Chapter Seven
‘He said he barely knows who I am anymore.’ My client, Wendy, says this in a whisper, head down, eyes on her lap. Her expression is one of devastation.
My heart hurts for her but I don’t react. Even though I think her son is a selfish little shit. I wait, knowing she wants to explain and giving her the minute she needs first.
Wendy breathes deeply, then continues. ‘Maybe I am being unfair, maybe I have changed too much. But I’m still his mum, you would think he’d want me to be happy! And this feels like the first time in my life I am happy! It’s the first time I’ve put myself first.’
Wendy is a fairly new client. She says she came to me through a friend’s recommendation, but I’m pretty sure she just saw me on the telly.
I get most of my referrals that way these days, but a lot of them pretend they’ve never seen me on Morning Tea.
I suppose it’s a bit embarrassing to admit.
Like maybe there’s something sort of shallow about booking a session with a TV therapist who comes with catchphrases.
Wendy reaches for the glass of water sitting on the coffee table between us, her hands slightly shaking.
I suppress the urge to grab the hand and squeeze it reassuringly.
She seems like such a kind-hearted, sweet person and I so want to help her.
She sips the water half-heartedly before looking up.
‘Of course I want to be there for Mal and my grandchildren. I told Mal I could babysit next week instead, but he said that wasn’t good enough.
He wants me to cancel my plans and go back to the way things were before.
I don’t know, maybe he’s right, maybe I’m being a horrible mother.
Maybe I’m being unfair putting myself first like this. ’
Wendy’s in her early fifties, with a husband and two grown-up sons – the eldest of which, Malcolm, has recently procreated for a second time.
The reason she’s come to see me is, after thirty years of servitude – being a housemaid to her husband and children, with no hobbies or outside interests – Wendy has finally made some friends.
For the first time in her adult life, she’s been spending time with a group of women, all eager to finally have some fun in their lives.
They’ve started a book club, they go for regular drinks, and even took a minibreak together last month, camping in the Lake District.
None of which has gone down well with the toddler-men in Wendy’s life.
Her son, Malcolm, has been throwing tantrums about her not being on 24/7 call for him and his children, like she used to be.
He has repeatedly called his mother selfish and demanded she give up her new hobbies and the new pals.
All so she can return to being a lifeless shadow person and support automaton for the men in her life, with nothing for herself. It enrages me.
‘Do you really think you’re being unfair, Wendy?
’ I ask her neutrally. She wrings her hands anxiously, looking at me beseechingly.
I can tell she is deeply divided. Her instinct is to defend her freeloading idiot offspring, but there’s also something righteously selfish and joyful growing inside that I can tell she so desperately wants to feed.
She starts quietly crying and I hand her a box of tissues. God, I so want to tell her what misogynistic arseholes her sons are being. Imagine feeling entitled to someone’s whole existence! Especially when that someone has already given you so much of it! Imagine!
‘Sorry I keep crying,’ she sobs silently.
‘Don’t be!’ I tell her, meaning it.
This is our third session together, and the first two meetings were 120 minutes of solid crying.
Which – by the way – is totally normal. Some of my clients feel like it’s a waste of their money coming along just to weep, which I do understand, but also…
where else do you get to have an un-judged, full-on cry in front of a patient, sympathetic ear?
Plus, crying is often a shortcut to intimacy with a newbie client.
I’m hoping she’s starting to feel like I’m a safe space.
Wendy hasn’t cried as much today, but she is still vibrating with fragility.
It makes me want to hug her – but that would not be professional.
Although, my colleague Arshiya – Sam’s therapist – told me the other week that she’s looking into retraining as a professional cuddler.
I thought she was joking, but apparently it’s a real thing.
People pay hundreds of pounds an hour just to be…
held. There’s even an official certification and membership body.
It makes me feel a little sad, but I guess it’s not that much weirder than spending money to cry in front of another person.
But you know loads of creepy old men would hire you just so they could grab a boob or stick you in the back with their boner after innocently asking for a spoon.
I lean forward as Wendy gulps down more water, trying to regain some composure.
‘I think you have a little anxious attachment style, Wendy,’ I tell her nicely.
‘You’re worried about losing your children and they’re worried about losing you.
But I think having an outside life – a life for yourself – is the best way for you to find yourself. ’
Wendy blinks, eyes still leaking. ‘I thought you said earlier that I have a disorganised attachment style?’
‘Oh right, yes.’ I nod quickly. ‘Yes, that’s right. You exhibit a… er, mixture of behaviours.’ Dammit, usually I’m better at keeping track of which attachment style I’ve assigned to which client. I’m obviously a little distracted today.
‘Sorry, would you mind if we talked about something else for a minute?’ Wendy asks urgently, swiping furiously at her eyes as the tears keep coming.
I hesitate. Sometimes I am stern in these moments, forcing my clients to confront the things that are painful and difficult.
But we are early on in this process, and I don’t think Wendy is ready.
She still doesn’t know me all that well and has all this confusing misplaced loyalty to the men she loves.
I can see the guilt ravaging her insides as she tells me the awful things they’ve done.
We all have this cognitive dissonance about people in our lives that we love.
It’s easier to justify bad behaviour quietly, in our own heads, but saying it out loud – hearing it out loud – makes this so much harder.
Sometimes you have to give clients more time to feel safe before they can be pushed to explore or change the things that need exploring and changing.
I nod. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer.’
She sighs. ‘Oh dear. I don’t really know what I want to say or what I’m doing here.
’ Her voice is wretched. ‘I feel a bit silly, to be honest. I bet you have people coming to see you with real problems. I’m just an ordinary woman with an ordinary life.
I’ve been so lucky, having a home and a family – what am I complaining about?
I’m lucky! I don’t know what I want you to say! I’m—’
‘Hey,’ I gently interrupt her self-flagellating trail. ‘This isn’t about anyone else. And you don’t need to arrive here having already solved it all. That’s what therapy is for. A lot of people don’t know how they feel or what they’re trying to untangle until they start to talk.’
Oh my god, that sounded wise. I should write it down. I’m always on the lookout for more Liv mottos and mantras. Especially since I’ve already used up most of my attachment style stuff today.
Wendy nods slowly. ‘You’re right, thank you.’ She swallows. ‘My insides feel all mixed up and I don’t know how to get anything straight.’ She takes a long, deep breath. ‘I feel like I don’t know myself anymore.’ She pauses. ‘Or maybe I haven’t known myself for a long time.’
‘When did you last feel like yourself?’ I ask her curiously, and she considers this.
‘Probably before I got married,’ she says. ‘But I was only nineteen – just a child in hindsight really – so maybe I didn’t know myself then either.’ Her eyes widen. ‘What if I’ve never known who I am?’
‘How do you feel when you’re around these new friends?’ I ask, and a smile spontaneously breaks out across her face. She’s really beautiful when she smiles and it is with effort that I keep myself from grinning back.
‘Brilliant,’ she beams. ‘Really wonderful! I feel light – content and excited. We do things I enjoy and they ask me questions about myself. They seem like they genuinely care about the answers.’
Wendy is describing a normal friendship, and I hate that she is so blown away by it.
She continues, a faraway look in her eyes.
‘We have such a good time together, you know? Sarah is so funny, and Gina never gets the jokes straight away. We giggle about the silliest things. For our last book club we read such a sad book – I wept my way through the whole thing – and yet, when we came together to discuss it, Trudy made a joke about trauma porn and then Sarah said the author was high on the smell of his own farts.’ Wendy squeals with delight at the memory and I mentally log that farts expression because it’s genius.
‘Then nobody could stop laughing for the next half hour! It was so funny!’ She pauses.
‘Even though me and Gina had no idea what they were even talking about.’ She hangs her head, speaking the next part in a whisper.
‘I just don’t understand how Malcolm can’t see how happy they make me.
I didn’t stay in touch with my school friends after I got married, and I never worked, so I didn’t ever have much of a chance to meet anyone new.
Having my girls around makes me feel so special, but Mal says they’ve ruined my life by making me unhappy with who I was.
’ She shakes her head. ‘But he doesn’t see that I was already unhappy.
I just didn’t have any other options, so I got on with things. ’
‘You felt trapped,’ I offer, and she nods a lot.
‘All the time.’ She breathes deeply. ‘And – if I’m being honest – quite resentful a lot of the time.
’ She pouts. ‘But I also don’t want to make Malcolm unhappy.
He’s my son and I love him. I have a duty to him as his mother, and I feel so guilty that he’s upset with me.
I don’t know how to make things better. Do I give up the friends that make me happy, or do I alienate my children and husband? ’
Only dickheads would make a person choose between those things – but I don’t say that out loud.
Instead, I give her a second, then lean in, ready to paraphrase one of my favourite therapists, Philippa Perry.
‘Wendy, if you have to choose between guilt and resentment, wouldn’t you rather choose guilt? ’
She stares at me, something dawning on her face. I internally high five myself. Yes! I’m getting through to her! I’ll have her fully slagging off those knobhead sons of hers in no time!
Beside her, Wendy’s handbag vibrates and she startles.
‘Sorry.’ She makes a face. ‘I thought I’d turned my phone off outside.
’ She reaches in to retrieve the device, then smiles when she sees the message.
‘It’s the girls,’ she tells me happily, and I can see how much this new circle of friends means to her.
I cannot let her give them up. ‘We have a WhatsApp group! We’re called the Fifties Fillies! Isn’t that silly?’
I grin warmly, gesturing at the phone. ‘Please go ahead. We’re nearly at the end of our time together anyway. Are they planning your next camping adventure?’
She flicks open the message, then frowns. ‘They’ve sent a link,’ she murmurs, tapping the screen. Noise immediately fills the room, and it takes approximately two seconds for me to recognise the sound of my own voice before she can close the video. I’m shrieking those now-familiar words.
‘You can’t be serious, Justin, tell me you’re not being serious?’
She closes it quickly and we stare at one another, her face horrified and pale. I have a feeling mine is too.
I swallow hard, trying to find my voice. ‘Um, well, er, Wendy, that’s our time together for today, I’m afraid. I’ll… see you next week?’
‘Er… right,’ she says half-heartedly, standing up and fumbling for her belongings. ‘Of… course. See you… then, Liv. Definitely. Thank you for… today.’ She practically sprints for the door as I stare after her.