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Chapter 5

Meltdown

[noun]

1. The melting of a significant portion of a nuclear-reactor core due to inadequate cooling of the fuel elements, a condition that could lead to the escape of radiation.

2. A quickly developing breakdown or collapse.

Toby is slurping and crunching cereal, then hurls his bowl and spoon into the sink. The crashing sound blasts through my head.

“Sorry simpleton. Did that noise upset you?”

“Stop it Toby!” shouts Mum as she makes my cheese sandwich, which she wraps tightly in cling film. Bella is sniffing around, hoping she might be in with a chance of some food. I glare at Toby. I genuinely think he can only communicate with me by insults. So I insult him back,

“Yes it does, Idiot.”

And that makes him laugh. It wasn’t meant to. Why can’t I hurt or wind other people up as much as they do to me? Why do I always miss the target? I just want a little bit of revenge. I just want Toby to know how I feel.

He opens the fridge door and glugs orange juice from the carton.

“Can you get a glass please?” shouts Mum.

“I’m off now,” he announces.

“Can’t you wait for your sister?” And then she spots my eyes,

“M, are you wearing make-up to school?”

“It’s the last day. We’re allowed.” And I have applied Skylar’s Smoky Eyes. A sure fire way of getting noticed by the boy you want!

“It’s lovely but…” And Toby burps.

“Toby!” shouts Mum and he laughs. Mum tuts and says,“Why don’t you walk in together?”

“No, I’ve got to get in early and set up the main hall for some end of term thing… Hey M, why don’t you go wild and have a JAM sandwich?”

“Muuum,” I say, “tell him!”

“I think he’s attempting a joke M.”

“Yeah, lighten up Sis.”

I only eat cheese sandwiches – in fact I only eat six other types of food: chicken, fruit, rice, yogurts, cake and cereal. I’ve never tried any other kind of sandwich and I don’t want to. This is what I know and this is what I expect. And why is he doing this? I can feel I am going red, BURNING, and I swear I can feel anxiety enter our little house.

“It’s a joke M!” and he drains the carton of juice.

“Toby, you are NOT to drink from the carton!” she yells and he throws it in the bin because it’s empty now and he leaves the room muttering,

“What’s the point of dirtying a glass…?”

And then Mum does the illogical thing she always does and shouts after him when he can’t possibly hear,

“We don’t want your germs Toby! Thank you very much. Just use a glass!”

And all this shouting and winding me up is cruel and last days are very difficult as it is, especially the last day of term before Christmas.

People unravel and so do I.

I plead with Mum to let me take the day off.

“Muuuum, pleeeasse. I don’t want to go in. Pleeeasse…”

I wince as she BANGS a cereal bowl and spoon on the kitchen table and Anxiety marches in and pulls at me.

She shakes Rice Pops into the bowl… Bella hoovers up the few that escape on to the floor.

“I caaaaan’t go in today. It’s a horrible day.”

“Oh come on M. The last day is a short day and then you have two weeks of freedom. You can’t miss school because you don’t fancy it.” She opens a fresh carton of orange juice and pours it into my glass. The liquid dazzles me. Bella nuzzles into me. “Go away Bella, let M have her breakfast in peace.” And she shoos Bella away, but I like my dog being close. Her gentle presence softens the edges of my life.

“Eat your breakfast.”

“Buuuut nooooo.” And it’s not a case of not fancying it. The timetable will have collapsed today because it is a half day.

Anxiety breathes heavily in my ear and pushes at me.

Time will have collapsed. Bella thankfully returns to my side.

Mum is now stirring her coffee, loudly.

“Can you just stop that?” And I indicate to her stirring.

“It’s just a spoon M! God, you’re not in a good mood are you?”

I watch as she tries to stir quietly.

“Is there a specific problem M?” And then she stops and looks me directly in the eyes. I drop my head. “Is it something to do with Shaznia?”

“Noooooo.” And I push the cereal away.

“Well, what then?”

“It’s the timetable… It’s all different.”

“So the timetable will have changed? Is that the problem? Oh come on M, you have to be more flexible than this.” And she pushes the bowl back to me. “You can’t go to school on an empty stomach.”

But what I am trying to say is time will have no meaning for me today.

Today I have no hold on time.

I will be adrift in the universe as anxiety pummels at me and shakes me and teases and tortures me.

My little squares of “timetable time” won’t work. The time is all broken up and sharp timetable lines are jutting out and piercing space.

I have nothing to apply to time.

A vast, scary unknowingness is opening up ahead of me which I cannot measure or feel, like other people seem to.

Time does not hold me warmly in its arms. No, it drops me from a height and I fall, and fall like Alice in Wonderland down, down the big black hole, but I’m not in Wonderland. I’m in a harshly lit council-run school in Sevenoaks. That stinks of disinfectant and is held together with a series of unfriendly corridors.

The little timetable squares help me traverse the noises and smells and people.

Without them I am truly lost and a school day becomes an eternity, and I want to ask Mum how she would react if eternity lay ahead of her today? How scary would that be??? But instead I push my breakfast away again and say,

“I doooon’t want to go innnn…”

“Come on M. One spoonful please M.”

Bella flops to the kitchen floor and sighs and watches me as I force cereal down my throat.

“You have to be strong, M!” And she grabs one of her magnets from the fridge and reads out,

Women are like teabags. You never know how strong they are till you put them in hot water.

I hate this fridge magnet. I hate it. I hate it above all the other fridge magnets of nonsense stuck on that stupid fridge. It makes no sense and sounds ridiculous. I push my luminous orange juice away. She SLAMS the magnet back on top of Toby’s Most Polite Boy Certificate and grabs another and reads,

Challenges are life’s gym. They make you stronger.

“Oh Muuuuuum!” I shout. “I doooon’t waaaant to go!” I hardly slept the night before worrying about the surprise Mr Bray said was happening. I’m exhausted. “Muuuuumm…please.”

“Honey. You have to go in.”

“Buuut I don’t want toooo.”

“M, stop. Stop it.” And I’m slipping into a MEltDOwN. Mum has moved the furniture round to fit the Christmas tree, in the little space we have. The fairy lights are flashing. Flashing. Flashing. She’s wrapped tinsel round the banisters and the pictures and all I can smell is the tree. We are currently living with a tree inside our house!

“Muuuuummm. You said if I am ill I don’t have to go to school…you saaaaid.”

“You’re not ill M. You’re having a meltdown aren’t you? Oh no, please. Not now. ”

“I doooon’t want to go innnnn…” And I want to scream at her. Has she forgotten about the leaflets and websites about autism and meltdowns? Why did she push me into this? I feel provoked into this. I am trying to fight it but I’ve slipped into the control of The Beast and I am so filled with rage and frustration and fear all I can do is cry out,

“I want to staaay home.”

“Can you not, just for once, please stop this? Can you just do this for me M? Please. I can’t be late for work today.”

“Muuummm. I waaaant to stay here…”

“Please, for me – try! Can’t you try and pull it together? All the things I do for you and I am asking you, this once, to just try and stop this!”

And I try to take deep breaths but Anxiety’s hands are gripping my throat and I am choking, and if I can’t breathe I’ll die, and I gasp for air and tears are rolling, hot, down my cheeks. I shake.

She sits down opposite me. Her tone of voice is different. I can’t work out if it’s sad, frustrated or resentful. Maybe it’s all three, but her voice is quieter and that’s a good thing.

“Take a deep breath.” And I follow the instructions. “In and out…in and out. Remember what Fiona said about breathing. It calms you.”

Anxiety’s grip loosens, allowing me to breathe a little air into my lungs.

And I think about how one day I’ll own a fridge and I’ll put magnets on it and they will have very clear, helpful messages on them, like,

Be QUIET!

Let me finish my sentence.

Say exactly what you mean.

“In and out.” And Mum reaches across the table to take my hand and I pull away, and Mum keeps her hand on the table – reaching out to me – and a void as deep and wide as the Atlantic Ocean opens up between us. She will never know how I am and how I feel. And she reaches her hand out a little further to me and I can’t take it because I do NOT want to carry her stain, her imprint, round with me all day.

I know it upsets her and that makes Anxiety creep towards me again.

“Keep breathing M. Take a deeper breath… And release.” She draws her hand back, slowly, and places it on her lap.

And I breathe in and out.

Anxiety backs out the room and I’ve done it. I’ve pulled myself out of a meltdown. I’m still teetering on the edge and I know Anxiety is hanging around the hall or sneaking about upstairs, but for now I have some release.

Mum gets up and pours me a glass of water.

WATER and AIR. Two basic things in life seem to help. They’re not complicated. If only I could remember to keep it as basic as water and air…

“What I was trying to say before you had a…one of these…is I think you need to be brave today.”

“Think?” I question.

“You need to go to school today and be brave. It’s a half day, so when you come home you can lie down and have a rest. School finishes at midday. So you will be home by 1.00.” I appreciate the instructions and I do feel much calmer, although I do feel like I could flare UP and tip into a MEltDOwN again very easily. She hands me my school bag, containing my Christmas cards to give out and my present for Shaznia. And I wonder if I’ll see Lynx today because I won’t get to see him leave History at the end of a Friday like I normally do. This half day/last day is practically ruining my life.

Mum drags a letter out of the drawer. I watch and she sees me.

“It’s nothing M.”

“Is it about me?”

“No… It’s…it’s from the solicitor…just about sorting out things between me and your dad.”

And I take a deep breath and focus on not tipping into a meltdown. A strong, deep breath to bring myself away from its pull.

She sighs, then puts on a very poor Spanish accent and says, “We’ll have fajitas for dinner! Toby’s out, so just you, me and Bella. Girls night in, eh?”

And I wonder if Mum really cares. I mean really cares. All the leaflets, all the websites, go on about “meltdowns being a defining feature of autism.” I sometimes wonder if Mum really believes this is all happening to us.

Christmas, a sparkly, spiky threat that looms at the end of every year and a sinister Santa who knows what I’ve been doing and knows where I have been.