Michael can sympathize. Perhaps he should offer to go and get them both a coffee from reception, try and perk them both up.
Johnnie is still speaking. ‘So why do we do these things, if they’re so self-destructive?’
Rita is busy making notes. She lifts her head and says, ‘They’re comforting?’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, staying in is easier than the alternative – the last thing I feel like when I’m miserable is being sociable.’
‘Exactly,’ says Johnnie.
‘Johnnie?’ As Lillie leans forward, Michael tells himself not to gawp. ‘Are those what we call “
safety behaviours
” then?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don’t understand why they’re called safety behaviours if they actually do us harm.’
‘Because they’re things we do to feel safe,’ Johnnie explains. ‘And although it’s important to remember they might make us feel comforted, the relief is temporary.
In the long run they can make the cycle perpetuate.’
‘Ah.’ Lillie sits back, evidently pleased she’s understood.
Oh dear, thinks Michael. He has just enough mental energy to work out the logic. As if giving up my business wasn’t tough enough, now it sounds like I should give up drinking too.
* * *
I’m worried about Callum, thinks Abby. Who’s got him ready, given him breakfast, helped him go to the loo? He should be at school by now, but I don’t trust
Glenn to have taken time off work, and Eva will never manage on her own. I’ll bet no one here has a child who takes as much looking after as he does, or they’d never be able to chat
like this. I’ve no idea what they’re all on about anyway. And who’s this young Hugh Grant lookalike with a floppy fringe? I believe he’s called Johnnie, but I can’t
understand a word he’s saying. How come everyone else seems able to grasp the point and contribute?
She closes her eyes, trying to shut everyone – everything – out. If only it were that simple. No matter what she does, the thoughts are there, crowding, burning into her brain.
However hard she tries to analyse them, to reason with herself, the cycle is the same.
You’re a failure, a dreadful mother, a worthless human being. Unlovable, irresponsible,
weak.
Earlier that morning she asked for some drugs to slow down her mind – begged, more like – pride had no part to play. She just wanted to stop the suffocating torrent of abuse. Lately
it’s got so much worse – she can’t stand it. But the psychiatrist had said, ‘You’ll still have temazepam in your system,’ and given her such a low dose of
sedative that the tablet barely touched the sides.
‘So, with depression something is out of kilter,’ Johnnie is saying. ‘And the first step towards adjusting the balance is wanting to change these patterns. A lot of the time
people don’t want to change, but when we begin to understand how we’re contributing to our own negative mood, the motivation for doing so emerges—’
Never can Abby recall feeling so unsure of what she’s doing or why she is where she is. It’s as if there’s a glass wall separating her from the rest of the world, and she
can’t get her bearings, or relate to anyone or anything.
All of a sudden she knows what she must do: go home. Yes, yes, that’s it. I need to leave, she thinks. Callum needs me. If I slip out quietly, no one will notice. The door’s just
over there. Johnnie has got his back to us, he’s busy writing on the board . . .
She is halfway across the room when the therapist turns round.
‘Abby, do you need to go?’
‘Yes.’ She can hardly hear her own voice, it’s so subdued. ‘I do,’ she says, more forcefully, reaching for the door handle.
‘I would prefer it if you could stay for the whole session. We have only a few minutes left.’
She opens the door.
‘Um, well, hang on a moment—’
Abby ignores him and steps into the corridor.
‘Excuse me,’ she hears Johnnie say to the other group members. She starts to walk quickly but he comes after her and takes her gently by the shoulder. ‘Abby, are you
OK?’
The self-lacerating thoughts are back again.
‘I have to go home,’ she says, trying to regain the clarity she had mere seconds ago. She sets off again towards the staircase but has only gone a few paces when Johnnie catches
her.
‘Stop!’ His voice is sharp.
‘Is everything all right?’ says a woman. It’s that irritating nurse who was trailing round after Abby earlier. She’s hurrying towards them, up the stairs.
‘Ah, Sangeeta. Abby was just wanting to leave the group—’ Johnnie smiles at Abby, though why she can’t fathom.
‘I’ve got to look after my son,’ Abby explains. Surely once he understands this he will let her be?
‘I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go home,’ says Johnnie. He jerks his head subtly at Sangeeta, but Abby sees it nonetheless.
‘I’ll handle this,’ says Sangeeta. ‘Abby, do you want to come and have a chat?’
‘No,’ says Abby. As if!
‘I’d better get back to the group,’ says Johnnie. ‘I’ll see you later, Abby.’
No, you won’t, she thinks.
* * *
‘Sorry about that,’ says Johnnie, coming back into the room.
Wonder what went on there, Michael wonders. Bit alarming. Still, she won’t get very far, that Abby, even if she wants to. Bet she doesn’t realize the door downstairs is locked and
you need to know the code to get out.
Johnnie picks up his marker again. ‘Where was I?’
‘You were talking about motivation,’ says Troy, yawning.
I suppose I
could
do with some help with motivation, Michael thinks. Since the shop went bust, he’s spent most days in front of the telly; Chrissie has been nagging him about it.
It was when she heard him muttering that he couldn’t see the point of doing anything any more that she insisted he go with her to the doctor.
‘Ah yes. Thanks, Troy.’ Johnnie wipes the Vicious Flower diagram off the board, and writes the words ‘
Goal Planning
’ at the top. ‘Next, we’re going
to do an exercise that might help with motivation.’ He reaches for the A4 sheets he put on the table earlier. ‘I’ve brought some handouts.’ He walks over to Rita,
who’s sitting nearest to him, and gives her the stack. ‘If you’d like to take a sheet and then pass the rest round, you can each have a go at completing the questions.’
Crikey, it’s like being back at school, thinks Michael. Next we’ll be allowed out to run around in the playground. With a teacher overseeing, of course.
‘So, how did you find group?’ asks Johnnie, as Karen takes a seat in the armchair opposite him. He invited her for a one-to-one chat after the session finished.
‘A bit strange,’ she says, glancing round the room he has led her to. It’s magnolia and beige, with net curtains at the window. Aside from their two chairs, the only furniture
is a small table, on which rests another box of tissues, a jug of water and some plastic cups, and there’s also a clock on the wall. Apparently they have half an hour.
‘Sometimes people do find it a bit odd when they start here, and I heard you say you’ve never done anything like this before.’
‘No – I mean yes,’ says Karen. She still feels dazed from struggling to absorb so much information, and her stomach is rumbling. I was looking forward to lunch, she thinks, but
I suppose I’ll have to wait.
‘I’m sorry to spring this on you, but I wanted to take advantage of the fact we both had the time and I thought it would be good to make a start.’
‘But why do I need this as well as the groups?’ she asks.
‘They’re for us to catch up on how things are going for you personally; I like to look upon them as providing a space where we can talk about things which might feel a bit difficult
to discuss in front of other patients. It’ll be just me and you, and what you say here is confidential, unless I think you might harm yourself or someone else. I hope you find the sessions
helpful.’
Karen nods. I’ve seen therapy sessions in films and on telly, she thinks. And Lou works with troubled schoolchildren, so I know something of the process from her. I suppose I could have
talked to Lou about how I was feeling. But Lou’s job is tough enough and her baby’s due any moment. I didn’t want to stress her further.
‘So, Karen.’ Johnnie interrupts her thoughts. ‘Perhaps, to help me get a fuller picture, you could tell me a little about your background, and if there were any particular
events or experiences that led you to spend some time here.’
Johnnie’s fringe falls as he looks down at a file on his lap. That must contain my notes – they probably say I’m a total nutcase, worries Karen. And I don’t know if he
means to begin with my life story, or Simon’s death, or the fact I can’t stop crying . . .
‘I’m not sure what you know about me already,’ she says.
‘Well, I know what you shared in group this morning.’ But this wasn’t what Karen was driving at, and Johnnie seems to pick this up. ‘Other than that, all I have is a
brief letter of referral from your GP, so you can assume I know very little and begin wherever you want.’
Help, thinks Karen. There’s so much to say, but she’s not sure she’s ready to reveal any of it. Still, most therapists seem keen to believe that problems tend to stem from
childhood, so she plucks something that isn’t too raw and seems apt. ‘Well, I grew up in Reading, in Berkshire . . . and I’m one of two siblings . . . though my brother lives in
Australia now, so we’ve not seen him in a long while . . . and my parents . . . um . . . my dad and mum were . . .’ It’s no good, the mere mention of her father triggers tears. I
miss him so much, she thinks, remembering being his little girl once more. ‘I shouldn’t be doing this again.’ She reaches for a tissue. ‘Sorry. I didn’t expect all
this to come out quite so . . . so . . . fast.’
‘Crying can be a really good thing,’ says Johnnie.
Karen isn’t so certain. Is it really productive to be weeping so much of the time?
‘Maybe your tears are a sign that something’s being released, or possibly shifting?’
‘I suppose.’ Considering how young he is, Johnnie seems astute. Karen lets out a long breath. ‘My father died six weeks ago.’
It’s as if she’s at the hospital in Worthing all over again, running down the corridor, frantically looking for her mother, then finding her, ashen-faced and distraught, outside the
Intensive Care Unit . . .
‘He was in a care home,’ Karen tells Johnnie. ‘We don’t know exactly what happened, but the nurse said she went to his room to give him his night-time pills and found him
sitting in his chair, unable to move. She asked him if he was OK, and he couldn’t reply. The thing about my dad was, if he was awake, he’d normally say
something
, even if it
was “fuck off”.’ Karen laughs ruefully. ‘He’d had a stroke.’
Johnnie nods in understanding.
‘He never regained consciousness.’ She dabs her eyes with a tissue. ‘He lasted a week, in the end . . .’ Although she’d been able to see her father, hold his hand,
feel the warmth of his skin and listen to him breathing, he’d never woken up again.
‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ says Johnnie.
‘It’s OK,’ she says, then reproaches herself for using such a nondescript word. Is a death ever “OK”? And she doesn’t want Johnnie to think she didn’t
love her dad. ‘He was in his eighties, he’d had Alzheimer’s for several years . . .’
‘That must have been difficult.’
‘Yes, it was . . . Though before, well . . . We were very close.’ She looks up – Johnnie’s expression is full of sympathy – and she’s sobbing again.
It’s as if she’s a soap bubble, held together only by tension; all it takes is a few kind words and
pop!
she bursts. The tears make it hard to speak. ‘I . . .
haven’t managed it so well this time. I can’t seem to keep it together, and, um, my friend Anna suggested I go to my GP and the doctor said . . . he said that it wasn’t surprising
I was finding things difficult, and, er . . . he suggested antidepressants, but I’m not happy taking medication . . . I don’t want to not be myself any more – they might change my
personality – and I don’t want to get addicted . . .’
‘I doubt very much that would happen,’ says Johnnie. ‘And some people do find them helpful.’
‘Really?’
‘They can help lift mood and, although I wouldn’t advocate their use on their own, it has been shown that, along with therapy, antidepressants can provide good results.’
‘Oh.’
‘You can always discuss it with Dr Kasdan – he’s the psychiatrist here – if you decide you would like to explore it further. Why don’t you see how you go over the
next week or so coming to groups and seeing me, and review it then?’
‘That sounds like a good idea.’
‘Anyway, I interrupted. You were saying?’
Karen hesitates, struggling to pick up her thread. ‘Yes, so, um, I decided that . . . Well, my friend suggested that maybe my health insurance might cover something else, you know,
something like this, so I looked and I saw that yes, I had cover . . . so . . .’
‘Perhaps we don’t need to go into all these details now,’ says Johnnie. ‘Can I bring you back a moment to your father?’
‘Oh, of course.’ Karen is thrown. I must be boring him, she thinks, going into such minutiae.
‘You said “this time” . . . “I haven’t managed it as well,
this
time.” Might I ask . . . have you experienced the loss of someone close to you
before?’
‘Yes.’ She pauses, then says, ‘My husband.’
‘Your husband?’ Johnnie is taken aback – Karen can tell. He hadn’t expected her to be a widow. People don’t. She’s got used to this reaction, but still she
finds it hard. She ends up holding back from going into detail to lessen their upset, and the fact that Johnnie is young makes her feel especially protective. She reaches for another tissue and
says, ‘He had a heart attack, out of the blue . . . It was just over two years ago . . .’ Her voice cracks. Johnnie is a therapist, she reminds herself. He’ll be able to handle
it. ‘My husband’s name was Simon.’
‘That must have been a terrible shock.’
‘It was. But I seemed OK . . . I mean, I’m not saying it didn’t affect me; obviously it did, horribly, it was a dreadful time, awful . . .’ A flashback of Simon
collapsing on the train makes her shudder. She gulps. ‘But I managed: I had to, you know, because of the children, and I kept going. Yet now, with my dad, I can’t seem to hold it
together. The last few weeks – since he died – I’ve been crying all the time, every day, several times a day. And it’s like . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with
me. Some days I feel miserable, but other days I feel ghastly in a different way. It’s as if someone else has taken over my body and I’m not my normal self at all.’