It’s all pretty perfect, is what I’m saying.
Tem has bought me a panda charm for my bracelet, plus seventeen individually wrapped Lindor truffles. Her card features a black Labrador puppy and a white cat cuddling on a cushion. Inside she’s written,
They’re almost as cute as us!
Happy birthday, bestie.
Love, The Tempest xxx
‘The Tem-best,’ I say, because some things never change, and hug her.
My first ever present from my boyfriend – from a boyfriend generally, in fact – is a couple of Pop! figures: one Wall-E, one Eve. They are adorable and perfect. I thought about getting you Toy Story ones, Rhys says. But it’s not a love story.
I reach over and hug him. When we break apart, I see every single person in the room beaming at me.
If this whole thing were a film, this is where it would end. Me, bubbly happy, surrounded by people I love and who love me. Secure in myself and my place at the table. Talking freely. This would be the final shot: me sitting back after hugging Rhys, taking in the smiles of my family, smiling back as Rhys’s hand finds mine under the table and squeezes.
But this isn’t a film. He lets go of my hand, we eat cake and then he leaves, followed half an hour later by Tem and my mother. There are dishes to wash and leftovers to wrap in foil and cling-film. Lucy drinks a glass of wine and sits on the sofa, her fingers on her forehead, eyes closed. I take Rita for a late-night walk, and it rains.
When I get home, I shower and go straight to bed, still feeling the warmth of the day, and I snuggle under my covers, replaying the moments in my head. How good it all felt. How lucky I am.
And then it happens. The panic. It’s slow at first, creeping through the cracks in my thoughts until everything starts to feel heavy. It builds; it becomes something physical that clutches at my insides and squeezes out the air and the blood.
Who am I to be this lucky?
It won’t last.
It won’t last.
Rhys will get bored of me.
Tem will find better friends.
I make Lucy miserable because I remind her that her son’s dead and all she’s got is me.
Of course you’re happy with people who love you. What about everyone that doesn’t? They’re all still around.
I can’t breathe.
You don’t even have any real problems and look at you.
I sit up in bed and rake my fingers through my hair, trying to steady myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Imagine if you had real problems.
This is pathetic.
You’re pathetic.
My breath is wheezy. A tiny whimper escapes.
You thought getting a boyfriend would solve everything?
Rita has jumped on to my bed. She’s nuzzling my face with her wet nose. I try to inhale through my nose, smelling her fur.
You’re taking medication and it’s still not enough.
Nothing will ever be enough.
There’s just you. Never enough.
Not even close.
It takes me a long time to calm down and when I do I realize I’m crying, clutching the ruff of Rita’s neck. I’ve drowned out my own cruel thoughts by reciting the lyrics to ‘American Pie’ – my dad’s favourite song – half in my head, half in a whisper.
I breathe in a deep, shuddering breath and let go of Rita. She lets out a whiny huff, then licks my face.
‘Sorry,’ I whisper, touching my cheek to hers. ‘I’m sorry.’
I wait until my hands have stopped shaking, then lean over to my bedside cabinet to pick up the notepad my therapist gave me when I first started taking medication. I glance at the clock and write 2.11 a.m. Panic attack. I hesitate, the words blurring through a film of tears, and add, Help.
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.