Committed (part 1)

Committed 

I suppose I’ve always had issues with fitting in and commitment. My childhood was based on the short term - I didn’t commit to anything because it was only going to change; I would have to change again, so there wasn’t much point giving myself wholly to anything or anyone. Friends came and went; relationships with them were sometimes unusually intense because none of us would know how long we had together. The only time I let myself relax and settle, I spent the next few decades being haunted by dreams of stability and of my beloved house - endlessly discovering rooms and corridors, attics and cellars; but ultimately finding myself lost in my current bed. Growing up, there were so many goodbye parties. Goodbye is huge and painful and relentless and unstoppable. And I struggle to say it. 

Much of my life was lived for the here and now - today, these are your friends and this is your family; tomorrow we’ll start again - nothing remained permanent or constant, except for my parents and my brother. Pets were temporary and left behind along with homes, friends, neighbourhoods, teachers, schools, countries and ways of living. I adapted, adjusted, cloaked and hid, revealed and shared until I didn’t know who I should be. I didn’t know me as anything but a confused chameleon with various veneers of personas. 

And now I wonder: What if there’s nothing good underneath? What if I don’t know how to be a normal person? These are the thoughts that keep me up at night. That and the fact that I’m an unloveable, used-up bitch. 

I haven’t spoken about any of this with a therapist. I had some sessions once, a couple of years ago; she made me talk about my failed relationships and the abuse I suffered, the shame I was feeling, but she never delved into why. Even when I told her I was thinking of moving to another country, she never questioned it. It was a test. Of course I’m not moving. That would be the old me. The new me is stuck. 

So how did I shatter my veneer? Why can’t I form lasting, meaningful connections with other (normal) people? And what happened to leave me stranded? Let’s go back to September 1995...

I’m sitting on a chair outside the headteacher’s office and I feel ridiculous in my crease-free new uniform complete with stripy tie. I dig my fingertips into the squashy blue cushion of the chair and tap my feet against its metal legs. They don’t look like my feet in these black, leather lace-ups and knee high socks. I wish I was wearing my army boots with the steel toe caps - the ones that are moulded to my feet so that I can run comfortably if I have to. The stiff collar of my new white shirt is making my neck sweaty and I can’t stop swallowing. Everything about the morning seems awkward and oppressive - even the windows are shut, trapping the air. I wonder what Anita is doing right now. A flash of grief stabs me in the chest as I blink my breathing back to a steady pace. I can’t cry, not when I’m about to find out who I am.

A willowy woman with short black hair rounds the corner of the corridor, looking like a cross between the Grand High Witch and Miss Hardbroom. She stands in front of me and introduces herself as Mrs S then invites me to follow her to my tutor group. Everything about her spits: “Don’t fuck with me or I will destroy you.”  I pick up my backpack, sliding my arms through the straps and letting it bounce against my back as we walk through empty corridors to the English block. She says nothing, so I don’t either. Looking back now, that should have been a clue as to what was to come. 

At the door to the classroom she pauses and smiles, but still says nothing as she pushes down the handle and swings the door open. The room stills as a blonde woman with long, straight hair; a white blouse and black pencil skirt comes tottering over and she silently smiles too. Perhaps talking to pupils is discouraged here? I’m still not sure who I am, so I stand there sliding my thumbs up and down between my backpack straps and my shoulders and trying to keep my expression as neutral as I can. Then Mrs S says the thing that means I will live in silence at school for the next 6 months. She says: “This is Emma, from Holland.” 

And just like that, I’m the Dutch girl. 

All eyes in the room follow me to my seat in the corner. I sit carefully, smoothing my long grey skirt underneath my bottom while ignoring their stares at my new uniform, my backpack on both shoulders and my knee-high socks. Every girl in the room is wearing: Kickers with heels, sheer black tights, short tight skirts and has a black leather record bag down by their feet. Also, they’re mostly wearing make up and murderous expressions. I’m a rabbit in the wolf den. I mustn’t let my fear seep out. I’m the new girl; the Dutch girl. And I’m fucked. 

By break time, I decide I have to find someone to talk to. There is another new girl in my form and we gravitate towards each other to queue up at the buttery. I’ve never heard that word before - buttery - but it’s where the food is coming from. I dig around in my pocket for change and examine the coins carefully while I’m waiting. They’re familiar from my family’s many holidays ‘home’ but it’s only been a few days and I’m still getting used to the shapes and values. I watch and listen carefully to the people in front of me. It’s so strange to hear everyone speak English with an English accent. I think I can match it easily (it’s a lot like my parents’ accents) although it still feels odd after having American dominate my previous schools and it’s very odd to just hear one language being spoken. It feels weird to relax this part of me when so much else is on high alert. R orders an iced bun and a blue Panda Pop. I get the same. 

We sit in a corner of the music block wall and eat in silence. Then we drink until our tongues turn blue. She talks about moving from another village and about her twin brothers and her horses. She doesn’t ask me many questions and I get the impression she doesn’t like me by the way she looks around as she speaks; it’s clear I’m just filling a void until she can make real friends. That’s fine by me. I’ve used that tactic too many times to remember. She has black tights and Kickers and a record bag but her face is naturally pretty and full of freckles. I’m fascinated by the way her feet turn inwards so her big toes almost touch. I guess it’s from horse riding. Without meaning to, I will spend the next few months getting my feet to turn inwards when I stand still so that even now, as an adult, they naturally turn in. I don’t know why I wanted to do that. Sometimes I don’t have control over the copying, the becoming, the pieces I need to mould to fit in. 

The silent day becomes a comfort after a while. There’s no need to join conversations, I’m not invited by anyone to speak, so I can focus on observing and listening. I sit in the front in every lesson now and I don’t talk. No longer outside in the corridor for chatting, laughing, distracting others. No longer at the back of the room whispering and giggling with my friends. Now I’m on show - the freak show - as endless grey jumpers surround me, flank me, pretend I don’t exist while they pick at my veneer before I’ve even fixed it in place. 

During afternoon registration, R sits next to me at the table in the corner. The boys opposite draw pictures of us, loudly talking about my backpack and my socks and laughing at me as I sit staring blankly at the wall behind them until our form tutor starts the register. The thing is, I’m not upset. I don’t feel like crying or shouting at them. I feel numb, invisible and liberated. They don’t bother to filter their conversations around me so it’s like I’m a ghost; I listen to all their prejudice without flinching. I won’t let them see I can understand or that would ruin the game. Anyway, I’m not upset. To be upset I would have to exist and as yet, I don’t. 

At the end of the day, the entire school empties on to the front driveway where the buses line up to collect pupils. At least this part of the day seems easy. Our bus is the only public bus and stands out as a sweaty blue beacon in the line of shiny white private coaches. I find my brother standing by the bus waiting for me. I’ve got the money so we join the queue and I ask for two tickets. It takes me a while to count out the right coins so that the driver frowns at me as if I’m somehow playing a joke on him. I do belong here, but only if I try. I feel foreign in my own country and it’s hard to explain it to strangers so I just apologise and eventually get the tickets. 

At home, I go upstairs to see mum. She’s still in a lot of pain but she’s not in hospital and she’s awake.  

“How was your day?” She asks looking carefully at my face. 

“It was ok.” I shrug. I’m nearly fifteen so I should be able to cope with a bit of silent treatment and silly comments without crying to my mum. Plus, she needs calm and rest so I smile, kiss her and go into my room. My room here is tiny; I can barely walk around the bed without touching it - or a wall. The bed is really comfortable though and I undo my tie and flop down onto it. My brother is chatting to mum and I close my eyes. This new me is going to be ok. I can get on with school work without distractions, maybe get good grades in my GCSEs and I’ve got my family to talk to. Maybe this quiet, friendless me will be useful. No more messing around, just serious study. I take off my school uniform and hang it up. Without space in here, the new me is good at keeping tidy. I put on jeans and a T-shirt and then look through my drawers for a pair of black tights.