“That sounds good.” It really does. It might be self-indulgent to take an hour to talk through my problems, but Lara’s made me a great believer in the power of counselling. It’s an opportunity to reveal my darkest fears, my rawest emotions, with someone who holds no stake in my life.
Louise opens the session by telling me a little bit about herse
lf and the type of therapy she offers. She also promises me complete confidentiality. I find myself relaxing in the chair.
“Let’s start with why you’re here. What made you come?” She’s still wearing that open expression; making me feel special, as though she’s genuinely interested.
“I guess I want to save my marriage.”
“What are you trying to save it from?”
I give a small smile. “I don’t know. From failing, I suppose.”
“What makes you think it’s failing?”
Her question makes me stop and think. Why is it failing? Is it me or is it Simon? Both of us, perhaps? Is it sinking under the weight of expectations we’ve both put on each other? The silence lingers as I try to find the words.
“We both want different things. Simon wants me to be his wife first, to put him before everything else. And part of me wants that, too. But if that’s all I am I think I’d end up disappearing. I want more. I want to help people. I want my job to mean something.”
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I help at a substance abuse clinic. I run an outreach club for children of addicts, and I fundraise on the clinic’s behalf.”
“That sounds like an important role.”
That surprises me. I’m not sure anybody has said that before. That I’m important. That what I do counts. “It is to me.”
“What makes it so important?”
Another moment of thinking. “It’s the fact I’m able to make a difference. These kids don’t have a lot, and I can tell by their faces they really get a kick out of the program. Sometimes when they’re having a rubbish week, that’s about all they have to cling to.”
“The kids mean a lot to you?”
“They mean everything.” I choke up. “They can be annoying and argumentative but they’re kids, that’s their job. At the end of the day most of them simply need some attention and love. Even if I only get to give them it for a few hours a week, it has to be better than nothing, doesn’t it?” I can feel myself getting emotional again. Hot tears scald my eyes. “I don’t want to leave them, not even for Simon.” Grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table, I dab at my eyes. My skin feels puffy and painful, and the tissue makes it worse.
“What do you think will happen if you don’t leave?”
“Simon will leave me instead.”
“Is that what he said?”
“Not in so many words. But he told me I had to quit.” I screw up my face as I try to think what the consequences of non-compliance would be. I assumed from his ultimatum that it meant we were over if I refused. “I suppose I should have asked him.”
“Sometimes people say things in the heat of the moment that they don’t really mean. And you won’t know unless you talk things through.” She leans toward me. “This week’s homework is for you to try to explain to Simon why the clinic is so important to you. Try not to get over-emotional, or to back yourself against the wall. Just make sure he understands what the clinic means to you. Nothing more.”
While she speaks, I nod in agreement, but deep down I’m wondering if I can actually do that. I’m not even sure we’re at a point where we can talk things through without it descending into an argument. Though that would be better than the silent treatment I’m currently getting.
I’ve always found it hard to defy authority. I hated being told off at school, and would have done anything to avoid being reprimanded by my parents. Simon is merely one in a long line of authority figures I’ve found myself cowering before.
When we finish, Louise hands me a notebook and asks me to start keeping a note of my moods. I shove it in my bag and stand up, my legs feeling wobbly as I do. Even when I’m back in reception, I’m still shaky. I don’t like how the world is becoming such an uncertain place.
Buttoning up my jacket, I wrap my green scarf around my neck, before pulling open the glass-and-metal door that separates the clinic from the street. When I step out into the fresh air, there’s a certain comfort as London swallows me whole, dragging me deep into her pumping veins.
I’m curled up in bed, suffering from a combined white widow and wine hangover, when there’s a knock at my door. Grumbling, I turn my head until it’s facing the pillow and shout out muffled words.
“I’m asleep.”
“Then wake up.”