by Sara Barnard
Panic attacks are a lot like being drunk in some ways: you lose self-control. You cry for seemingly no reason. You deal with the hangover long into the next day.
So that’s me the following Friday, walking as if there’s cement in my shoes, a weight round my shoulders. On the way to school I email the surgery and ask for an emergency appointment with Jane, my therapist, for that afternoon. They try to call me back and I watch my screen light up, then fade. They leave a voicemail and when I listen it’s Jane’s voice, calm and steady, saying she has time at 2.30 p.m. I spend the next few hours watching the clock.
What’s wrong? Rhys asks me for the fourth time that day. It’s lunchtime and I am still holding the sandwich I’ve been ignoring for ten minutes.
Nothing, I sign automatically, not even looking at him properly. I haven’t told anyone about my midnight breakdown. Not even Tem. Especially not Rhys.
You’re all – he makes a sign I can’t read, and in my tense state it winds me up.
I don’t know what – I make some kind of approximation of the sign – means. I can feel that my movements are sharp and irritated, but knowing it doesn’t help. I’m basically snapping at him with my hands.
His eyebrows raise a little. I said – he fingerspells slowly – J-I-T-T-E-R-Y.
I swallow down whatever mean retort is gathering and shake my head instead, pressing my lips together.
He puts his hand on my wrist. ‘Stef,’ he says. That whisper of a way he says my name. Still as soft as confetti.
I cram my sandwich into my mouth to avoid answering, but my hands are still free and he’s still looking at me patiently, waiting for an answer. For God’s sake.
I’m fine, I say. I’m fine.
‘I’m falling apart,’ I blurt out, walking into the room ahead of Jane and dumping my bag on the table.
‘I can see that,’ Jane says, smiling a little. She closes the door behind us and comes to sit down opposite me. I’m already in the chair, drumming my fingers on the pine table. ‘Do you want some water?’
I consider, then nod. ‘Yes, please.’
I watch Jane walk over to the water cooler, taking her time as always. Jane never rushes or hesitates. She’s like calm in the shape of a person.
‘Thanks for fitting me in today,’ I say. I try to remember that this is Jane’s job, that she doesn’t actually owe me anything beyond me being a client. Remembering that also helps me frame my anxiety as part of her job too. Something she deals with every day. To her, it’s normal. I’m a client, not a problem.
‘I had a cancellation,’ Jane says, coming back to the table with a paper cup of water. ‘So you were lucky in that sense.’ She sits down. ‘Now. Where do you want to start?’
‘Well.’ I take a sip from the cup. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’
‘Oh yes. That’s right. Happy birthday.’
‘Thanks,’ I say automatically.
‘Did something go wrong?’ she prompts.
‘No. That’s the thing. It was perfect. I was so happy.’
Jane watches me, nodding, a soft expression on her face that I can’t quite read. It’s almost a smile, but there’s a sadness to it that I don’t understand. She knows what I’m going to say, I realize. She gets this.
‘It was the best day. We had, like, a Thanksgiving thing. And then I went to bed and . . .’ I pause, remembering how it had come on so suddenly, manageable at first and then unstoppable. ‘I had a massive panic attack. A really bad one. The worst for months. It wasn’t even . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘It wasn’t even triggered by anything. I was happy.’ I can feel frustration, thick and cloying, in my throat. I hope I don’t start crying. ‘It’s not fair.’
‘What isn’t fair?’ Jane asks gently.
‘That I still get like this even when I’m happy.’ I am digging my fingers into the cotton of the skirt I’m wearing, twisting and tugging. ‘That I can still get anxious when I’m . . . not.’
‘You know that your anxiety isn’t about happiness and sadness,’ Jane says. ‘It isn’t a cause and effect. Sometimes – often, even – there’ll be very clear triggers, but not always. Chronic anxiety is a form of illness, Steffi. It’s not something you bring on yourself by how you feel on any given day.’
‘But this wasn’t just anxiety,’ I say. ‘This was a massive panic attack. Like, about-to-get-murdered panic attack. And I was as safe as anyone can be. I was happy as anyone can be.’
I can almost see her decide to change tack before she starts speaking again. ‘Do you want to talk me through your thought process before, during and after?’
I shake my head. ‘These aren’t supposed to happen,’ I say. ‘I’m on medication. I’m happy. It’s meant to go away now.’
‘Steffi,’ Jane says, still gentle, still calm. ‘You know that’s not how it works.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because anxiety doesn’t care if you’re happy or not,’ she says patiently. ‘Just like cancer doesn’t care if you’re happy. Or a broken leg. Or diabetes.’
‘That’s not the same.’
‘Blaming yourself for your illness will hinder your recovery process,’ Jane says. ‘It won’t help. If you tell yourself you’re not allowed to have panic attacks because you’re “meant to be happy”, it will make you feel worse. It will feed the negative emotions.’
‘I’m not blaming myself.’
‘Good, then talk me through your thought process.’
I take another sip from my cup, trying to remember. ‘I was in bed,’ I say finally. ‘Thinking about how nice it had been that day, how lucky I was to have Rhys and Tem and my family. And then . . .’ I swallow. ‘And then I got scared.’
Jane nods. ‘Scared of what?’
‘Scared that . . . it wouldn’t last. That it would go away.’
Jane is silent for a while, letting us both digest these words. Her, hearing them for the first time. Me, hearing them aloud.
I try to smile. ‘Isn’t that stupid?’
‘No, Steffi,’ Jane says quietly. ‘It’s not stupid at all.’
Sometimes, I just get so tired of being me.
It takes a few days for me to pull myself out of the post-birthday post-panic-attack funk, but I manage it eventually, as I always do. I don’t see Tem or Rhys that weekend. Instead, I go to work on Saturday and spend most of Sunday with Rita at Dunstable Downs. December is just over the hill and it’s starting to get properly cold. Rita flies over the grass, as perfectly happy as only dogs seem to be. As I watch her run, I think about how I wish I didn’t think so much. How everything would be simpler if it were just . . . simpler.
I take Monday off school – Jane’s suggestion, and therefore valid – so I don’t see Rhys until Tuesday, which is also the beginning of Advent. I had thought I would tell him what had happened, or at least give him some kind of an insight into what a mess my head can be, but as soon as I see him I know I can’t. How could I ever explain the tangles my anxiety ties me into? I’d sound ridiculous. Yeah, I got scared after my birthday, so I had to not see anyone . . . sorry . . . A proper explanation is beyond my BSL skills, so that’s that. When Rhys says, Are you OK? I nod yes, and don’t elaborate.
We make a vague plan to do something after school, but it rains so we end up driving to the park and just staying in the car. I’m not complaining, mind. It’s nice in his car. Being with him, just the two of us, in the dry, cosy car, makes me feel safe and happy, warm and fuzzy. We kiss for a while across the front seats, then move to the back seat where we can talk with more room. We each lean against one side of the car and have a long, sprawling conversation about pretzels (soft versus crisp, sweet versus savoury) and then sport (he can just about tolerate football) and finally what the cutest animal is. He is showing me a picture of a quokka on his phone when I take it from him, put it on the seat beside us and climb into his lap.
I can be assertive, see. I can be bold. I can be the kisser instead of the kissed. I’m not shy all the time.
<
br /> We kiss until the rain stops. The fisherman jumper I’m wearing ends up on the floor of the car. Rhys’s hands are steaming hot against my bare skin – my bare skin! – but I can feel the hesitation in his movements and his breath. Are you sure? he is asking me. Is this OK? It’s more than OK. It’s a fucking revelation.
This is as far as we go: his fingers under the strap of my bra, a shudder of a breath against my neck, a tentative thumb on my nipple. And then when he slides his hand away he takes mine and squeezes it. We kiss with closed lips and smile at each other. It’s dark now, which is why Rhys leans round me to switch on the roof light.
I’m still on his lap and my heart thumps as he looks at me, his whole face slightly tense, as if he’s trying to hold this moment in place.
‘OK,’ I say out loud, half laughing with embarrassment, reaching for my jumper.
Sorry, he says immediately. He’s blushing. You’re beautiful.
I shove my head into my jumper so he can’t see me beaming and pull it slowly over me so I have time to rearrange my face. Thanks.
Are you . . . he hesitates and bites his lip. I suddenly know what he’s going to say, and I’m struck by a crazy urge to laugh. Isn’t the answer obvious?
Am I what? I ask innocently.
He swallows. Are you a virgin?
I smile. Yes. Are you?
He nods. Yes.
My heart starts thumping again. He kisses me, more gently this time, then pulls me in for a tight hug. I wrap my arms round his neck, rest my head against his and we stay like that for a while, in this moment, in this place.
If I had an older sister, this would be when I’d go flying up the stairs to speak to her. That’s what older sisters are for, right? To do your make-up and tell you about sex.
But, anyway, I don’t have an older sister. So, naturally, I go to Tem.
‘God, Steffi,’ is her first response. ‘You’ve gone from nought to nipple in one month. That’s impressive.’
I’m so hyper on oxytocin and Pepsi Max that I crack up. I laugh so hard tears brim around my eyes. When I wipe them, trying to get myself under control, I see that she’s grinning at me.
‘It’s so great seeing you this happy,’ she says.
I screw the cap back on my Pepsi Max, hold it between my knees and rest my chin on it. ‘It’s great being this happy,’ I say. A sense memory of my panic attack just a few days ago flickers in my head but I think, No. I imagine a door in my head and close it firmly.
‘So long as you’re not rushing,’ she cautions. ‘There’s no hurry, right?’
‘Sure,’ I agree. ‘I don’t think we will. But . . . I mean, if things carry on like they are now, we definitely will. Some day. Fairly soon. Ish.’
‘Have you said “I love you” yet?’
‘Oh God, no!’ I shake my head, horrified. ‘It’s way too early.’
Tem shrugs. ‘Feelings are feelings. They don’t care about things like timing. Hey, you’ll tell me when you do have sex, right? Like, immediately. Roll off the bed and text me.’
I laugh. ‘I can’t promise it will be immediately. But yes. Obviously.’ I make a face at her. ‘So long as you promise not to preach.’
She puts a solemn hand to her chest and bows her head. ‘I do so swear.’
Like I said earlier, Tem likes boys. She likes flirting and kissing and falling in love. But sex, she insists, is not an option until marriage. Most people don’t believe her when she says this – ‘People still do that?’ is a common response – but the mix of Christian commitment and Tem stubbornness is potent. So though she’s ahead of me in experience – she’s certainly done other things – one day I’ll overtake her. When I want to, I will, and the only thing that will stop me is if I don’t want to. That’s a kind of power, I think.
When Tem looks up again, she’s beaming. She reaches over to hug me, squeezing my head between her arms. ‘Ohhhh, Steffi!’ she crows. ‘You’re all grown up!’
‘Get off!’
My head is squashed right between her boobs.
‘Talking about sex with a boy. Having nipple touches!’
‘Get off, September!’ When she doesn’t release me, I try a different tack. ‘How’s Karam?’
It works. She releases me with a happy, Karam-induced sigh. ‘He’s great,’ she says. ‘As usual. It’s the march this weekend. You know, the one I told you about a while back?’
I nod. ‘You’re still going?’
‘Oh yeah. Karam’s running it and I’m like his second in command. We’ve been spending a lot of time after college making plans.’
‘Is that a euphemism?’
She scrunches her nose at me. ‘You’re a euphemism.’ Which means yes. ‘It’s great to spend so much time with him . . .’
I wait, but she doesn’t pick up the sentence, so I prompt, ‘But?’
There’s a pause, then she shakes her head. ‘No but. It’s great to spend so much time with him. We have such a laugh, Stef. And I know he likes me.’
‘Do you think you’ll get together properly?’
‘I don’t think we need labels,’ she says airily. ‘We just have fun together. Every time I see him, it’s like . . .’ She hesitates, her eyes darting up to the ceiling. ‘Like lightning. That bolt of lightning that people talk about. That’s how I know it’s real. I felt it the very first time I saw him, and it was like my heart was going, Yep, that’s him. Zing!’
‘Lightning?’ I echo, thinking of Rhys. The first time I saw him, I didn’t think anything beyond, There is a person I don’t know, probably with a hint of I hope I don’t have to speak to him. And, even now, seeing him doesn’t induce a jolt of electricity. Touching him and kissing him does a lot of the time – is that the same? Is that what she means?
‘Yeah, didn’t you get that with Rhys?’ She looks at me expectantly. ‘Like . . .’ She illustrates her thoughts by making a fist with her right hand and swinging it dramatically towards her heart. ‘Zing!’
I could lie, but this is Tem. What would be the point? ‘Not really,’ I say. ‘It’s more like . . .’ I try frantically to find an analogy that sounds as good as lightning. ‘Like thunder!’ I say, a little too triumphantly.
Tem blinks. ‘Loud and scary?’
‘Well, no.’ I frown. Too late to backtrack, go with it, Steffi. ‘It’s the bit after the jolt. You know how you feel thunder? Like that low rumbling, deep in your stomach and your chest? So I get the little jolts, like when we’re kissing, but then for a while after, while I’m with him, I get that happy, lasting kind of feeling. Like thunder.’ I’m warming to my theme. ‘With lightning, you’re never really sure if that’s what it was; it’s just a flash. Thunder, you know. You feel it.’
Tem is quiet, her expression bordering on sulky. ‘Well. I feel the lightning with Karam.’
‘Great,’ I say robustly. ‘And I feel the thunder.’
We look at each other, and I can tell she’s waiting for me to relent in the face of her disagreement, but I don’t. I wrinkle my nose and cross my eyes until she laughs and shrugs.
‘OK, fine,’ she says. ‘You can have your quiet thunder. I’ll keep the exciting lightning.’
I roll my eyes, smiling. ‘You do that.’
The following weekend, Rhys and I go Christmas shopping together. It’s mostly for his benefit rather than mine – I’m the super-organized kind of anxious person, meaning I’d bought all the presents I needed online at the beginning of December. I’d got Rhys a remote-controlled robotic raptor.
But Rhys, being of boykind, hasn’t got any of his presents yet. He hasn’t even got a list.
The best thing to do is start with your family members, I say. We’re in the queue at Starbucks, which extends all the way through the shop, planning the day. Well, I’m planning the day. Rhys is trying to decide whether to go for the Christmas spice blend coffee or a vanilla latte. Hey. I give him a poke. Concentrate. Shall we start with your mum?
Rhys shrugs. Mum likes candles. I always get h
er a candle.
I frown. Bit obvious.
He wiggles his nose at me. So?
I bet you get your dad a tie every year, I say, rolling my eyes.
What’s wrong with a tie? All dads love ties.
Basic, I sign, grinning at him. You’re basic.
We reach the front of the queue and Rhys orders for us, choosing the Christmas blend for himself and my usual vanilla hot chocolate for me. We head out into the cold, still no clearer on what shop we’re going to first or even who we’re buying a present for, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
Signing is a bit more difficult with a cup in one hand, but we manage. Rhys is laughing as he signs; he’s telling me a story about the Christmas he and his brother got their mother the same bath set. We’re surrounded by people but I’m looking at no one but Rhys, the two of us completely in our own bubble – a warm, happy bubble. I’m having an entire conversation and I’m not saying a word. Is anyone looking at us? Probably. I don’t even care.
We’re walking at an angle to each other so we can walk and talk, navigating our surroundings with glances. Rhys is slightly in front of me, walking backwards, and it is this fact, plus the aforementioned bubble, that causes Rhys to walk right out into the road, straight into the path of an oncoming Royal Mail van. The van is far enough away that most people would be able to get out of the way at the first sound of a horn, but Rhys doesn’t hear the horn.
I lunge out into the road and grab hold of Rhys, pulling him out of the way with seconds to spare before the blur of red, the blare of a horn being pounded in fury and a fist waving out of an open window. I take all of this in for less than a second before the bicycle hits us both.
Firstly – ow. The front wheel careens into Rhys’s leg and then over my left foot, the handlebars hitting the space just below my ribs.
Secondly – shit. We manage not to fall, Rhys’s hands grabbing on to my forearms, righting us both. His cup of coffee has gone flying into the road, spraying us, the road and the bike with lukewarm liquid.
‘What the fuck?!’ the cyclist roars. He’s managed to stop his bike with his feet and I don’t think he or his bike are even slightly dented, but still he is reaching up and ripping off his cycling goggles – yes, really – to yell at us. ‘What do you think you’re doing? Watch where you’re going!’
