You're the Only Song I Want to Hear

I’m sitting up in my bed, hugging my knees to my chest, staring straight ahead of me with glazed eyes. I concentrate on my breathing, blocking out the sounds outside this room. I count each breath, keeping a steady rhythm. The bed creaks slightly as I shift where I’m sat, but all I allow myself to think of is breathing slowly in and out, like they tell me in the hospital.1

“Whenever you feel nervous or scared, just breathe deeply, and try to stay calm. Ignore all the sounds around you, and eventually they will go away.”2

I run these words over in my head as I breathe, the room going slightly out of focus as I stare into space. Everyone keeps telling me it isn’t healthy to isolate myself like this, that I won’t get better if I don’t try. I can’t help it if I’m afraid to leave the only place where I know I’m safe. There’s so much I can’t control when I’m outside. This is all I can do to try to keep myself under control.3

Just as I count my two-hundredth breath, a new noise splits the comfortable silence; there is a knock at the bedroom door. I don’t turn my head, and I try my best not to get too worked up. The knock is repeated four times more, slowly and deliberately, so as not to surprise me too much. I count three seconds after the knocking stops, and then finally interrupt my careful breathing pattern so I can open my mouth.4

“Come in,” I say quietly, before taking another deep breath and beginning to count again from one. After another short pause, the door swings slowly open, making a soothing whisper against the carpet. It’s one of the few sounds I enjoy, because there is no particular note to it.5

I keep my eyes fixed ahead of me, so I don’t see the person now walking towards me, shutting the door as he goes. Of course, I know who it is – there’s no way I would let anyone else disturb my silence. As usual, I hear six, muffled footsteps, a pause, and then a sudden creak as my visitor sits down on my bed. I was bracing myself for the noise, but my pulse still quickens as that icy sound pierces the stillness of the room. I screw my eyes shut, and tell myself to count ten breaths before I open them again.6

“Ry,” whispers Brendon, sitting just a little away from me. His voice is low and welcoming, but I can’t respond yet; I’ve only just reached five. Brendon knows this routine, so he doesn’t try and shake me out of my stupor. He knows that if I don’t answer him straight away, it’s not because I’m ignoring him. He waits patiently as I count; I wish I could just look him in the eye and answer him straight away.7

My mornings didn’t always begin this way.8

***9

I was sitting, motionless, on and old and rusted park bench, watching people walk past me without interest. Most of them did nothing to disturb my peace; they all kept their voices low, and no-one lingered in front of me long enough to pay me any notice. It was a pretty ordinary morning, dry and cold and miserable for most. For me, though, it was the best kind of day, because fewer people were out on the streets, which meant it was much quieter than normal.10

I took a deep breath – my fiftieth since I had been sitting there – and blew it out again, watching as it rose in a cloud in front of me and drifted upwards to the pale sky. I smiled slightly at this simple pleasure, feeling glad that nothing so far had gotten me worked up. 11

That was, of course, until the sun emerged through a gap in the clouds, and the birds started singing. I felt my shoulders tense up immediately; to the people passing by me, this was a perfectly everyday sound, but to me, there was almost nothing more distressing, especially if, like now, it started without warning. My pulse started to race, and I tried to get my breathing under control again, but it was no good. I shut my eyes tight, and did my best to block out the horrible, jarring notes that were coming from all around me.12

After a couple of minutes, the sound began to die away. My fingers were clenched tightly on the edge of the bench, and I became aware that I was nearly panting with the effort of staying calm. I forced my breathing to slow down, but I didn’t feel much calmer. Sweat was forming on my forehead despite the chilled temperatures, and though I could feel my pulse slowing down, I was nervous, because I knew that at any moment, the birds could start up again.13

“Are you okay?” Came a sudden voice to my right, and I had to clamp my teeth together to stop myself from crying out in shock. I had been concentrating so hard on the birds, I hadn’t even noticed that someone was now sitting next to me. I didn’t look up, or even open my eyes. If I didn’t calm down, Id have a panic attack, and I didn’t need all that fuss.14

“Hello? Can you hear me?” The stranger on my bench asked, but I still didn’t move. I counted my third breath, but it was hard to concentrate when this person was making me anxious. If I didn’t answer him soon, he’d think that I was seriously ill, or something, and maybe call for help – but if I did, I wouldn’t be able to calm down properly, and I’d have to go back home, which I didn’t want to do, because I hated being alone all day.15

Eventually, I settled for something in between; I gave a quick nod, and went back to my breathing, waiting for another interruption from the stranger. But, to my slight surprise, he didn’t speak again. This made me feel better, because it meant that he knew there must have been a reason for my non-communicative state.16

Once I reached ten breaths, I felt much calmer, and I opened my eyes. My immediate thought as I glanced at the man sitting next to me is that, although he was looking at me in concern, something about him was soothing. His eyes were a light, soft brown colour, and though I looked away from them after a second, I sensed that there was nothing about this guy that would set me on edge.17

“Are you all right now?” He asked, obviously worried that I was going to pass out. I nodded again, not quite trusting my voice. However, it occurred to me that if I didn’t say something soon, it wouldn’t reassure him very much.18

“Catching my breath,” I told him, glancing quickly up at him again, and then back at the path in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him bite his lip.19

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” the stranger said quickly, obviously mistaking my shyness for hostility. “I just thought you were having an asthma attack or something…” he trailed off uncomfortably. I forced myself to maintain eye contact with him – it wasn’t very difficult, considering his eyes were so pretty.20

“No, I wasn’t… I mean, well, I’m okay now, I was just…” I couldn’t think how to explain to him what had happened without running the risk of being thought a freak. People tended to think I was weird if I told them I was afraid of music; some people even thought I was crazy. I didn’t want this guy to think that when he was being so kind.21

“It’s okay – it’s not my business,” he said, cutting me off mid-stutter with a slight smile. I returned it, feeling embarrassed. This guy, if anything, looked younger than me. It seemed strange that he would have noticed me sitting here in the first place, let alone decided to help.22

I was about to say something along those lines when I heard a dog barking in the distance. The silence, which had been so unobtrusive before, now erupted with other sounds; the wind started howling through the trees behind me, much more loudly than seemed natural; people’s footsteps and whispered conversation became magnified; and then, to add to it all, the birds joined in again, screeching their disjointed song through the morning air.23

I doubled over, cramps ripping through my stomach as I felt all the air being crushed out of my lungs. I gasped for air, feeling as though I was drowning in a vacuum, only half aware that someone’s arms were around my shoulders, his voice soft in my ear, whispering something I couldn’t hear. My eyes were open, but I couldn’t see anything. I was disorientated, and still I couldn’t breathe. I tried desperately to block out the sounds, but even when I clapped my hands to my ears, the chaos echoed in my head.24

Then, just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, and my thoughts were slipping away from consciousness, the stranger’s words became clear to me. My head was spinning from lack of oxygen, but I managed to detach his words from everything else.25

“Listen to my voice,” he was saying slowly. “Breathe, and listen to my voice.” I tried to do as he said – I blocked out everything except his calm words.26

“Take a deep breath,” he continued. “Don’t try too hard – just breathe.” As soon as he said it, it became the easiest thing in the world to do. I relaxed my body, still concentrating on his voice, and suddenly air rushed into my mouth. I began to wretch violently as oxygen flooded my brain, but as I took another breath, I felt myself growing calmer. I couldn’t hear anything except that quiet voice, still whispering words of comfort, telling me to take it easy, that I was okay.27

At last, still breathing hard, I managed to sit up. I felt sick, and I was shaking horribly, but I felt reasonably calm. The stranger still had his arms around me, and though I had once again lost track of what he was saying, his voice was still present. I was impossible to feel worried whilst he was speaking, and I couldn’t even tell whether or not the birds were still singing.28

Some time later, the stranger asked my name, and told me his. He told me that he had been walking past, had seen me sitting alone looking unwell, and thought he should check that I was all right. I told him that I had been diagnosed with anxiety and melophobia three years ago, and since then, I had had countless attacks. I told him that normally, it took me a lot longer to recover from them, and often I would just fall unconscious. He told me he was glad to have helped; I asked him where he was going now.29

Brendon said nowhere.30

***31

I count my tenth breath, and open my tired eyes. It gets very draining, this same rigmarole every morning.32

“Ry? You ready to get up?” Brendon asks softly, seeing that I’m now ready to answer him. I nod slowly, feeling too exhausted to meet his eyes. I didn’t sleep last night; I could hear our downstairs neighbours watching TV.33

I feel Brendon put a steady hand on my shoulder; I can sense from this that he is worried about me.34

“You okay?” He asks, in that way of his that tells me he really wants to know. Without really thinking, I shake my head. Brendon sighs, and pulls me towards him so my head is resting just under his chin.35

“You will be. I promise – it’ll be okay,” he says, and kisses the top of my head. I close my eyes just as they start to water, but it doesn’t stem the flow. I can’t help but believe Brendon, even though at the moment, I can’t see how things will ever be normal for me. I can’t even sleep in the same bed as him, because he makes too much noise.36

“I don’t want to be like this,” I whisper, Brendon’s heartbeat loud in my ear. “I’m sorry… I don’t…” I break down, and my words are lost in sobs. Brendon’s arms tighten around my chest, and as always his voice calms me down.37

“Shh, Ry… just breathe. I’m here, remember?” He whispers, kissing me again, softly wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of his hand.