Queenie(87)

“How could I not be trapped in it?” I interrupted. I was on one today, apparently.

“Well, Queenie, I think that you’re taking on a burden that isn’t yours. You can’t carry the pain of a whole race.”

“It’s not a burden I’m taking on, it’s one that’s just here.” I could feel anger building in my chest. “I can’t pick it up and drop it!”

“Is that how you see it?” Janet asked as calmly as she could in an attempt to counter my distress.

“That’s how it is.” I started to get louder. “I can’t wake up and not be a black woman, Janet. I can’t walk into a room and not be a black woman, Janet. On the bus, on the Tube, at work, in the cafeteria. Loud, brash, sassy, angry, mouthy, confrontational, bitchy.” I listed off all of my usual descriptors on my fingers. “There are ones people think are nice, though: well-spoken, surprisingly intelligent, exotic. My favorite is sexy, I think? I guess I should be grateful for any attention at all.” My voice was getting hoarse. “You know, when we go out, my friends get chatted up by guys who say, ‘I’d love to take you for dinner,’ and in the same breath they come over to me, put their hands on my bum, and tell me they want to take me back to theirs and fuck me over the arm of the sofa. This past year has shown me that I can’t have a boyfriend who loves me, who can stop and think about what I might be going through.” I dug my nails into the arms of the chair. “I can’t have any love in my life that isn’t completely fucked by my fear that I’ll be rejected just for being born me. Do you know how that feels, Janet?”

“No, Queenie, I don’t.”

“Exactly. With respect, Janet, you aren’t best placed to tell me how to deal with this ‘burden.’?”

“Okay, try to calm down, Queenie. Remember your breathing.” Janet poured me a glass of water.

“Why should I calm down? This is what you wanted, for me to stop holding things in! My best friend Cassandra? The one who moved away with a man who fucked me for months but actually cared about someone else? You remember? Good,” I said. “I used to do this thing with him: I knew it was pathetic, but I couldn’t stop it. Even though I hate any meaningful closeness, when he stayed over, I used to try and tuck myself into his back while he slept. I just wanted some comfort, I wanted someone to like me after they’d had sex with me. Isn’t that pathetic?” I asked Janet. “Do you know what he used to do? Push me off him, every time. But that’s me. I’m an option for a man to fuck, but not an option to love.” My hands were shaking. “And if you’re going to fuck me, then at least it’s going to be in my control!” I shouted. I couldn’t stop myself. “And do you know why? It’s because I’m so damaged, Janet. Years of being told I was nothing, years of being ignored! I’ll take any attention, even if it is being fucked!” The room started to warp. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up and started flapping my hands as if to cool myself down or push the air into my mouth—I wasn’t sure which. I looked at Janet and opened and closed my mouth.

Even if I knew what I wanted to say, it wasn’t coming out. She was saying something. I couldn’t hear what. I tried to do my breathing, tried to focus on her face, to count to ten, to think of that safe space, it was all so overwhelming and—



* * *



I felt my surroundings before I opened my eyes and saw them. I was on a bed, I knew that much. I’d been in a lot of beds that weren’t mine in the past year, so I wasn’t as frightened as I might otherwise have been.

I was lying on my side, and quite possibly in the recovery position, as my limbs weren’t in a position they might have organically and comfortably fallen into.

My head was throbbing. I opened my eyes and squinted as the low light from a lamp next to the bed hit them.

“Hello?” I whispered, looking around the room. The room was small, lilac, with only the single bed that I occupied in one corner and the bedside table and lamp next to it. No posters, no pictures, no clue that the room belonged to any person. I lowered my legs off of the bed slowly, and put my feet on the floor.

I tried to stand up, but fell back down onto the bed.

“Queenie?” My eyes followed the voice that had called my name, and I saw Janet rush over, mug in hand.

“How are you feeling? Here, drink this. Let it cool for a couple of minutes.” She went to hand me the mug, then placed it on the bedside table instead. “Don’t want you to burn your hands on top of everything else.”

Janet perched at the end of the bed. “What happened?” I asked. I was shaking.

“Let me give you a blanket.” Janet opened a drawer and pulled out a knitted patchwork blanket. She covered me and sat back down.

“I’m not cold, just shaking,” I said.

“That will be the adrenaline leaving your system. Just let it pass. Nothing bad is happening to you,” she said, taking a sip of her own tea. “You fainted, Queenie.”

“That happened before when I lived in Brixton,” I told Janet. “It was horrible, that floor was so dirty. But why it is happening now, shouldn’t I be better? What’s wrong with me? Is something seriously wrong? Am I getting worse?” I asked, sitting up straight for Janet’s question time.

“No. It doesn’t mean that at all,” Janet reassured me. “The road to recovery is not linear. It’s not straight. It’s a bumpy path, with lots of twists and turns. But you’re on the right track.”