Here’s something pretty important you should know. Over the summer, I started taking DRUGS. Not Bad Drugs. Good Drugs. Prescription drugs.
This is partly to do with this being my make-it-or-break-it year, but to be honest it’s been a long time coming. Ever since I was very young my parents and my doctor have been discussing whether or not I should take medication to help with my anxiety and, by extension, my mutism. (Why wasn’t I involved in the discussions, you may ask? What an excellent question. Let me know if you get an answer.) The thing with SSRIs – Selective Serotonin Reuptake Inhibitors, which is what I’m taking – is that they’re not supposed to be taken by ‘children’, and that basically means anyone under the age of eighteen.
In my case, we agreed that sixteen was the right age and on my birthday last year I had a series of sessions with a new therapist where we worked out a med plan for me, as well as fortnightly Cognitive Behaviour Therapy (CBT) sessions. As I said, I started my first round of fluoextine over the summer – three weeks ago, in fact. So far, all I’ve got to show for it is some pain in my teeth (a rare side-effect, so trust me to be the one who gets it) and a whole load of trepidation. It can take up to six weeks before you really start to see its effects. Six weeks! So I’ve got a long way to go.
It’s a weird thing. For some people, SSRIs change their life – like a fog lifting, they say. Others say it doesn’t actually make much of a difference, that their anxiety remains, or in some cases it actually worsens. Which group I will fall into remains to be seen. I hope I’m one of the lucky ones. God, I hope so.
‘They’re not magic pills,’ Dad cautioned. ‘It’s not going to be a miracle cure. You know that, Stef-Stef?’
Of course I know that. But I can still hope.
I imagine going to the supermarket and buying a bottle of milk without thinking twice. I dream of speaking to the assistant at the bank. I hope of getting through a Saturday in town without a panic attack. These are such small things to most people, but the fear of them takes up my whole world.
When I get home from my first day as an official sixth former, I find my dad still wearing his suit from work, though he’s loosened his tie and taken off his jacket, eating a nectarine over the kitchen sink. My dad is a civil servant, which means he deals with politicians all day but isn’t allowed to be political. He is diplomatic, soft-spoken and the kindest person in the world.
‘Stef-Stef,’ he says, dropping the nectarine pit into the compost caddy and wiping his hands on a piece of kitchen paper. ‘How was your first day?’
‘Pretty good,’ I say, kneeling to greet my five-year-old German shepherd, Rita, who has padded into the kitchen to greet me. She sits, tail thwacking against the floor. ‘I missed Tem, though.’
He smiles. ‘Understandable. Did you make any friends?’
‘Not really. They’re pretty much all the same kids I’ve been at school with for years, Dad.’
‘I know, but now Tem’s moved on it’s a good time for you to reconsider old friendships.’ He reaches down and strokes Rita’s smooth head. ‘I’d worry very much if you were planning to spend the whole year by yourself. Especially after what we discussed.’
‘I did meet someone,’ I say quickly, hoping to avoid where I know he’s going and offering a silent apology to Rhys Gold for using him as a distraction. ‘My head of year introduced me to a new kid who’s deaf, because I know some sign language.’
Dad’s whole face lights up. ‘Wonderful!’ he says, sounding just like Mr Stafford in a way that makes me smile. ‘You must be a bit rusty after all these years. I’ll have a look in the attic for the books we used to use. I knew I’d be glad one day that I didn’t throw them away.’
‘It’s fine,’ I start to say, but he’s already off.
‘There are probably some really great online learning platforms for BSL nowadays. I remember they all seemed a little rudimentary back then. Have a look and let me know if you need to sign up for anything or if you need to pay; it’ll definitely be worth it. Maybe I could do a little refresher course too.’
‘Dad –’
‘Lucy will be pleased! Maybe the four of us could all learn together, like we did last time.’
‘Three.’
‘What?’ He’s still all smiles, and I hate to do this to him.
‘Three, Dad. The three of us.’
There’s a silence. We both look at each other. I see his smile fade and pain sweep across his face.
Dad clears his throat. ‘Right. Yes. Three of us. Maybe the three of us could learn together.’ He turns away from me and picks up an envelope from the post pile. ‘I ordered pizza for us. It should be here in twenty minutes. I got you the Garden Supreme.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘Call me when it arrives, OK?’