Chapter 39 #2
‘Well, she says slowly, ‘I don’t want to slap any labels on you.’
‘That’ll be a first,’ Athena scoffs.
‘The language I’m hearing is specific, like I said. The physical pain, the terror, this very intense response to what’s undoubtedly a tough situation. Some people respond like you, but most people don’t.’
I flinch at her inference. ‘I know. I’m ridiculously sensitive. My parents have always said it. I don’t know why I can’t just shake it off.’
‘No, that’s not what it is. Look at me. You’re not too sensitive. The way you’re reacting is an actual thing, and it has a name, and it’s not your fault. It’s nothing to do with being too sensitive. Have you heard of RSD?’
I look at her. She’s staring at me intently, as if she wants to help me so badly, wants to get through to me. And, honestly, she’s the first person in my life to tell me I’m not too sensitive, so I’m going to listen.
But RSD doesn’t ring any bells. ‘No?’
‘Rejection sensitivity dysphoria. Your brain and your nervous system can’t assess threats because they don’t have the right chemicals to do it, so they tend to react disproportionately. It’s not a character flaw. It’s literally neurological.’
I repeat the name out loud. ‘Rejection sensitivity dysphoria.’
‘Dysphoria is the opposite of euphoria, so really it means total agony or hell. So when you receive a criticism or even a perceived criticism, like someone leaving you on read, all hell breaks loose in your brain.’
I laugh out loud then, because that’s far too familiar. ‘Yeah. Sounds about right.’
‘I’m not surprised. And the good news is that it can be medicated.’
‘I’ve been on anti-anxiety meds a couple of times,’ I confess, ‘and they haven’t done anything.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she mutters. ‘That pisses me off so much. That’s because anxiety is a symptom, not a cause. You need ADHD meds for this shit, to help bolster a few of your neurotransmitters. I’m guessing you don’t have an ADHD diagnosis?’
I stare at her in horror. ‘ADHD? No way.’ ADHD is hyperactive little boys and people who don’t have their shit together, right?
‘No labels, right?’ Athena drawls from across the table, and Soph turns to her crossly.
‘I’m struggling here, because I don’t want to go around diagnosing stuff I’m not qualified to diagnose, but often, women like us like labels because they give us data and they prove we’re not crazy.’
‘Label me,’ I demand. ‘If there’s a name for this that isn’t I’m a pathetic human being, bring it on.’
‘You are not a pathetic human being,’ Soph says.
‘You’re an amazing human being, and unfortunately that makes it far harder for you to be diagnosed, because you do such a great job of masking your struggles.
But difficulty in regulating your emotions and a brain that never switches off are huge red flags for me in overachieving women.
I’ll eat my hat if you don’t have it, but the good news is that, like I say, it’s all treatable via some very clever pharmaceuticals. ’
I blow out a huge breath. This is a lot.
‘The thing is, Selena,’ Athena says, ‘this is a lot for anyone. The shit they’re putting you through is criminal.
But it’s not an existential threat, even if it feels like it.
You’re not going to die, and if it feels like you are, then that’s a good place to start separating out the situation from your reaction.
Will you have to get yourself some good PR damage control?
Absolutely. Will it kill you? No. And I can help you with the former, and Soph can give you some suggestions for how to manage the latter, if that’s how you’re feeling. ’
I nod. The way she’s framed it makes sense.
There’s what’s happening, and there’s the way I’m spiralling, and, sitting here on this gorgeous day with these amazing women, I can grasp that there is a difference between those two things; I can just about make the leap required to consider that this gap may not be my fault.
Just about.
‘When that dick outed me in front of Gabe’s whole family, I thought I was a goner.
I thought everything I’d built, every single hour of work I’d put into creating this flawless facade, had gone up in smoke.
I really did. And—spoiler alert—it didn’t.
But the work from there was learning to believe that I didn’t have to perform twenty-four seven, that Gabe loved me for me, and therapy has helped me to give fewer fucks about how other people perceive me.
’ Athena shrugs. ‘I mean, I’ll always want to be in the driving seat of how I’m portrayed, but I’m starting to learn that I don’t need to perform all the time, even if I like to.
Basically, if people don’t like what I stand for, that’s their problem, not mine. ’
This is Taylor Swift-level learning to shake it off. ‘I can’t imagine ever getting to that stage,’ I confess.
‘Of course you can’t,’ Soph says matter-of-factly. ‘That’s why you need professional help, and a husband who loves you for you, and friends who believe that the woman behind the mask is worth getting to know for herself. You can count us in—we’ve been obsessed with you since the wedding.’
‘But that wasn’t me,’ I say, feeling humiliated. ‘That was just me performing. I was shitting myself all day.’
‘Of course it wasn’t you!’ Soph cries. ‘Of course you were shit-scared. But look what a great job you did of pretending otherwise. That was an Oscar-worthy performance, by the way. And that’s why we do this shit—to protect ourselves.
But like I said, the work is finding tools so you don’t feel you have to protect yourself all the time.
Because the real you is too precious to hide behind the fake you, and Benedict knows it, even if you don’t—yet. ’
My mind is racing. The ‘data’ Soph is sharing; the medical theories; the crazy reframing of every single thing I’ve spent my life blaming myself for. It’s heady and hopeful and a mind-fuck of epic proportions. I blow out a huge, shuddery breath.
‘It’s a lot,’ Soph says, releasing me so she can rub my back. ‘But women like you and Athena tend to be driven by shame, am I right?’
‘Bloody hell, shame is my middle name,’ Athena says. ‘Was. I hate to admit it, but Soph is really good at shaming shame all the way out of the room.’
‘Pretty much everything I do is driven by shame,’ I concur.
‘So let’s stop shaming ourselves and start getting curious,’ Soph says. ‘That’s when the magic begins. Not with What’s wrong with me? but with What’s making me feel this way? Is it real, or is it the RSD? What am I really scared of?’
I laugh nervously. ‘Heavy stuff.’
‘Yes, but less heavy than Everyone hates me, and everyone wants me to die.’
‘Everyone actually does want me to die, though.’
She scoffs. ‘Please. A few Mail Online journalists who need to go touch some grass and a few Reddit users. Are you really going to allow them to be your moral compass? I don’t think so.’
When she puts it like that…
As we continue to chat and get stuck into the excellent mezze, something vaguely approaching calm settles over me.
Maybe the lack of fucks these two give about the stuff that’s been weighing me down is infectious.
Maybe having them onside makes me feel protected.
Maybe it’s just the sunshine and rosé and strong female energy galvanising me.
But, for the first time in weeks, I feel… okay. Not great, not healed, but okay. It’s as if someone has dug me out of the trenches, and taken off my blindfold, and turned me to face the sun.
Perhaps I’m not a dreadful person. Not a failure. Perhaps not all of this is my fault.
And, most exciting of all, perhaps there are people out there who can help me find a different narrative than the ones that have plagued me my entire life.
I’m broken.
I’m too much.
I’m not enough.