A Quiet Kind of Thunder(51)

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.’