“Why?” I asked. It came out in a whisper.
“Why are you so scared? You’ve done it before. Nothing bad happened.”
I went from scared to angry almost in a second. “That wasn’t the same! That was only one day past, and it was ham, not chicken. Not even normal people eat chicken past its sell-by. And something did happen, I felt sick all day!”
“From the panic, not from the sandwich.”
“There is no way of proving that. I definitely felt sick, and I’m sure it was from that sandwich. And if I did it then, why do I have to do it again now?”
Tears were on standby, threatening to jump out at any minute. My heart felt like it had been plugged into a generator. A generator powered by The Earth’s Inner Core.
Sarah got her uber-calm voice out of its box. “I’ve explained to you before that you’re going to experience heightened anxiety now you’re cutting back on your medicine. It’s really important we continue with exposures, so you can prove to yourself things are still okay even when you’re not on your medication.”
“Why don’t I just stay on them?”
“You can,” Sarah soothed. “But you told me you wanted to come off them. It was your decision.”
She was right. I hated being on them.
Why I wanted to come off my medication
I hated worrying that I wasn’t sure who I was. What was Evie? And what was a chemical I took that changed my brain? I hated the way they made my feet burn at night. How, in summer, I had to soak flannels in ice water and wrap them around my toes, just to cool them off enough to get some sleep. I hated that I wasn’t sure if I was better, or if I was just dependent on a mind-altering medication. I hated that I’d started taking them way below the age you’re medically supposed to because I was so sick. I hated that I’ll never be entirely sure what impact that may’ve had on my brain. I hated how they’d made me puff up. I hated that it was too dangerous to just come off them suddenly, and that therefore I was technically “trapped” with them. I hated how if I ever had children and I was still on them, it might damage them in the womb. I hated how I felt weak for going on them in the first place. I hated how I never felt happy or sad since I’d been on them, more just…numb…
But at that moment, in that dankish therapy room, I didn’t hate anything as much as the idea of eating that sandwich.
“Not the whole thing,” I bargained, my voice wobbling, all my emotions desperate to tumble out like the traitors they were.
“Just one triangle.”
“Three bites.”
“One half, you’ve done it before.”
“I wasn’t so utterly terrified then.”
“That’s the point. Come on, Evie, you’re strong, you’re brave. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I’ll…I’ll…get sick.” And then the tears came and I sobbed them out so hard I could hardly breathe.
“So, you get sick, so what?”
“I’ll throw up.”
Sarah shrugged. “So? You’ll still be alive.”
“Stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“Using logic with me. It’s never worked before, it won’t work now.” My hands shook so hard I swear their energy could register on an earthquake machine. My voice got louder. “Do you not think I know it’s unreasonable? Do you not think I don’t spend all my time telling myself it’s stupid, bullying myself: ‘Stop being so bloody illogical, Evie, you’re ruining your life.’” I smashed my hands on the table just to use up some energy. I was shouting now. “Just because it’s illogical doesn’t mean it’s any less scary.”
Sarah kept her voice calm; it was the utter opposite of mine.
“Just one triangle.”
“Oh, fuck it.” And I picked up the disgusting, smelly out-of-date sandwich, ripped open the packaging and shoved as much as I could in my mouth.
“Good girl.”
I started to chew but my mouth was so full. Two days out of date, two days out of date, TWO DAYS OUT OF DATE.
I choked.
“Come on, Evie, just keep chewing, then swallow.”
There was no saliva in my mouth. The mayonnaise tasted sour. I heaved.
Poison poison poison poison poison.
“Keep chewing, keep chewing.”
I thought of everything in the world other than what was in my mouth. I attempted to picture a calm lake. When that didn’t work, I pictured all the people in the world who have worse problems than me. Real problems. Sick people. Lonely people. Poor people. Starving people. Starving people would eat the sandwich instantly. Starving people would be grateful for the sandwich. They wouldn’t even know about sell-by dates. Because they had real problems whereas I was just a self-indulgent, selfish, stupid, stupid, WEAK, self-indulgent brat.
Oh God, the sandwich, it was still in my mouth. Turning to a sludgy paste, wedging itself around my gums, sticking in a lump between my tongue.
Two days out of date.
I pictured the bacteria growing in the chicken flesh; I pictured the microbes in the sauce multiplying, the lettuce wilting. And now it was all in my body, my weak stupid body.
No. I couldn’t. No. How much had I swallowed already?
No. No. NO.
I spat it out, right there, onto the table. All over the tissue box. I heaved, dry retched. A piece of bread that had wedged in my throat spilled onto the wooden top, thick with mucus. I gagged, I really was going to be sick. Hold it in hold it in hold it in. I hated Sarah. I hated the world. I grabbed her water glass, downed it. I tried swilling my mouth out but I’d had too much water and it spilled down my chin. I knocked the glass over as I choked, spilling it everywhere.
Then I dropped to the industrial carpet, gasping for breath. I tried so hard to breathe but the sobs…the sobs wedged in my throat, stopping the oxygen.
“Evie. EVIE? Calm down. BREATHE, EVIE.”
My eyes bulged out of their sockets. I could hear this odd donkey-like heehaw breathing. It was me. Where was my air? I was going to black out.
Sarah’s hand was around my hand. Squeezing tight.
“Listen to me. Listen to my voice. Let’s breathe in for three. Come on, one, two, three…”
I tried, but another sob erupted, blocking my windpipe.
“Stop crying, Evie, listen to me. In for three, one, two, three…”
I concentrated on her voice and managed to grab a quick gasp of air.
“Good girl. Now out for five. One, two, three, four—”
I managed till four but another sob bubbled. I coughed on nothing.
“In for three…
…out for five…
…in for three…
…out for five…
…in for three…
…out for five…”
Soon my sobs dulled to a whimper.
Soon my breathing came back.
Soon I was able to get up off the carpet.
Soon I’d meet my friends for coffee and pretend that it hadn’t happened.
Twenty-two
I went home to change before I went to meet the girls for a half-term catch-up. I had dried phlegm all down my jumper, I’d cried my make-up off, and my fringe had separated into tear-drenched clumps.
I prayed Mum was out before I unlocked the door. She did admin for the small estate agents down the road and I could never work out her hours, as it was sometimes mornings, sometimes afternoons. She didn’t appear to be home so I tiptoed inside. Rose wasn’t in either. All I could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock on the landing.
For once, luck was on my side.
I hovered over the loo, letting the smell of stale bleach turn my stomach and coughing up any remaining sandwich. When I was satisfied, I lay on my bed and observed myself for signs of illness. This is hard when, generally, signs of anxiety are the same as signs of illness. It’s such a torturous circle. I eat something, I start to worry I’ll get sick, this releases adrenalin which makes my stomach churn and my hands shake. That, of course, makes me think I am actually sick, so I get more scared, and feel more sick.