your classes when you’re at school?’
‘OK . . .’ I say cautiously.
‘Where do you go during your break-times?’
She’s caught me. Dammit. ‘Um.’ I actually consider lying, but give in. ‘The library. Or, like, a bench outside.’
‘That’s not ideal now it’s getting colder,’ Jane says, as if that’s the problem. ‘Have you tried to go back into the common room?’
‘Yes,’ I say triumphantly. ‘I’ve gone in with Rhys. Twice.’
‘Well, that’s certainly a good start. How would you feel about working on that? Try to go into the common room at least once a day over the next week or two. It doesn’t have to be by yourself, but that would be an even bigger step.’
‘OK,’ I say. The thought makes me feel ill, but not as ill as having to call out in class. And I can take Rhys with me.
‘Excellent,’ Jane says, looking pleased. She slides the worksheet and pencil across the table to me. ‘Shall we get started?’
It takes me the whole of the next morning to work myself up into walking into the common room. At first I intend to just pop in during the first break-time, but when the time comes I can’t even bear to walk into the block, let alone the room. I dawdle outside, find a bench and pretend to text for the entire twenty minutes.
But then as soon as I get to English the self-hatred begins. It starts quietly – all you had to do was walk in. You didn’t even have to stay there – but I find myself spiralling rapidly until I’m basically attacking myself inside my own head. Pathetic, Steffi. You are pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
‘Steffi?’ I look up, dazed, to see Mrs Baxter looking at me. I blink at her. ‘You haven’t turned a page in five minutes,’ she says. ‘Are you here with us?’
There’s a soft laugh from my classmates and I swallow down a guttural sob that’s building from nowhere and turn a page of the book.
‘Page fifty-seven,’ Mrs Baxter says. Her voice is kind, and my rational side knows that the laugh from my classmates wasn’t meant to be mean, but I’m not feeling very rational right now.
Look at everyone else being normal, Steffi. And look at yo
u. You can’t even keep up with everyone reading a book. You can’t even say ‘Yes’ to a simple question. Why are you even here? Why do you even bother?
When the lunch bell rings, I don’t even give myself time to think. I bolt out of the classroom, down the corridor, shortcut through the science block and finally find myself outside the common-room door. Even though lunchtime has barely started, I can already hear the noise from inside.
‘Hey, Steffi,’ a voice says from behind me. It’s Cassidy King, one of the clever but nice bunch. She’s walking past me, swinging the door open and holding it behind her for me to walk through.
‘Hey,’ I reply. She smiles at me and heads off towards her friends, who are clustered together in the corner. I’m already imagining how I will write this down on my worksheet.
Walked into the room. Said hello – out loud! – to Cassidy King.
Right. What next? I should do something before I leave again. I can’t just stand here awkwardly. I walk casually – oh so casually – over to the noticeboard and start scanning it thoughtfully.
LIKE NETBALL? MS ILLOVIC IS LOOKING FOR VOLUNTEERS TO HELP WITH THE YEAR 7 AND 8 NETBALL TEAMS!
EMAIL [email protected]
FOR SALE – THIRD GENERATION IPAD £500
£500?! Fuck off you joker!
FEMINIST SOCIETY — MEET IN COMMON ROOM WEDNESDAYS AT 6 P.M.! NO MEN ALLOWED!
Isn’t that sexist to men?
REVERSE SEXISM IS NOT A THING
Yeah but what about male feminists?
FUCK OFF ETHAN I KNOW THAT’S YOU
So this is what I’m missing. I stand there for a full minute, trying to psych myself up to making a lap of the common room before escaping, when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Rhys’s smiling face.
Hi! he says.
I’m so happy to see him I almost hug him. Hi! I reply. I gesture to the noticeboard. I’m thinking of joining the Feminist Society.
Rhys looks at the notice and his grin widens. Cool, he signs. He thinks for a second, then signs, Up the women! with an awkward little thumbs up at the end.
