Queenie(77)

“I don’t know. I feel like I can’t breathe a lot of the time. Sorry, I don’t know how best to say these things, like I should know technical terms, or something.”

“It isn’t for you to know technical terms, that’s my job. Just try to relax, and tell me, in your own time, how you feel. Even if it’s physical pain, discomfort, if it’s tiredness, sadness, anything at all.”

“Okay? Well, yeah, I feel tired a lot. Like, exhausted. I feel like I’m always trying to concentrate on being normal again. And I don’t really sleep that well. I feel worried, like something really bad is about to happen, but I can’t pinpoint what, and then I feel even more worried because I can’t work out why I feel the way I do. I feel frightened, like, properly scared. Especially at night. I have these nightmares, this sleep paralysis. I end up physically fighting everyone I share a bed with in my sleep, which is not cool.” I stopped to catch up with myself. “I feel nervous about really small things that I used to be able to do without even thinking about them, like going to the shop, or eating—and I used to really like eating. I don’t feel sick, but my stomach is always flipping over and over, and when I get really upset sometimes it feels like my stomach is, like, closed off. So I don’t have an appetite, is what I’m trying to say. Sometimes I feel frantic? And I feel like everything has just spun out of control, out of my hands? I don’t know. Like . . . I feel a bit like for a while I’ve been carrying ten balls of wool. And one ball fell, so I dropped another to catch it, but still didn’t catch it. Then two more started to unravel, and in trying to save those I lost another one. Do you know what I mean? Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Queenie.” Janet smiled. “I understand what you mean. You used a term that I don’t really like to be used here—”

“Oh, sorry. What was it?”

“You’re apologizing again.” Janet laughed. “Normal. What is normal to you?”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry. Sorry for apologi—you know what I mean.” I shook my head quickly as if to reset myself. “Well, you know, normal is normal. Like being happy, and being able to get up and go to work without worrying about everything, and being able to have a nice time with your friends without thinking something bad is going to happen, and being able to eat without feeling shit, you know, just normal.”

“I think that we all need to scrap this idea that normality is something to strive toward. I personally cannot pinpoint or prescribe what it is to be normal,” Janet explained. “I think it’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself.”

“Maybe,” I tried to concede.

“Try to bear that in mind as we go along,” she said. “I’d like to ask you something, Queenie.”

“Go for it,” I said, trying to make myself comfortable.

“What do you think about yourself?”

I froze. I hadn’t realized the question would be such a hard one to even approach answering. “That I’m insane, mainly.” I quickly threw an answer at her before I could start getting into my head about it.

Janet chuckled. “Well, you aren’t insane, I can tell you that now. I mean, what do you see, when you look in the mirror, when you think about yourself as a person?”

“I try not to look in the mirror. I don’t know, I’m just me, I guess. I’m nothing special. I’m not pretty, I’m not ugly. I just get on with it. I don’t know.” I looked at the frosted window again. “This is a hard question.”

Janet nodded slowly. “I notice that you haven’t mentioned your parents at all. Do you have a good relationship with your mother and father?” That question was even worse. What was she going to ask next?

“Ha.” A bitter laugh burst out of me. “No. Ha. My dad isn’t here. He’s in Jamaica, I think? Nobody really knows where he is or what he’s up to.” I shrugged. “And my mum—” I cleared my throat, feeling something familiar rise from my stomach. “I don’t—is it okay if I don’t talk about her?”

Janet pushed a glass of water toward me. “I think that it would be good if we could touch on your mum at some point, if that’s okay? We don’t have to do it today.”

When I walked out the door after doing some breathing exercises to stop me from panicking that only served to make me feel stupid, I decided firmly that I wasn’t going to go back.



* * *



Can it truly be called “living” when you’re sharing a house with your grandparents?

Pros of living with grandparents:

? I can honestly say that my surroundings have never been cleaner.

? Nor my body.

? Quiet nighttimes—eight hours a night at least. I might not be able to sleep, but it’s better than the sound of Rupert being sick or Nell crying and listening to the same sad song on repeat.

? Haven’t had to spend money on food.

? Even though explaining it took a hundred years and they’re still suspicious about it, I made them get broadband so I can watch Netflix (even though I have to watch everything with my headphones in).

? Seeing Diana more, communicating with “the youth” and so being able to understand newly emerging memes and slang. Bonus pro: she doesn’t seem to be fazed by my temporary breakdown.