WARNING: references to panic attacks, suicidal thoughts and self-harm.
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April Levesque
My mind floods the susurration puckering the bystanders with a famous motto of Mike. Silence in insanity. My mouth sealed, my heart savagely batters the syllables of with or without power, there is a great responsibility, leaving an excruciating roaring blaze: because the truth is a deathless death.
"Ishaan?" someone murmurs, curious. Voices are powerful. "Who's Ishaan?"
Society wants sheep. "Who's Charlotte?"
Rhett, Roy and a few of the basketballers recover into a thirst to wish me dead. When the lamb decides to be its' own shepherd, to break out of this ingrained system of oppression, it scares people.
Rhett wipes his mouth again. "The hell did you say?"
When you rise, when you speak up, it shows you don't care, that you act out of the heart, and that's dangerous for them.
"Sooner or later—" I lug to Hunar. If what Bodie said is true, it is saddening a person of colour committed treachery. "—the truth will come out." Hunar drops his petrified glare to my shoes, coasting to my shoulders, to my face. Anyone is capable of maliciousness.
Jasmine tows me away. A rapid, final collision of Roy Heston, his frame hunched in soreness. Glamorous and gorgeous, a Grecian prince of the old tales; his sallow hair tow-coloured in the dullest brilliance, surfed his mousy irises that once had the power to warm me, flutter my stomach, and glistened at my the sight of me. I swooned over that smile, of mischief and fun, day and night, minute by minute, eager to be engulfed in its' presence, as it had the potential to remarkably lift my spirits. Incredibly easy he is to fall in love with. So illusional.
Monsters are beautiful, walking among us.
After all, God's favourite was— and still is—a beautiful angel.
***
Whoever sprinted for the teachers was stopped. I suppose if those horrid boys are arrested again, it won't look winsome on their profiles. Despite it being partially us who initiated the conflict, our side has prominent support; last time, there was no luck for the opponent.
The girls and I are in Naila's dorm room. Her parents live in Milton Keynes. Edgewater Independent is one of the 'closest, best private schools with fantastic educational success', and so they sent her here. She returns home most weekends. Rarely doesn't to efficiently study. The edifice next door has the reputational bathrooms where last year's sexual violations happened. The boys cannot enter for obvious, strict regulations. They encountered Zavian Malik, hence they're in his place.
I am in the bathroom of her flat, their voices in the bedroom muffled. The door locked, I clutch the pristine-white sink. The confidence expired seconds ago, on the brink of melting down—
I want to cut.
I started to self-harm again after what Roy has done to me. The urges are random, are reasonable. To steer clear of the temptation, I do Mike's meditation: deep inhale for four seconds. A five-second pause. Slowly exhale for seven seconds.
Do it.
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Cut, you wretch.
No thought, no dialogue, no action.
I want to die.
Focus on the breath.
Do it.
Repetition is key to success.
Cut, you wretch.
Again and again to reach that relaxation, until the lethal stress, the trauma, feels cured.
I want to die.
It's not one of those moments where you enter school and groan I want to die. It's that I-actually-want-to-die kind of moment. Right here. Right now. Let a funeral bury me. Let me escape. From everyone and everything.
Suddenly, I cannot seem to breathe.
Suddenly, my body shakes.
My lips quivering, headlight with dizziness, I lean back, my arms stretched, my hands grasping tighter onto the edges, endeavouring with my greatest vigour to tranquilise the short, killing inspires and expires. Quick and small and heavy, it clogs my throat. I cough and choke.
"April?" calls Naila, her voice distant. "You alright in there?"
My lashes drench. What is this? What is wrong with me? I was fine moments ago. Now, this?
My heart clobbers, near an explosion. The white walls sink in, a claustrophobic cage, spinning and spinning. Laughter, hissing, laughter, magpies lampooning. Bright darkness, the toxic friend. Optimism, hope, fantasies, light, dreams and wishes are stolen — a soulless breath exchanged for everlasting agony, everlasting fright, everlasting depression. Salt falling, my breaths hasten, excruciating and ghastly and execrable. The self-sabotage, the bafflement ... It is so stressful to explain what is happening in your head when you do not understand yourself.
"April?" The clicks of Ines's heels stop next to Naila.
I start sobbing.
"April," says Ines, hearing the noise, this time more concerned. "Are you crying?"
"She's crying?" echoes Jasmine, shuffling to the door and jiggling the doorknob.
"You want us to come in?" asks Naila. "Or do you want space?"
I sob harder. Why is it so hard to breathe?
What the hell is this?
The doorknob rumbles. "Hang on, I got a key," mumbles Naila.
Come on, April. Breathe, dammit! Breathe! Stop making a scene and breathe! You're embarrassing yourself!
Globules prevail from the lacklustre sky, hammering the hazed windows, the ground, and people squeal and rush into the school building. The door opens, exposing me on the floor, slanted on the wall, my knees to my chest, my whole frame juddering as if earthquakes are destroying the world. The girls rush and kneel in a half-circle. Naila places her hands on my shoulders, her worried phrases disjointed and subdued as if my head is underwater.
Breathe, dammit! I rant over and over that I cannot, the words broken, erupting into uncontrollable motions: rocking, quaking, rocking, quaking, rocking again, as if I'm having a seizure. Breathe ... breathe ... breathe ...
Jasmine hurries into the bedroom, grabbing her bag. Ines wraps an arm around me. "It's okay," she hushes. I cry harder, which probably fuels this strangeness. "It's okay."
Shh, Little Sis. It's okay. I'm here. It's okay.
Naila, on my left, hugs me, rubbing her hands up and down my arms, her whispers merging with Ines's lullably: "It's okay", "We're here, baby", "You're precious", "Let it all out".
The harmony quietens and quieten, my ears hardening as the sorrow drums my head, pounding it like blood. All the fear I sustained, plus the grief ... is too overbearing, too intolerable. I appear so strong, but honestly, I am as fragile as a string. A snip, a rip, I am lost in limbo. A burning pain scorches my chest, a heart attack. Painful, intolerable. Hurts so dreadfully. My vision darkens and straits like a kaleidoscope, tears inked in mascara blemishing my blushed cheeks. I clamp my hands over my ears as if that would silence the confusing self-schemas, the self-sabotage.
Breathe, dammit! Chest moving up and down, up and down, up and down. A bumpy road. Something is choking me. What? I croakily gasp for sweet air. Nauseous. Sudden flashes of heat. Impending doom. Hearing the blood thumping in my ears. Wavering hands and fingers. Wouldn't stop shaking.
Jasmine drops to her knees on my left. She wipes my tears, her fingertips grimed with blackness, and more leaks. "You're having a panic attack." Slowly, I register her words, my body wrecked in hiccups. "I'd give you my tablets, but you're not prescribed, and I rather not get in trouble. So I need you to breathe in this." She pops open a petite bottle, gently pulling my hand, uncurling my fingers to pour the lavender oil onto my palm. "Meanwhile, smell the lavender and reflect on something or someone that makes you happy. Say this while you do it: 'I am loved. I am wanted. I am worthy. I am blessed.' Say it and believe it — because that's what you are. You are loved. You are wanted. You are worthy. You are blessed. Always, remember that. Always believe it. Okay? Can you do that for us?"
I manage to nod. She tells me to try and breathe calmly, deep and hefty. Through the exhausting breaths, I stutter out the affirmation, hot tears fusing with the cold rain. My chest tightens. "I—I can't," I croaked.
"You can," Ines says softly. "You're a strong woman. You can do this."
"We'll do it with you," says Naila.
The angelic trio joined me in the mantra, patient and benevolent. Flashbacks of Mike's peaceable grin. Of his infectious, heart-wrenching laugh. His beautiful hugs. His advantageous advice. The first time he brought newborn Kaison into our house. The stupid arguments we had. The times he cuddled me. The lectures. The advice. His underlying faith. His inspiring visions and enthusiasm. His inspiring courage.
Kaison's cheeky smirk, his cheeky attitude. The time Mike and I picked up toddler Kais from daycare. He noticed me first, squealed, banged on the window, and shouted 'Apl!'. I entered, and he clapped and ran and hugged my legs. The time I let him experiment with my makeup, he made me look like a clown: drew a unibrow, smudged lipstick on my neck.
Little moments of joy, of life, calming my senses, my panicked nerves. Whiskey. Derek's dogs. Nature. Animals. Art. My favourite books. Once my breathing is mildly disciplined, Jasmine asks, "Better?"
Head hurting, I nod. "Sorry," I manage, barely a whisper. I try a laugh, it releases as a croaked sob. "I promise I'm not like this."
"No." Jasmine rests on her rear, her legs sprawled out. "Don't apologise for having a panic attack—"
"Panic attack?" I echo. "That was ... That was a panic attack?" I never suspected.
She nods. "I know it when I see it, mostly because I also suffer from it. Anyone can suffer from it. That mantra? It's from my therapist. Rational thinking. It helps me to regain my senses. Lavender helps nerves." She tilts her head, her pastel-pink hair elongating. "Do you have panic attacks often?"
I reflect. "I think a couple of times. Since Mike died."
Naila places her hand over mine, both slim and dewy. "Don't you ever think you're overreacting, April. It's a serious issue. Does your mum know about this?"
"I ..." I shake my head. "I kept it to myself. I thought it'll go away."
Ines inquires, "What happened?"
I don't know. I don't know what happened.
Jasmine smiles at the silence, understanding. She hands me the bottle. "Keep this."
We stay there, on the white tiles, my head on Naila's shoulders, in comfortable silence.
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Q: Thoughts of April?
And...how's the chapter?
Try Mike's breathing technique. I use it and it definitely helps to calm myself and reduce the chance of a panic attack.
Close your eyes.
Sit or lay in a comfortable position (don't have to, but recommended).
If sitting, sit upright, spine straight.
4 deep, slow, gentle breaths in through the nose.
4, deep, slow, gentle breaths out through the mouth.
Focus on the breath. If your mind wanders and think of something else and lose focus, start again.
If 4 breaths are not enough, continue doing it until you feel calm.
If listening to music, always make sure it's calm music. Not aggressive.
R.A.I.N Method
R—Recognize
Recognizing means consciously acknowledging, in any given moment, the thoughts, feelings, and behaviours that are affecting us. Recognize that we are stuck, subject to painfully constricting beliefs, emotions, and physical sensations. Examples include a critical inner voice, feelings of shame or fear, the squeeze of anxiety or the weight of depression in the body.
A—Allowing
Let the thoughts, emotions, feelings, or sensations we have recognized simply be there.
We can react in one of three ways: piling on the judgment; numbing ourselves to our feelings; or by focusing our attention elsewhere.
We allow by simply pausing with the intention to relax our resistance and let the experience be just as it is.
I—Investigate
Ask yourself questions like "Why do I feel the way I do?" "Are there events that happened ahead of the emotion that might have influenced it?" "What do I really need right now?"
These questions can help us come into a wiser relationship with emotions and thoughts.
N—Non-identification
Your own perception of yourself isn't defined by your thoughts, emotions or by others. Knowing this can help you to be at ease and feel free. Realise you are not your emotions, and you can change them by overcoming them with positive affirmations.
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