Panic Station

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 

"Phil, honey." My eyes flicked up from my shoes to her face, which bore a grimace. "Do you think maybe you could lessen the grip?" She swung her hand, the one with mine clinging desperately to, almost as though should the connection be severed, I'd never see her again. I know it sounds ridiculous, trust me, I get it, but my mind is a very weird (and potentially terrifying) place to be.

Slowly, I relaxed my hand ever so slightly, but upon glancing up to mum's face, still twisted into a strained smile, I realised that it wasn't enough. 

"I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart, and look." She reached up and pointed with her free hand. (Okay, it wans't free, it was actually carrying three bags, but let's just say that it was the hand that wasn't being crushed by my own.) I allowed my eyes to travel to where her finger was pointing. "The car is just there. I'm sure you can make it." She was of course, correct in the fact that the car was literally right in front of us, about a two minute walk at a leisurely pace from where we were standing. But making it there without her? I was skeptical. 

Taking a deep breathe, I let go. Almost instantly, I felt my heart beat accelerate to an alarming level, causing tears to prickle my eyes. But, come on! I was determined to show my mum that a two minute, independent walk was completely do-able. 

I knew my eyes were streaming, and I knew I was snuffling, and I knew mum knew I was literally crying about it. But this was it, you know, if ever there was a time to prove to her that I didn't need to go to a stupid summer camp, than this was as good a time as any. 

Sixty-Seven slow, shuffle steps. Sixty-seven. That's how many it took for me to reach the car, my mum hovering at my side every step of the way, whispering encouragements for each time I just stopped, screwing my eyes tightly closed. (Which, if you want to know, was nine times.) 

"I'm so proud of you." My mum kissed the side of my head as I placed my left hand on the door handle. I seriously couldn't stop myself from cracking a small grin. I'd actually done it! I mean, she wasn't exactly going to send me away now, right? I'd shown her I could manage ... Right? 

Wrong.

~*~

"Phil, Darling. Can we talk to you for a moment, please?" I heard my mum's soft voice call from the living room where she had been sat with my dad for the past hour. This is it, I'm going to walk in there, obviously smiling, and they're going to tell me that they aren't sending me away after all. Maybe I'd have to fake the smile ... Okay, I'll just leave it out all together. 

Pushing myself off of my bed, I stood shakily before commencing toward my fate. To camp, or not to camp? That was the question. 

Notcampnotcampnotcampnotcamp.

I knew the second I saw my dad's teary gaze that I'd be going. That they'd decided that I'd be okay and better off going for three months without them.

I wouldn't be.

"Honey, your father and I have been discussing the Summer Camp idea." Her lips were set in a strained smile, eyes filled with apologetic expression rapidly morphing to guilt as my face fell from the pathetic fraction of a smile I'd managed to force. I guess being a prisoner of my own mind allows me to notice the subtle changes in my parents expressions that most would miss ... To be honest, I'd rather be able to talk than notice bad news before it's even been delivered. 

"We've decided that it would be in your best interest to go and make some friends." My dad informed me. Now, you'd have thought perhaps I'd be embarrassed to start sobbing in front of my parents, what with being eighteen, male and, you know, trying to prove that I didn't need to go.

But I wasn't.

Before long, I was just a gibbering wreck on the floor, merely pondering why. Why the world hated me? Why my parents seemed to follow suit? (I knew they didn't, but honestly, I couldn't for the life of me understand how they thought that sending their son, with Social Anxiety Disorder, to a stupid summer camp. For three months. Without them, was even remotely a good idea.)

"Don't worry, Sweetheart." My mum dropped carefully to her knees beside me, placed her hand under my chin, forcing me to look up at her, and began wiping the tears off of my ever-reddening, tear-stained cheeks. (A world of good that did. They were replaced faster than she could remove them.)

Eventually, she sighed, giving up her struggle to rid my face of salty dampness, and enveloped me tightly ... Which can't have been an easy feat, considering, when I'd sunken to the floor, I'd also pulled my knees up to my chest in a should-be-protective, this'll-make-me-better way. It failed, however, to make any kind of positive shift in my emotions or mental state. 

"Philip, you know we love you more than anything else in the whole world," My dad evidently felt the need to point out, as though my sudden breakdown hadn't been expected ... Which of course, it had been. There only ever really was one way I react to things like that, (and just things in general that involve change, people and socialising.) and it was like that. So they were more than aware of what would happen. "and it's because we love you so much, that your mum and I have made this decision. It isn't a punishment, more of a ... Uh ... Present?" He glanced at my mum, who nodded, so he ploughed on. "To help you in the future. I mean, how do you expect to get a job and a steady income if you can't even control your own speech patterns? Or even speak at all other than the occasional mutter?" He cleared his throat and folded his arms over his chest, signalling that the decision was final, and that I'd be going against my evident loathing of the idea. 

Pretending it didn't sting turned out to be rather easy, I mean, I couldn't exactly blame them. It may have seemed as though I did, but deep down I knew that they were right, and only trying to help. 

But that was the problem, you see. All they ever did, everything, was in an attempt to help me. 

Attempt. 

None of it ever really did much other than traumatise me even further into this stupid, prolonged silence. Everyday, they would both encourage me to try speaking; asking for water, food, my parents themselves, just anything really. However, all that resulted in was me getting frustrated and angry at myself for not being able to do it.

Then ... yeah. Then I get those unmistakable thoughts of just not waking up the following morning, of not having to face another day of being a prisoner of my own mind. 

It would be absolute bliss. 

Honestly, If you think about it, it wouldn't be too difficult either, even a total life fail such as myself could manage it. The only problem with that, is that I just wouldn't be able to deal with the fact that there would inevitably be an aftermath, albeit a very, very small one. 

So instead of pulling myself away from my mum and up off of the floor, legging it up to my bedroom, slamming the door and either drowning myself in the bath or jumping off of the roof, I just shrunk into my mums shoulder, allowing her to gently stroke my hair in that motherly manor which always seemed to comfort even the biggest of tragedies. 

I didn't see it then, but honestly, sending me to that Summer Camp would be one of the best things they had ever done for me ...