The Things You Didn't See(27)
Supposed to bolster each other up, calm each other down, steady each other to face the brutal world.
‘Go on,’ says Holly, listening intently.
I’m so tired, every bone heavy as lead, that if I close my eyes again, I know I’ll be back there. I want to be back there, to Friday afternoon. I want to be sitting tall on a library chair, wearing my freshly pressed blouse and fitted skirt, hands neatly clasped in my lap. Back to when everything still felt ordinary and within my control.
Across the circle is Clive. Scruffy-collared, his bulging briefcase on the floor, he’s the only one of us paid to be here, though whatever he spends his salary on, it isn’t his appearance. His beard is daubed with something suspiciously organic. Despite his dishevelled appearance, Clive is well respected. A consultant psychiatrist at the Bartlet Hospital, many of the group first met him when they were hospitalised and now he’s working with them in the community. He also gives expert evidence in court and he’s often running behind with deadlines: he’s either a bad time manager or a workaholic. His wife Ellen wishes he’d take a holiday and he asks our advice on this, sharing his own problems.
I’m his unpaid helper, with the added bonus that I can offer a venue, because on Friday mornings the library is closed, and as manager I can give permission for the group to meet there. I believe in this therapy; I know it works. When Daniel and I open Samphire Health Spa, I’ll run sessions like this there, alongside other things to soothe and heal the troubled mind. We’ll keep Punch, the horse. It’s good for depressed people to be around animals, and Victoria will be home to ride him.
It will all be perfect.
Trish is in the hot seat, and we’ve heard it all before. Her boyfriend beats her, which she doesn’t seem to mind, and screws other women, which she does. A decade ago, when her boyfriend left his wife for her, she thought she’d won, not reckoning that she too would grow old and get replaced. Her latest suspicions involve a neighbour’s eighteen-year-old daughter and ‘business’ trips away, all coinciding with the teenager’s visits to a ‘friend’.
‘Lucky bugger!’ says Roger, giving a real belly laugh. Clive throws him a warning glance and he stops.
This week, Trish’s best friend saw the girl getting out of the lucky bugger’s car. It’s tacky and sad and Trish twists her hanky in her lap, making excuses for him, her face swollen with tears.
The story makes my heart throb like a faded and forgotten bruise, newly knocked.
‘Now, Trish, no tears.’ I hand her a tissue. ‘You’re a strong woman – don’t let this beat you. You have a choice: to be a victim and let life drag you down, or you can make the decision to survive.’
Trish bites her lip, then reaches into her bag for another Chupa Chup. She sucks them almost constantly when she’s not smoking.
‘I just want to know if he loves her. Is he going to leave me or is it just about sex? She’s barely more than a child. Little slut! Why can’t she find a bloke of her own?’
Clive shifts in his seat, begins to speak, but I know what he’ll say. I’ve heard his solutions many times over the years: controlled conversation, couples counselling. Some such crap.
I interrupt him. ‘Here’s what I think, Trish: you don’t need to know any more about it. Tell your friend you don’t want to hear it. Forget what you know. It may be just malicious gossip and if you confront him, you might lose.’
Kirsty looks up, woken by shock. ‘So, she should just let him get away with it?’
I wait for the blood throbbing in my ears to ease off. ‘Recovering from depression is a long road, and digging into suspicions isn’t healthy. It’s best not to feed our insecurities.’
Five pairs of eyes consider me. With situations like this, they respect my advice more than Clive’s because I speak from the heart, rather than a text book.
Our silence is contained by the stacked bookshelves, my words of wisdom insulated by all those pages, secret worlds. Our shared secrets.
Trish stops crying. ‘I don’t think I can do it.’ She bends the stick of the lolly around her ring finger. ‘I can’t let it go.’
‘It’s the only way to keep your man and your sanity.’
When I was eighteen, I dropped out of university. Panic attacks had gripped me, and I was crippled by anxiety. I needed treatment and Mum had just been cured by a healer. She thought he might be able to help me too.
Daniel had just started out then. Because he was kind and gentle, business was thriving. Slowly, he introduced reflexology and then reiki, and I started to improve. No one knew who he was when he saved me. He patiently helped me conquer my demons and we became close. He told me about his girlfriend, a competitive cyclist who had dreams of competing in the Olympics – a beautiful woman who’d been on the cover of Sports Illustrated that year. He wanted to end their relationship, he said, but she was very needy and still recovering from a cancer scare. When he left her for me, I knew I was blessed beyond belief. I could hardly believe he’d chosen me, especially over such a superior woman, but he told me I was special.
Two years ago, I began to slip again. I don’t know what triggered it, but depressives sometimes have episodes that arrive out of a clear blue sky. The symptoms were the same as back when I was eighteen: paranoia, delusions, believing people were against me. Unfortunately, it’s always those closest who bear the brunt of the illness and I began to believe Daniel was lying to me. I scrutinised our bank records and quizzed him on transactions, certain he was being unfaithful. He said it was just work stuff, that the calls he kept disappearing to make were just needy clients, but I didn’t believe him. I was certain my luck had run out and I’d lost his love. This is how my illness presents itself: jealousy, paranoia, self-loathing.