The sounds of the streets can be imposing; sometimes I feel as though they are about to crush my skull. I have learned how to block things out. I choose to focus on one sound at a time, and hear only that until it is no more, then my mind weaves itself around another sound, and so it continues until I reach my destination. Of course blocking out everything but one sound can often be mistaken for rudeness, nonchalant. Snidey even.
But sometimes you have no choice. When you have been screamed at enough times, are forced to hear it, that’s when it’s the hardest; when I am reminded of the past.
Some sounds are supposed to be so beautiful, like the gentle tone of a child’s voice, innocent and pure. Yet they can fill my every fibre with terror.
Walking is a sort of therapy. ‘Anxiety struggles to hit a moving object,’ I was told during one of my Steps2Wellbeing seminars; just one of the forms of therapy I have had over the years so I can carry on existing in the world. But is it worth it when it’s only yourself you have to keep alive? We aren’t meant to be solitary creatures despite my desire to keep hiding away from the world, and the person I can no longer bring myself to think about.
I now share a house with three other girls, all students like me, but over a decade younger. I have to do as much as I can each day to keep face; to show my house mates that all is well in the mind of Regina Kelly. Referring to myself as a student feels strange. It’s been a long time since I last studied. This short introductory course will see me through to the end of the summer term, then I begin my degree in September.
I know my house mates watch me, that they see me repeat basic actions. A simple chore becomes a maddening act, repeated over and over until my mind is temporarily satisfied. But they stay quiet. Offer me a cup of tea as though everything is exactly as it should be and there isn’t a thirty-five-year-old woman standing in our shared kitchen turning the oven knob on and off an even amount of times.
I am thankful for their ignorance, for turning a blind eye, especially on the harder days when the images fly through my mind like a freight train and I feel the impenetrable dark clouds gather around me, as though I’m walking through a black fog.
I had developed a routine already in just a few weeks since I moved to Richmond upon Thames and had quickly embraced the leafy borough with its parks and wide tree-lined avenues. I was so confined for so long, it was a relief to be able to walk to the local mews.
I entered the café and was hit by tantalising caramel and nutty aromas. Each day there was a slightly different scent in the air but always the same member of staff was waiting for me and that made me feel as though the world wasn’t about to implode. The door made a loud sucking noise as it opened.
My eyes scanned the room. It was busier than usual. I tried to spot Heather, the confident young girl who had been serving me the last few weeks, when someone pushed past me quite abruptly.
I froze. Terror spiked through me.
In the time I had been away I had forgotten that I had to share walkways with others, that the small spaces I inhabited were not for my sole purpose only. When I realised I was safe and no one was trying to grab me, I looked up and saw a young man with a beard and a black Puffa jacket, holding a huge camera over his arm. I caught his eye, then quickly looked away.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. I knew he wanted to touch me, to emphasise his apology, but thankfully his hands were full; my arm still buzzed from the collision. I forced my gaze upon my destination and hurried towards the counter.
Finally, I could see Heather and my tense body slackened momentarily. Another piece of the day’s jigsaw slotted into place. Heather smiled at me, but it was tainted with stress.
‘It’s busy in here today,’ I said in her direction, hoping but knowing she would serve me. She nodded at me with wide eyes as she pulled cardboard disposable cups from a sheath of plastic wrapping.
‘Can I help?’ A barista I had never seen before spoke at me in a monotone voice, and I quickly averted my eyes towards Heather.
‘I’ve got it, Tom,’ Heather called and winked at me as she finished wrestling with the cups and headed over to the counter. Tom shrugged and headed out onto the café floor and started clearing tables.
‘They’ve been shooting a TV commercial out there this morning. They were here at five! They just stopped for a tea break, hence the chaos. And the mess,’ Heather said as she pointed out towards the café floor.
I glanced backwards, but the disarray made me quickly turn away and think happier, cleaner thoughts.
‘Usual?’ she asked, heading to the coffee machine. She began making my preferred coffee; one and a half shots of decaf coffee, half oat milk, half soya heated to just before boiling with a shot of caramel. I smiled as I felt a flutter of satisfaction that I had already earned my status as a regular.
As Heather worked on my coffee, I glanced back over my shoulder out into the mews through the window. The low-hanging trees were aesthetically pleasing and framed the quadrangle like a picture, dappling the concrete with light and
