Queenie(78)
Cons of living with grandparents:
? I myself have to clean the surroundings.
? My bathing is timed by my granddad who, after five weeks, still lectures me about the water rates every time I run a bath. What are water rates?
? I get sent to bed at 10 p.m. and live in fear of my night terrors scaring either of them.
? I have to eat the food my grandmother makes, most of which is too spicy for me, and then endure the “we should send you to Jamaica to toughen up your mouth” line EVERY TIME I CHOKE.
? I also have to go and buy the shopping and pull it home in a gran-trolley.
? My granddad turns the “Internet box” off every night before he goes to bed, and I have to sneak out of my room to turn it back on and wake up before them to turn it off again.
? Defending myself to my grandparents and Maggie about not going to church on a Sunday.
? My grandmother keeps trying to force surprise interventions between me and my mum. I’ve managed to avoid them by sneaking out of the house, but I can’t imagine that I’ll continue to get away with it.
* * *
Two weeks after my session with Janet, I was called down from the attic where I’d been instructed to “organize” the net curtains. I climbed down the ladder and went into the kitchen. “Letter for you.” My grandmother gestured to the white envelope on the table while wiping down the surfaces with a cleaning cloth that was on its last legs.
“Was that urgent enough for you to call me down from the attic?” I said.
“Excuse me?” she asked. “Who are you talking to?”
I mumbled an apology and went to take the letter into the front-front room, but my granddad followed me in and shooed me out before I could sit down. “Who is it from?” my grandmother shouted from the kitchen. I took it up to my room.
Dear Queenie,
I really do think that, with proper care and attention given, I can help you to overcome your issues. It will take time, and it won’t be easy, but it’s a journey that we can make together. Now, having worked with many patients in my time, I know that many factors can affect how the patient feels about treatment. If it’s that you don’t like the office, we can find a place that you find safe, a coffee shop, or I have a registered studio in my house in Golders Green.
What was in this for her? She was being like Miss Honey from Matilda or something.
When you walked into my office, I saw both the person that you are currently, and the person that you could be. You’ve experienced a lot of loss, and a lot of grief, in a very concentrated amount of time. It’s no wonder you’ve had to take some time out of your life.
With me, you can get your life back. I don’t usually make promises, but I can promise you that if we work hard, we will get you to a place where you can be you again. And not just you, but the best version of yourself. I’ll let you think about that.
Please call me.
Janet
I took a deep breath and sensed that it would be a very trying few weeks ahead.
* * *
Time really goes slowly when you’re doing nothing. After all of the chores for the day have been done, and as per the rules, I’m bathed and in bed by 10 p.m. At least now I’m sleeping again, which is helpful as I’m still expected to be up at seven every morning. Today was Monday, counseling day, and my fifth session with Janet.
My recovery wasn’t going as miraculously as I thought it would. Thank God for the National Health Service, because if I had to pay for these sessions myself I wouldn’t get close to halfway to recovery before bankrupting myself. In our sessions in Janet’s tiny flat in Golders Green, once I’ve endured the journey there, we’ve battled over antidepressants (I am against because I think I’ll turn into a zombie, Janet is for because apparently they’ll calm me down enough for the therapy to take); we’ve touched on my relationships with friends (I am dependent on them to validate my thoughts and actions), the casual sex (I am dependent on it to validate my body and my control), Tom (how dependent I was on him and how much that frightened me, leading to self-sabotage), my dad (I was absolutely not dependent on him, which is why I treat men as throwaway—not sure how keen I am on this Freud-type linking of the father to the sex). We’ve worked out that the reason I don’t like holding hands and hugging is that I’m not comfortable with loving and tender physicality; I’m scared it’ll be taken away from me and leave me feeling abandoned. I did not realize just how much I had going on in this little head of mine. This week, though I thought I had successfully avoided it, we had to talk about my mum.
“So. You grew up with your mother?” Janet asked, putting her notepad and pen down.
“Yes.” I nodded. “We lived with my grandparents until I was six. Then we moved to a little house of our own. Then she met someone, and we moved again.”
“And by someone, you mean a partner?”
“Roy. Yeah, Roy,” I said, and took a sip of water to coat my sandpaper throat.
“And this Roy. Did you get on, you and him?” Janet shifted in her chair.
“No,” I said swiftly.
“Go on?” Janet asked me, her brow dipping slightly.
“When he wasn’t screaming at me, he ignored me,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know, maybe this isn’t important. His house, it was clean, there was a garden, he was a good cook—”