Speaking Out

I am going to be sick. My chest is starting to erupt in crimson, if only the excessive sweat from my arm pits would flow across my burning chest. He is still staring at me. Its hot, why isn’t the damn air conditioner turned up. He is still staring. I wonder why he isn’t hot. My hands slip on the chair handles, I can’t get my grip. Too much sweat. I can’t hold on. I can hear my heart. All I can hear is the thunderous beat and he is still staring. The room starts to spin. He moves. It’s about to begin. My heart pounds. Sweat drips. “So Chelsea you say you have issues with speaking about your emotions,” the counsellor says. Counsellors need to be paid more I think.

Once I almost killed my brother. It was fantastic. When he collapsed I cried. It was the best thing that could have happened to me. It proved I did have feelings. I realised I loved him. I realised I could love and feel. My friends and family say I’m cold hearted. I hate touching, when people hug me I tense up and think of every possible way to avoid the situation. I have severed friendships if the hugging level was too high. I don’t do the post sex snuggle. I don’t like to lay in each others arms listening to their heart beat. Gross.

I don’t think my counsellor needs to know I almost killed my brother and it filled me with elation. He might suggest another appointment. Instead he looks at me friendly and gently tries to knead information out of me. I hate him. I hate this room. I hate this chair. I hate talking. He keeps asking questions though. He is stupid. He keeps speaking. Words. Just words to me. I want to run. A sole tear runs down my cheek and I haven’t even spoken yet. I am exposed, vulnerable, overwhelmed. He hands me a tissue. The tear is joined by others.

I am the youngest of three children yet I defy the stereotype. I am neither the spoilt one nor the one that is lavished with attention. I rarely am asked for my opinion or encouraged to join in political debates. I sit and I listen and I nod. I am heard but not listened to. I am not expected to succeed but seen as the one constantly struggling. My sister is a child you brag about. She received an OP 1, was school captain and received a scholarship to university. She is now a practising lawyer in the top firm in the country at just 25. My parents coat themselves in her success whilst saying I’m doing the best I can. My brother has Down syndrome. My mum has sacrificed her life to him. I was born into a family that never really knew I existed.

I try to voice why I am like this but my voice trembles. I tuck my hands up into my jumper and scratch at invisible itches. He stares and he waits. Growing up my dad suffered from depression and went to stay at a mental health clinic, my sister become anorexic and my brother needed constant care, my problems were not life or death, my mother did not have time for them understandably. I rush through this sentence, avoiding his eyes. I stare at the wall, I get stuck half way through, a ball is in my throat and steals my words. I loose my momentum and fall. “It’s not your fault,” he says. I hate him a little less.

“Chelsea we don’t like to talk to you about that kind of stuff because you are like a rock,” was what my best friend said to me over a pumpkin risotto. “You’re so cold; you don’t understand emotional stuff….maybe that’s why you don’t have a boyfriend.” My friends constantly refer to me as the bitch, the cold one, the ice queen. They laugh and joke about it and I laugh along too while inside a little bit of me erects a new barrier.

I have worked so long at my wall, building it, making it strong and unable to be penetrated. People who are unaffected and don’t shed a tear are seen as strong and brave. They are confident and a tower of strength. What a lie. We are so afraid to feel, so afraid to show, so afraid of what will happen if we take a chance, so we continue building our wall. The wall of course takes casualties. That chance at love, at friendship. We sacrifice this for safety.

The tears won’t stop and I feel so stupid. I stumble trying to tell him I want to be able to hug my mum without tensing up with anxiety; I want to tell my sister I love her without my heart pounding in my ears. He looks and waits for me to continue but my words are replaced with tears. The tissue is soaking from being clenched in my hands. I worry he is watching my tears, watching my sweat, watching my fidgeting, I can’t hear him. Air struggles to get through my nose. All is struggling to get through to me, his voice, his advice, my mum’s touch, my friend’s laughs. I can’t feel it.

They all end the same way, relationships. They loose the battle they get tired of trying to break through my wall. They see no light at the end of the tunnel, they fail, and I win. Me and my wall win again. I lose nothing. I walk away with everything I brought it, they steal nothing, and I give nothing. The wall isn’t keeping me warm at night though.

I am an empty stream. Fragile. Exhausted. I have been with him for only half an hour but my body drips weak. I want to collapse on his couch but I need to escape from these pressurised emotions. I want to know I can change that I will get better. “It won’t happen over night Chelsea, you will have to start small, build your way up till you’re able to hug your friends without experiencing anxiety, visualise doing it first, see how you feel, what you experience,” he says. I feel so pathetic, like one of those people that have to take small steps till they can hold a handful of dust. I’m a freak.

I choose to emotionally shut down to not burden anyone with my emotions, then it was to avoid feeling vulnerable, exposed and to avoid getting hurt. Now it’s not a choice, now it’s paralysing. “Chelsea you appear to have an actual phobia of showing and discussing emotions and need to continue seeking help,” he says.

My name is Chelsea and I have a phobia, but I don’t want to talk about it.