Snowflake

by Louise Nealon

Maybe I should try and make friends. I’m nervous that all the good ones will be gone by noon.

pull myself together just enough to define my edges so I seem solid on the outside.

I’m not even being original in fancying him – everyone does. So I’m angry with him for turning me into a cliché, even though we’ve never had a proper conversation.

The most upsetting thing is that I really tried to look well for tonight. I actually made an effort. It took up so much space in my brain to decide what to wear. I’ve been mentally and physically preparing myself for days – even weeks.

When she hones in on anxiety I stop biting my nails. I’m repulsed by the accusation. Anxiety is a fancy word for worry, and worrying is not a medical condition. Depression is a fancy word for being sad, but it’s a stronger synonym. I could forgive myself for getting a 2.2 because of depression. I can’t forgive myself for getting a 2.2 because I’m a bit of a worrier. There has been no mention of depression at all yet. There’s an epidemic of depression among students. Depression is like the 2.1 of mental illnesses and she’s not even giving that to me.

Mam stares into space while the doctor reels off a list of options, most of which are unsuitable for the state she is in. A mindfulness class is his most bizarre suggestion. Billy and I exchange glances. ‘Unfortunately, the waiting list for inpatient treatment without private health insurance is insane.’ He says the word with no irony.

The whole place reminds me of being encouraged to colour in between the lines in primary school.

I have just become the type of person who laughs at my own jokes.

‘Mum’s a perfectionist. We both are. It doesn’t make me better than anyone. It paralyses me. It limits everything I do.’

Browsing in a bookshop is a lot like collecting shells on a beach on a really good day. I want all of them.