Am I Normal Yet? (30 page)

4) Do not pretend to like the following because you think you should: football, rugby, action films, anal sex (Lottie added that one), metal music… Like what you like.

5)
If a boy kisses you then doesn't message, you're allowed to puncture his face with a compass.
(Amber and Lottie wouldn't let that one of mine in.)

“I still stand by that last one,” I said, stubbornly.

“So, what? You kissed and now he's ignoring you?”

My eyes welled up, with the frustration, as well as confusion and hurt. “Yes. I'm such an idiot. You're allowed to tell me I'm an idiot. I know you've been dying to.”

Amber took my hand – which would've been nice but I knew she didn't wash her hands with soap. I'd have to scrub mine when I got home. I didn't know what to do first – the lamp posts or the washing. The lamp posts, I guessed. My parents wouldn't let me out after the Big Talking To I'd no doubt be getting. My phone had been going off all through the meeting and I'd ignored it.

“You're not an idiot,” Amber reassured. “And, anyway, remember the bit of the manifesto we let through…
Girls must try not to let blokes pee all over their hearts – but matters of the heart are complicated, so you should always be there for each other.
”

I gave her a sad smile. “That won't fit on a bumper sticker.”

“Good. I hate bumper stickers. They're always so bloody patronizing.”

I squeezed her hand and let go promptly. “You're right. We kissed, I thought it was wonderful. Now he's not messaged. I really am an idiot.” The rejection stung so much and it didn't make any sense. I'd been so normal around him – apart from that blip at the party I'd been utterly usual. Was me freaking out at the party enough to put him off? And, if so, why did he kiss me?

“Oh, Evie.” She put her arm around me and I let her because our coats were thick and therefore no skin was touching. “He's the idiot, not you. I wish you could see that.”

“It's because he thinks I'm crazy. And he doesn't want to go out with a crazy idiot.”

She laughed through her aww-noise. “What are you talking about? You're not crazy! Yes, you watch weird films I've never heard of, and sometimes you talk like my grandma, but you're fine. Perfectly normal otherwise. Why would you say that?”

I started to cry and she hugged me, looking confused. Not knowing anything.

“Evie, hey, it's okay. What's wrong? You can tell me.”

It would've been the perfect time to tell her. To tell anyone. To say, “I'm drowning and I need someone, anyone, to be my life raft.” To say, “I thought it had gone, and it hasn't and I'm so scared by what that means.” To say, “I just want to be normal, why won't my head let me be normal?”

But I couldn't. It would be confirmation I
wasn't
normal. I wasn't better. I'd failed at boring everyday existing that everyone else finds so easy.

“Nothing's wrong,” I said into her bustle of hair, wondering when I could wash it off my face. “I just really liked him.”

My hands were filthy by the time I got in. Filthy from a mile of street light touching, and freezing from cold.

BAD THOUGHT

You must wash them. Whatever goes down with your family, you must wash them.

BAD THOUGHT

URGENT THOUGHT

And you really need to finish the shower too.

URGENT THOUGHT

Are you sure you touched every single street light? Maybe you should go back and do it again, just in case?

I hesitated on the doorstep, unsure of what to do first. My hands were so dirty…but I wouldn't get a chance to go back to the street lights again. Maybe if I touched twelve times, rather than six, that would make Guy message? Or at least make me better? But my heart beat so fast about my hands…

…The front door opened, making my decision for me. Mum's face appeared through the threshold – her face grim.

“Evelyn, get inside.”

“But…”

“No arguments. Get inside. Now.”

She yanked me into the house, getting her germs all over my arm.

“Oww, Mum! There's no need for that.”

“We're having a family meeting in the kitchen.”

URGENT THOUGHT

YOU HAVE TO WASH YOUR HANDS NOW, EVIE.

“Okay, great,” I said, as breezily as I could. “I just need to go to the bathroom…”

“No. I'm not letting you lock yourself in there and make your hands bleed again.”

NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, I screamed inside.

“I need a wee! You're not going to let me wee?” My voice broke.

“No. Because you don't need to. You're just trying to ritualize.”

“Fine then. I'll piss myself. Let your own child piss herself.”

“That's okay. The kitchen has lino.”

“This is child abuse.”

“No, Evie. This is called ‘caring about you'.”

I was sobbing before I even got to the kitchen. When I saw Rose sitting at the table, finally but tragically let in on my pathetic non-secret, I wailed. Dad's tie was loosened, his hair standing on end from running his hands through it. Only my dad would wear a tie on a Sunday.

“Evelyn, sit down,” he said, talking like he must do at work before he sacks people. That's what his job is. A professional sacker – or “performance expert”, as he calls it. Companies hire him to decide who they can dispose of to save money, then let Dad do all the dirty work for them. That's why he charges so much. And probably why he has a sick daughter. Karma.

I bet he wished he could sack me…

“I just need to wash my hands,” I pleaded, in a small voice. “They're…cold?”

He leaned back in his chair and took some drying socks off the kitchen radiator. “You can warm them here.”

I made a run for it, it was the only way. I bolted for the kitchen sink and Dad kicked his chair backwards, chasing me. I got as far as turning the tap on before he grabbed me around the stomach, pulling me back.

“Noooo,” I yelled, crying so hard. “Please let me, please let me. Please. Please!”

He smoothed down my hair, trying to calm me. “Evie, this is for your own good. Remember that? You don't need to do this. You're not dirty. You're not going to get ill.”

“I am, I am. I AM! Please let me, please. I'll scream…” What an amazing idea. I screamed as loud as I could – it rang off the walls, pierced all our eardrums. Dad dropped me instinctively and I took my chance, running for the kitchen sink. In a second my hands were underwater. Oh the relief, the sweet relief. I could feel the germs dripping off me, splashing down the plughole, leaving me alone. I tipped a generous gloop of fairy liquid into my hands and rubbed it into the bad places.

…Wash wash wash…up in between every finger…spend lots of time around the bottom of the thumbs…palm to palm…back to back…

I'd stopped crying. I felt okay.

Then I realized no one was stopping me.

I turned around to my family, the water still running.

They all stared at me, watching me attack my skin frantically, looking like a meth addict. Mum had slumped to the floor – her hands over her ears, trying to block out her daughter. Dad was shaking his head slowly – disappointment bleeding all over his face.

And Rose…Rose…

Her eyes were wide with shock, shiny with worried tears. One lay suspended on her cheek.

“Evie?” she whispered. “What are you doing?”

I turned the tap off. Shame echoed and bounced off the inside of my bones. “Sorry about that,” I said. “I just needed to…”

“Rose,” Mum whispered. “Go to the living room. I was wrong, you
are
too young for this.”

“But I want to stay.” Rose got off her chair and hugged me hard. I felt the warmth in her body, her arms around my back. Huge waves of grief crashed through me.

“Rose, Mum's right. I'm fine, honest.”

“But, you're not fine, are you?”

“I am,” I insisted, hugging her back hard.

Dad stood up. “You're not fine, Evelyn. We think you've had a relapse. We've rung Sarah; we're all going to see her together after college tomorrow.”

Relapse…

“No,” I whispered. “No no no no no.”

What they tell you about relapse

It's all part of recovery, they say.

It's nothing to be ashamed of, they say.

It doesn't mean you've failed, they say.

It doesn't mean you'll never get better, they say.

Watch out for those triggers, they say.

It can happen very quickly, they say.

“No,” I said, louder this time. “I've not relapsed. You're wrong.”

Mum covered her ears further. “Evie, look at you. Look at your hands.”

I did. They were bleeding.

“So what? So I keep clean so I don't get sick – doesn't everyone else wash every day? Don't people buy bottles of that antibacterial hand gel and tip it over themselves whenever they get a train? The world is filthy, Mum. What's wrong with keeping myself clean?”

She shook her head in an
I-can't-believe-we're-here-again
way.

“We've been through this before, Evelyn,” Dad said, taking over. “It's the amount of times you do it, the fact it's controlling your life again.”

“It's you who is controlling my life,” I yelled, so loud Rose unwrapped herself and sat down on a kitchen chair. “The only interference is YOU. I'm going to college, I'm doing okay in my coursework, I've got friends, boys like me. I'm only going crazy because YOU'RE STOPPING ME.”

“FOR YOUR OWN GOOD,” Dad yelled back.

“Oh shut up, and go fire some more people. Is that for their own good too, eh? Is that what you tell yourself?”

“We're seeing Sarah tomorrow and we're going to increase your dosage again. Just until this blip is over.”

“No.” Not the medicine. I'd finally almost come off it.

“Yes.”

“You can't make me go.”

“We're picking you up straight after college.”

I wasn't going, I wasn't going to go.

“Fine,” I said, to shut them up. And while they were all still reeling – Rose still crying, Dad still fuming, Mum still rocking on the floor…I saw my chance.

I ran out the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the bathroom to shower.

Once the water hit me, I felt so much better.

Why I didn't want to admit I was having a relapse

I really thought I'd got better. I really thought it had gone away. Coming off the meds was the last chapter of the book of nightmares I'd picked off the shelf three years ago. It was the epilogue to a one-off story, the one-night-only performance of
When Evie Went Crazy.

If I was having a relapse now, that meant, in time, I'd have another one. And another…

If I was having a relapse, this meant it was “chronic”.

I was stuck like this.

I would always be like this.

This is who I was.

“Sick” was who I was.

“Crazy” was who I was.

And I just wanted to have one shower in the morning, like everybody else. And go to college without it feeling like the world's biggest effort, like everybody else. And brush my teeth twice a day, like everybody else. And get the train, like everybody else. And not feel sick with fear all the time, like everybody else. And relax occasionally, like everybody else. And have fun with my friends, like everybody else. And get kissed, like everybody else. And go on holiday, like everybody else. And fall in love, like everybody else. And not cry every day, like everybody else. And not have stiff muscles and be in constant pain from stress, like everybody else. And eat hamburgers with my hands like everybody else. And to…

My phone went – buzzing dully on my bedside table.

It was him. Finally it was him.

I can't stop thinking about last night.

I didn't think I was capable of smiling that evening. But this made me smile and I was so grateful for the pitter-patter of light in the clunking mess of my life.

That's when I decided it. If they were going to drag me back to Sarah, if they were going to label me with diagnoses you can find on NICE guidelines where “who you are” is defined as a list of symptoms, if they were going to confirm my worst suspicions…

…Evelyn, you're not like everybody else. You are wrong. Who you are is wrong. It needs treatment.

Well then, I'd make the most out of pretending to be normal while I still could.

I wrote back – not even waiting the obligatory five hours you're supposed to.

Me neither. What you doing tomorrow?

An instant reply.

My parents are out all evening. Come over
?

I pulled back my bedroom curtains the next morning and squealed. The frost had come! The frost had finally come.

Good but unhelpful thought

It freezes all the dirt. It makes the air clean.

I loved winter – with its fresh cold air and its jewelled blades of grass and how everyone shut themselves away and left each other alone.

I also hated winter. Flu season and the yearly norovirus stories bombarding the pages of local newspapers, making me stop eating anything from the cafeteria, or touching doorknobs without covering my hand with my jumper first.

I wiggled out of my pyjamas and started the treacherous business of deciding what to wear to Guy's house… Skirt? Too obvious? And tights would be a nightmare to get off. But then so are jeans…and would I be taking anything off anyway…? There was a soft knock on my door.

“Hang on,” I said, from inside a checked shirt I couldn't decide was
“
girl-next-doory” or just plain “farmy”.

“It's Mum.” She marched straight in without waiting and sat on the bed. “You'll freeze to death in that shirt.”