The Inside Of My Head

I’d always paid much attention to where I was. The tiniest, most discrete sound always got my attention,even when I was asleep. This habit seems to have become more than just that; it had come to be deeply rooted in a corner of my brain, sometimes screaming at me to be alert at times of exhaustion.

My life has started out as being monotonous, on the verge of unbearable boredom. At the age of 9, I had already learnt six different languages. When I was 12, I had submitted a thesis to my father, a professor, on existentialism and transcendentalism, ranging from Camus to Sartre while including De Beauvoir’s feminist approach. I was always aiming to please. My parents had been the atom of my life. Their blatant attraction to each other after 25 years of marriage despite the ages’ itches and downs, and their flabbergasting need to include me in every decisions, had caused me to be nonchalant. It would probably have stayed that way if one evening, I hadn’t walked in on my father having sexual relations in his office with a woman that wasn’t my mother. I remember turning away to run into traffic, bumping into people along the way as they frowned and groaned. Everything was pandemonium. My vision grew blurry along with the throbbing along my rib cage. I was well aware of the revolting and baffled expressions people had thrown in my way as I blinked back tears but the colours of their clothes in broad daylight only drew a psychedelic panorama in front of me.

Primal questions of marriage from ‘Gone Girl’ by Gillian Flynn went running through my mind: “How are you feeling? Who are you? What have we done to each other? What will we do?”

These words were hammering their way through my brain when a screeching from the right made me snap my neck in its direction. In that split of a second, everything had come crashing down. I had not seen my life all over. I had not realised I could die. I had, however, felt a burst of pain like never before when the metal connected to my knee cap as I tasted blood at the back of my throat.

Three days later, I had woken up to a crying mother and stoic father in a hospital room with tubes touching my palate and sticking out of my veins. And therefore, at the age of 19, I was an adult with a permanent limp in my right leg along with a phobia of trusting people. That was when the panic attacks started.

They could jag at me anywhere, anytime. Be it at home, at university or even in sleep. Showers were the worst. It was during showering that one is most vulnerable physically or mentally. “What if I’ll never graduate? What if I end up alone? What if I slip and die in the bathroom?’ An insatiable itch I could never erase.

A sound briskly brought me back to my surroundings. I stopped, heart pounding. The atmosphere was eerie, hideous shadows looming. My hairs were standing on end. I thought of my house five blocks away, a warm feeling rolling in my stomach, and I wondered if I would get there safe. I wondered if oblivious neighbours would join in the search party if I never made it home. How could I trust strangers not to take advantage of me or neighbours to help me if I could not even trust my own father? And would the media do enough coverage? What if I were to be abducted for more than ten years?

A void started engulfing my insides as I quickened the pace, limping along the way, my school bag slumped on my left shoulder. My strained breathing filled my ears as my lungs beseeched me to stop. I wanted to curl into a ball, to make myself small while concentrating on calming the scratching on the one side of my brain. The superfluous rustling of leaves at this time of the afternoon, did nothing to appease my nerves. Suddenly, my momentum goes forward due to my lack of coordination and I found myself facing the pavement, my hand numb from endeavouring to stop the fall. A car passed by and did not stop, its headlights blaring briefly across the street. I imagined what the driver must have thought. A drug addict most probably. My toes hurt. Breathing hurt. I could not move. More than that, I did not want to. Fear grounded me to where I had fallen. What if I got up and people noticed me? What if i stayed down and people noticed me?

My parents could not possibly afford another operation right now for my legs.

Another car drove by but stopped this time, its light blinding me directly. I strained to see. A feline- like silhouette stood before me, in heels. Sophisticated. Posh. Is that my -

"Chloë?"

That voice. The honey covered voice of my cousin filled my guts with warm memories.

“Luce?” I whispered, relieved.

‘I was finally in safe hands,’ I thought before blacking out.

I woke up in bed, my mother by my side, stroking my arm, a look of concern on her face. Lines of fatigue lingered there on her forehead as tiny veins drew under her eyes. She looked twice her age. Extremely tired.

“You are up,” she uttered, squeezing my fingers gently.

“Where’s dad?”

He had been there for my previous panic attacks. However, my mother stayed pointedly silent, her fingers now fidgeting her ring.

“Lucy brought you in,” she began. “Said she saw you lying on the side of the road, one block away. You had blood oozing out of a cut on your cheek, love.”

My fingertips brushed against the bandaid there.

“It was yet another one, mom.”

I sighed. She placed a lock of hair behind my ear, saying, “You know, Chloë, there are good and bad people in this world. And there always will be. But if you keep living in your bubble and never trust again, you are merely surviving, love; not living. Worrying about what might or might not be, will only take away your peace of mind. You are not living in the now. Stop overthinking, overplanning. Love is a wonderful thing. It transforms you, makes you better.”

“But what if I’m not meant for this?” I stammered.

“When you change the way you look at things,” she said. “The things you look at, change.”

“You know I have been doing my meditation sessions as well,” I threw in, desperately needing approval.

“I know. I saw an improvement.”

The pride in her voice was undeniable. It broke my heart to think she deserved a better child. And I would be that child.

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

That was when I really noticed how intense her eyes were. Green with an edge of warm brown. Clear and pure.

“I’m ready to see a psychologist,” I finally gave in after her uncountable attempts, as her face transformed into a smile.