Am I Normal Yet? (13 page)

…despite all my best efforts, did Proper Bad Thoughts start to win things right at the last moment?

PROPER BAD THOUGHT

You may be owning them, but you're having an awful lot of them.

PROPER BAD THOUGHT

What if you start not being able to own them?

I stopped dead in the car park and got honked at aggressively by a bald man driving a BMW.

I barely heard him.

WORSE THOUGHT

It's really, maybe, coming back again.

I was late. I found a quiet alleyway round the back of the cinema and I stayed there for a bit, wiping the tears from my eyes the moment they spilled so as not to wreck my mascara, and breathing in deeply for three, and out for six…

I entered the cinema with only five minutes to go before the film began. The cool air of the unnecessary air-conditioning helped shake off the remaining panic and dried up the moist layer of sweat on my forehead.

I could make out the back of Oli's head. His spiked hair gave him away. That, and the fact he was the only one left in the foyer because it was so goddamned late. I reached out and tapped him on the shoulder, tentatively.

“Evie.” He spun round and I almost gasped. His face was like looking at my reflection – his eyes panicked, forehead sweaty, his smile strained. “I thought you weren't coming,” he said, in a breezy way that didn't have anything breezy about it. I felt so guilty for being late.

“I'm so sorry,” I said, the guilt blooming in me like a flower. “I, er…got caught up. We've still got time, haven't we?”

Oli's strained smile became more natural. “Yeah, we've only missed the trailers. We probably don't have time to buy any popcorn or anything though.”

“That's too bad.”

“I'm so glad you came, Evie.” And then, in a fit of courage, he reached over and took my hand and it felt so lovely that all I could do was stare at our unionized fingers.

“Evie…”

“Huh?” I still stared at our entwined digits.

“Evie?” Oli said louder.

I looked up, confused, still riding the tsunami wave of today's emotions. Oli's stark green eyes were scared again. Instantly I panicked.

“What is it?” I asked.

He gulped and took away his hand, scratching the side of his head. “I…umm…there's something I need to tell you.”

And just as all the worst-case scenarios catapulted into my brain, we were interrupted…

“Hello,” said an unfamiliar voice behind me. “You must be Evelyn.”

What?

“Oh, Oli dear, she's just as lovely as you said.”

I spun in the direction of the voices and saw two frumpish grown-ups. An older couple, both wearing bobbly cardigans. They beamed at me like I was selling them cookies.

“Evie…” Oli said, his voice shaking. “These are my parents.”

PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS PARENTS?!?!?!?

They held out their hands and I found myself shaking them in shock, and saying, “Nice to meet you.”

“Lovely to meet you too, Evie,” Oli's mum – MUM?! – said. “But we better be taking our seats otherwise we'll miss the start of the film.”

We all turned and walked to the cinema door, handing our tickets to the cinema guy, like it was the most normal thing in the world. His parents – PARENTS – walked ahead and disappeared into the darkness before us, their chatter drowned out instantly by the noise of the last trailer.

Oli took my hand again, but oh how different it felt.

He leaned over and whispered, “Don't worry, we don't have to sit next to them.”

And we, too, were submerged in the darkness.

Oli was right, we didn't have to sit next to his parents – PARENTS. They sat a grand total of three aisles in front. Just before the film began, his mum turned round, waved, and literally said, “
Coo-eee.
”

Oli stared at the giant cinema screen, rubbing his hands together like Lady Macbeth, offering absolutely no explanation for:

a) Why his parents were there,

b) Why he didn't tell me they were coming, and,

c) WHY HIS PARENTS WERE THERE!

That's the thing about anxiety. You can worry about anything and everything, dream up all sorts of weird and wonderful situations to be terrified of in the hope your fear will control the world somehow…and yet the world remains uncontrollable. Nothing you can imagine is ever as weird and wonderful as reality and what it chucks at you.

Never, in my history of bad thoughts, had I conjured up:

BAD THOUGHT

What if my date brings his parents?

Three minutes into the Tarantino film, the grisly violence began. Guts splattered against the screen and blood spurted from people's heads against the backdrop of clever-but-essentially-meaningless (in my filmic opinion) dialogue. I shuffled in my seat and tried to focus on the movie but it was hard. I really wasn't a fan of this director and I was too distracted by working out what was happening with Oli. I glanced over in the dark. He was leaning right forward in his seat. I looked over at his parents. His mum had already buried her face into his dad's bobbly jumper.

I had a think.

Possible reasons for why Oli's parents were here

a) They wanted to see the movie too… But then why was his mum's head now right up his dad's bobbly cardigan?

b) They are very overprotective parents… But then wouldn't he have warned me?

c) He has a bee allergy and they've got to be with him at all times in case they have to inject adrenalin into his heart…but he comes to college every day?

Then it hit me…like a cartoon of a light bulb pinging above my head.

Maybe Oli's got anxiety too.

I looked over again in the gloom.

His feet bounced up and down, his legs jiggled like a jelly in a wind-machine. Check.

His hands tapped on his knees, like a drummer who'd been told his entire family would die if he stopped drumming, even for one moment. Check.

He kept shuffling in his seat, moving positions, over and over, like someone'd tipped an industrial-sized vat of itching powder down his jeans. Check.

I looked down at my own body.

My legs were wobbling. My hands were a-tapping. And I'd readjusted myself more frequently than the director had beheaded a character.

Snap.

BAD THOUGHT

I can't go out with someone with anxiety.

BAD THOUGHT

It would be like two alcoholics dating each other.

BAD THOUGHT

How the hell am I going to break this to him without causing him more anxiety?

The film wasn't my thing – yet I didn't want it to end. I willed it on for ever so the lights would never come up, so I wouldn't have to deal with the situation. How how how? What was I supposed to do? I couldn't even message the girls as my mobile would glow too bright and make everyone in the cinema hate me. I couldn't really explain it to them anyway. What if they laughed and called him a “freak”? Would that mean they'd laugh at me and call me a freak if I let my guard down and wigged out at some point?

The film ended; the lights came on. Oli turned round and grinned, his smile carving more sculpture into his beautiful cheeks.

I wiped my sweaty hands on my clothes. I wiped them again.

“It was great, wasn't it?” he asked, his voice a bit strained. Or maybe I was imagining it?

“Yeah. Very…umm…violent.”

His smile dropped. “You didn't like it?”

“No, I loved it,” I lied. “I wonder how they got those guts to look so realistic. Impressive, huh?”

Oli didn't look convinced. “Yeah, I guess.”

We stood and collected our stuff, letting the people who'd sat in the middle trickle past us. Just as I was wondering what would happen next, I was tapped lightly on the shoulder.

It was his mother. She looked a little bit…green.

“Hey, guys,” she said. “Did you enjoy yourselves?” She was talking like a kids' TV presenter – all patronizing and over-enthusiastic.

“I don't think it was for me, but you love this director, don't you, Oli?”

Oli nodded but stared at the carpet as he did so.

“Anyway, Oli, I've had a chat with your father and we're happy to hang about the cafe for a bit if you two want some time to yourselves?”

Oli nodded again.

“Great…” She looked at her watch. “Shall we all meet back here at half five then? Evelyn, we can give you a lift back if you like?”

“Oh…that's all right. I don't mind walking.”

“Walk? But it's cold. We'll give you a lift.”

The thought of being in a car, after the chat I was about to have with Oli, was too much. “It's okay,” I said, firmly, in a voice far more authoritative than usual. “I'm happy walking. But thanks.”

His mother bristled, but straightened and walked back to her husband. “Remember, Oli,” she called over her shoulder. “Half five. I've got to get dinner on.”

“Okay, Mum.”

We stood, not talking, as the cinema emptied around us. When it was obvious only I was going to break the silence, I did.

“So…” I pulled out my phone and looked at the time. “Half five, we've got forty-five minutes. What do you fancy doing?”

Oli shrugged. “I dunno. We could grab a coffee?”

“Riiiight. Do you want to go to the same cafe as your parents, or do you want to go to a different one?”

He blushed, and I felt instantly guilty, though it'd been an honest question. “A different one is fine.”

“You sure?” My voice sounded as patronizing as his mother's.

“I'm sure.”

It was almost dark when we walked out into the car park, but bright enough to feel disorientated after sitting in the cinema for two hours. Sensing I would have to be The Decider on this date, I steered us wordlessly towards a little coffee house I knew around the corner.

It was winding down for the day – the waitresses looked tired and ready to go home. I ordered us two lattes and took them to the table. Oli's foot was a-tapping like crazy and he wouldn't look at me when I put the drinks down.

“Thanks,” he said to the table.

“It's fine.” I was surprised by how calm I felt, and in control. Maybe there's such a thing as relative anxiety? If someone else is more nervous than you, you therefore feel calmer or something? Either way, I had an instinct today was A Big Day for Oli and I hoped I could show some compassion.

He stared into the steam of his drink. I waited for him to talk. He didn't.

So I sipped and I waited.

Still nothing. Just the tap tap tapping of his shoe and the slurping of caffeinated beverages.

When we only had twenty minutes left I gave in.

“What's going on, Oli?” I asked gently, putting my hand on his. He flinched initially, and then relaxed into my hand. I didn't even think about the germs on his skin, which was evidence to back up my relative anxiety theory.

I watched as my question broke him, like a grief wave crashing against a cliff. Oli's arm began to shake, his face screwed up. When he spoke I could hear the repressed tears in his throat.

“I'm sorry…” he stumbled. “About my parents… I should've told you they were coming. I'm such an idiot…” The disdain in his words was heartbreaking. The self-hatred. I knew it so well. You can't help getting sick in your head, but, by golly, do you forget that. Daily. You despise yourself for being the way you are, like you're doing it on purpose or something.

“Why are they here?” I asked in my same calming voice. I felt like I was hovering above the situation; it was too surreal to freak out about. Things had got too weird too quickly and all I could do was go with it.

“I… I…”

“It's okay, you can tell me.” I realized I sounded like Sarah.

“I find it hard…I used to find it hard…” His voice shook with his hands. “To go out sometimes.”

Ah, agoraphobia. That old chestnut. And by “chestnut”, I mean misunderstood and totally debilitating clusterfuck of a mental illness. It made sense now, thinking it all through. By the looks of things he was a year behind me in recovery terms.

“That must be hard,” I said.

Notice how I didn't say

“I've been there.”

“I understand.”

“I get it.”

“I once didn't leave the house for eight weeks. I really get it.”

Or any of the other things you would think I'd have said. All the things I probably should have said. All the things that probably would've helped. Because there's nothing more comforting than someone who actually gets it. Really gets it. Because they've been to the same hell as you have and can verify you've not made it up.

I didn't say anything like that.

“It's hard…” he continued, both of us utterly ignoring our drinks. “I'm getting better. I'm seeing…someone. I probably wasn't ready to…you know…date, I guess. But when I first saw you in film studies, I just felt something, like maybe you were different… I liked how intense you were when you answered questions…and…well…you look like that…”

I blushed.

“I didn't think you'd say yes if I asked you out. And then you did. And I was so happy, and then, so panicked, and I knew I would screw it up, and I have screwed it up. Who brings their parents on a date? Who? WHO?” He suddenly slammed his drink down on the plastic table. Coffee splashed everywhere.

“Woah, Oli, it's okay.”

He bashed his cup down again, more liquid flew everywhere. “It's not okay. It's not. I'm a freak. I'm such a FUCKING FREAK.”

And then, of course, he cried.

I know what you want to have happened, or maybe I don't. But I reckon that, at this point, you would like it if I'd reached over and taken his hand again. If I'd opened up and told him all about my brain, and how I was sectioned once, and that he'd get through this and we'd work it out together. And maybe we would kiss, and he would go home feeling amazing about his day, rather than humiliated and broken.