A Cause for Celebration

The girl sat on the station platform.   Outwardly she seemed just like the other travellers. However, a closer level of inspection than any bored Wednesday morning commuter could be bothered with would have revealed her shallow determined breathing and a higher pulse rate than any other traveller, as well as a small teardrop running down from her left eye.

She was 26 years old; medium-height, blonde, some freckles – red pinafore dress and straw hat.

She looked like she was missing an outer layer of skin.  This is not surprising – as that is almost exactly how she felt. Her handbag gripped firmly between her hands, so tight that her fingers appear almost bloodless.  Her mind was a frenzy of thoughts and emotions.  On the one hand the normal blind panic of anticipation, on the other hand she was trying to concentrate on her coping strategies. 

It was OK though; she had ages to get this – ages, ages, ages. The train was not due until oh, 9:28am.  And that was…. oh my God, 11 minutes away. 

She thought back over the past decade; the accident, the slow overwhelming cloud of paralysing and fear and dread.  It had taken over five years to gather up the strength even to admit what was happening to her and to get help.  That in itself had been a source of yet another layer of apprehension.  Just initially admitting it and talking about it - that in itself had to be identified, isolated, and approached very slowly and carefully over a period of years.  That was before her main underlying issues could then be acknowledged and then addressed in turn.  Bit by bit.  Week by week.  All her thoughts and actions subservient to this thing which had her in its grip.  This meant no train travel, and no foreign travel. She could only go as far as she could get in her little car; and even being able to drive had itself taken years of effort and taken its toll. 

The first few meetings with the counsellor had brought on more panic than they helped her to manage.   But over time, small steps were made.

Five minutes now.  Another wave of panic.  Coping, coping….it slowly subsides just enough for her to gain control over it.

This was not the first attempt to board a train; the first three had not succeeded.  On the first occasion she hadn’t even made it into the station.  On the second she had made it to the platform, but not onto the train.  The last time she had actually managed to put a foot on to the train itself but had then jumped straight back out – nearly knocking an old lady over in the process.  That was two years before.

What had changed in those last two years?  Not one big thing, but rather many small things.  More little steps. More exercises.  More counselling, and better mastery of her strategies.  Bit by bit.

If she can do this, she will be able to move on to bigger things: tunnels, boats, airplanes.  She will be able to re-join the human race.

Three minutes.  180 seconds. The display screen above her updated.  The train was on time.

On time. On time. Shit. Shit. Shit.

She is now aware of the cold sweat that has enveloped her while she was busy concentrating on all the signs of panic over the last few minutes.  The world now seems to have slowed down.  People walking past her go slow very slowly – even her heart-beat even appears to have slackened. 

Then…an epiphany.  She brings to mind the person who gets up in the morning when you yourself do not want to get up.  You can be lying there thinking that you really need to get out of bed to get on with the day.  But you don’t want to get out of bed.  It’s warm and comfortable and you do not want to move.  You feel snug, but at the same time you feel guilt.  This only lasts a few minutes because at some extraordinary moment…you find your legs moving, you find yourself getting out of bed.  It is not you, yourself, that is doing this…it is some other self, some other you.  In fact, you – the real you - is annoyed by the presumption of whatever force is doing this.  Nevertheless, it is happening, it is not something you are in control of any longer. Before you know it, you are up and out of bed.

There are now only 40 seconds left.  She can hear the train approaching.  Exploiting her new-found stratagem, she effectively splits herself in two.  One ‘self’ is panicking away as normal and struggling with her practised coping mechanisms.  But her other ‘self’ is allowed to get up and walk towards the train door, which is now opening.  It is madness, but it is working. 

She gets on the train. 

She sits down.  She smiles.