But besides the sleepless nights, I was doing well. No one knew about those, I never had that breathing problem during the day for some reason. The only thing I did differently was that I kept sleepovers to a minimum, which wasn't too hard, considering my many many friends (meaning very very few). I kept going on with my life as usual.
But life has a way of throwing something at you when you least expect it.
* * * * *
April 1st, 2017
A feeling in my throat. In my vocal cords, to be exact. It feels vaguely familiar, but not in a good way. I run my hand through my messy hair, trying to detangle it. I hate it when I have messy hair or any kind of a mess, but I didn't sleep during the night and woke up ten minutes past the time I was supposed to leave for choir practice.
I look to my left to see Diane with a perplexed look on her face. I realize how creepy I must've looked while thinking about this feeling that is becoming more and more intense. My hands in my hair and gazing off into the distance.
I cough, hoping that will fix it. It doesn't work.
"Yeah, I'm fine," I say, faking a smile. "I was just thinking about something "
"Ladies, stop chit-chatting over there!" says Mr. Smith, our choir conductor.
For once I am grateful for an observation. Yes, the whole choir is looking at me now, but at least Diane didn't have time to finish the question.
We start with a vocal warm-up. Ascending from a very low sound to the highest one we can. First legato, then staccato. I hit a high sound and suddenly the feeling in my throat is gone. Relieved, I continue singing, grateful it wasn't something else. But as the first sheet of music is being handed over, the feeling comes back, stronger this time. I gingerly let out a high pitched sound and it goes away. Diane looks at me strangely and I unsuccessfully try to mask it as a cough.
That's why it comes back. That's why only one action satisfies it. That's why it's familiar.
It's another tic.
I want to scream and punch the floor ad cry at the same time.
Instead, I plaster a fake smile on my face and continue singing, hoping and reaching for every high sound, dreading the moment I have to stop.
* * *
The morning's supposed
To bring that relief.
Instead, it is worse.
It's not what I need.
YOU ARE READING
The Tourette DiariesNon-Fiction
"This is Lyla Green. She is 16 years old, tall, and has long brown hair. She is pretty shy but very caring and creative." This is how a person would describe me normally. The usual. General facts, appearance, and personality traits. "This is Lyla Gr...