Chapter 4
Dr. Martina Hastings, author of the internationally bestselling self-help book Freud’s Ex-Girlfriend and founder of the Himlafall Clinic, is shorter in person than she looks on TV.
She’s got the kind of polish I associate with the famous and the very dedicated, a white linen button-down that falls just so, tucked into straight-legged jeans so artfully worn in that I assume they cost more than my rent.
Shamefully, I feel a little frisson when I recognize the necklace resting in the hollow of her throat.
It’s a golden Aum, inherited from her British Indian mother.
She wrote about it in Freud’s Ex-Girlfriend; I’ve seen it hanging around her neck in the countless TV interviews I’ve watched on YouTube.
“Hi, Isobel,” she says, smiling like we’re old friends. Like I’ve only been gone for a few minutes, ducked out for coffee.
It’s oddly disconcerting.
“Hello,” I squeak out, just as I hear the door shutting behind me. I look back reflexively and see that Belinda has left.
When I turn back, Martina has come out from behind her desk.
“Please, sit,” she says, gesturing to the beautiful chairs standing in front of her desk. They look old, the seat and backrest clad in bottle-green leather, the dark wood polished to a high shine.
“Would you like something to drink? Tea, maybe? I would offer you coffee, but I generally recommend that patients stay away from stimulants for the first few days here. It’s up to you, of course, but your nervous system is already in flux.
I have a lovely rose tea here. I brought it back from London last time I went to visit my mother. Would you like to try it?”
The steady stream of words makes it feel impossible to argue with her.
I sit down in a chair, which is, not surprisingly, extremely comfortable, and just manage to eke out a:
“Sure. That sounds nice. Thank you.”
Martina’s office is small but beautiful; there is a matching deep-green couch and armchair by the tall window, separated by a low coffee table, and a bookshelf on the opposite wall right next to the little counter where she is busying herself with a kettle and two stoneware mugs.
I see all three of her books on the top shelf—the first two, How to Be an Adult: A Survival Guide to Your 20s and I’m Thriving, Thanks: A Good Girl’s Guide to Avoiding Burnout, launched her into the public consciousness some eight or nine years ago.
But it was the third one, the one staring at me both from the bookshelf and from the framed, shockingly pink book cover blown up on the wall, that turned her into a superstar.
The kettle beeps, and Martina pours two cups of tea, swiftly places one in front of me on the desk, and then sits back down, cupping her mug with both hands and smiling at me.
“You know, I still think that tea was what got me through my divorce,” she says. It sounds conversational, off the cuff, but I’d be willing to bet money on her having said the same thing in the exact same way to every single woman who’s come through this clinic.
The true mark of a skilled manipulator is the ability to make scripts sound spontaneous, to turn the canned and commonplace into something intimate and special.
I should know.
“Well, Isobel,” she continues, tilting her head just so, making her expertly highlighted hair slide gently off her shoulder. Holding my gaze.
“Tell me about you.”
I open my mouth to get my well-practiced story out and find that it sticks in my chest.
Jesus. How embarrassing. I think I’m actually a little bit starstruck.
It’s just strange, finally sitting face-to-face with the woman whose pictures have been staring back at me from the computer screen for months on end. I know her public biography forward and backward. I’ve read both raving testimonials and hushed anonymous condemnations of her work.
I know as much about her as her most fervent fans.
And now here she is, in the flesh.
She doesn’t look dangerous.
But that doesn’t mean anything.
Predators are so often pretty to look at.
I can feel a blush creeping up my neck, and reflexively, I put my hand to it.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I’ve decided that Isobel Anderssen, my wounded alter ego, is insecure; wilting rather than shy.
“Don’t worry,” Martina says, smiling in a way that seems designed to be disarming. “You can take your time. You must be exhausted.”
I give a nervous little laugh.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I haven’t slept a full night in weeks.”
It’s the truth. Just not for the reason she thinks.
Martina presses her lips together, furrows her brow.
“Tell me what happened,” she urges me, in a voice that is both a whisper and a command.
Showtime.
“It’s just … I thought it was all going so well, you know? I thought we were so happy together, and then it all just … fell apart. So fast.”
“Tell me about him,” Dr. Martina encourages me.
“I met Kaveh on Tinder,” I start. “I know, not very romantic, but I wanted to meet someone. I felt like I was ready for something real. We didn’t really click over text, but I agreed to meet him for drinks anyway, and then when we actually met, it was like…
” I snap my fingers, and then I hide my face in my hands.
Oh, God. Was that too much? It’s very quiet in here. All I can hear is the ticking of the clock on the wall.
I hear something sliding over the surface of the desk.
“Take your time,” Martina soothes me. “We’re not in a hurry.”
When I look up, I see a box of organic tissues. I reach for one despite my dry eyes.
“I just feel so lost ever since he left,” I continue.
“I thought he was the love of my life. When we met, I felt like … like it made it all okay, you know? Like all the mistakes I had made in the past, all the bad people I had picked, were worth it because it had all led me to him. And I thought he felt the same way. I mean, we moved in together after our fifth date.” I stop, take a deep breath, before continuing.
“He’d been acting a little weird for a couple of weeks, but I thought…” I swallow to make it seem like the words are burning my lips.
“I thought he might have been planning a proposal,” I say. “When he said he wanted to break up, I thought he was kidding at first.” I close my eyes and shake my head.
“You’re embarrassed,” Martina says. “You feel humiliated.”
I open my eyes.
Martina is resting her elbows on the table, leaning forward, looking at me intently.
“Yes,” I say.
“You felt like you had spent so long looking for this thing, thinking it would complete you,” she continues.
“Trying, over and over again, and getting rejected, again and again. You pretended to be fine, and pretended that it was all okay, but it started to eat away at you. You started to wonder, after a while, why it seemed so easy for other people. Why everyone else seemed to get this thing that you wanted, more than anything, and why you were still there, stuck in place, fighting desperately and getting nowhere, all while having to pretend that you didn’t care so that no one would see how much it hurt you. ”
My mouth has gone dry.
I see flashes of those interviews again. All those sad, resigned faces. My hands trembling with impotent anger under the table.
The faint disappointment in my mother’s voice.
The long, dark nights when I couldn’t sleep, when it was too late to call my mother, or Armin, or Sandra, or anyone else, when the weight of all my little failures threatened to crush me.
“Something like that.” For a moment, it’s not Isobel Anderssen speaking. It’s me.
Martina smiles, but her eyes are sad.
“You’ve been working so hard for such a long time,” she says. “You must be very tired.”
“It’s just hard to feel like you have a piece missing,” I hear myself say. “I wonder if there’s something about me … if I’m stuck. If I made the wrong decision, a long time ago, and maybe I’m just too stubborn to let go of it.”
I have to stop. Get ahold of myself.
“You’re hurt,” Martina notes. “That’s natural. And you’ve been hurt so many times, you’ve learned to cut yourself off from the things that hurt you.”
Martina reaches out across the table and touches my hand, ever so softly.
“I really am so glad you are here, Isobel,” Martina says. “I think you’re going to be shocked to see where you are in just a week’s time. I think you are going to be truly surprised at the person you can be once your past is no longer holding you back.”
Martina pulls her hand away and then bares every single shining white tooth in an unbearably radiant smile before saying:
“One last thing. Before Anna comes and brings you to your cabin, I just want to make sure that we have your card on file.”
I freeze where I’m sitting.
Then I have to hold back a laugh. Of course.
I was almost taken in there for a minute. She’s better than I expected; better, I think, than I could have been prepared for.
But I’m not here for me. Not here to heal whatever petty little wounds I might think I’m carrying.
I’m here for the women I’ve read about. The ones who have sat in this chair before me, feeling hope for the first time in weeks, or months, or years.
The ones who have taken out loans against their homes to fund their stay, hoping, desperately, that this doctor and this clinic might be the thing that can help them finally find the piece they have been convinced they are missing.
The ones who have been convinced to go back to relationships they ought to have left, because Martina Hastings told them to.
And the ones who never came back from Himlafall at all.
“Sure,” I say, smiling back at her. “Of course.”
“Saddened, but relieved”—Dr. Martina Hastings speaks out about recent investigation
by Greta Ludwigsson
08:24 04/09/2024
The investigation that was initiated by the SPA’s Ethics Board against the Himlafall Clinic last fall after anonymous accusations were filed alleging patient abuse has found no evidence of wrongdoing.
In conversation with Stockholm Daily, founder Dr. Martina Hastings says she is happy but not surprised with the ruling.
The Himlafall Clinic is a privately owned psychological treatment center founded and run by Dr. Martina Hastings, known from her internationally bestselling book Freud’s Ex-Girlfriend and her work as the on-staff psychologist for Good Morning, Stockholm.
The Himlafall Clinic opened in June of 2022 and has been operating ever since, treating patients seeking help for problems with romantic relationships.
In October, Dr. Martina spoke out on her Instagram account about the fact that the Swedish Psychologist’s Association’s Ethics Board had opened an investigation into the clinic after a person who wished to remain anonymous had filed a complaint.
According to Dr. Martina’s statement, the person had alleged that the clinic was mistreating its patients, providing insufficient support, and neglecting to meet the standard of care set for in-patient treatment centers.
“Basically, they are saying that we are gaslighting and abusing the people who come to us for help, and I have to admit that that hurts my heart,” Dr. Martina said in the video, posted on October 19.
“But I welcome the investigation. I want our current and future patients to feel completely safe in our care, and I am confident that the SPA will find that they are.”
When asked to comment on the conclusion of the investigation, Dr. Martina said that she is happy with how the process has been handled.
“The SPA investigators treated us with the utmost respect, but I have to admit, I’ll be glad to put this behind me. As any kind of caregiver will tell you, when you dedicate your life to helping other people, it’s painful to have your methods and motivations questioned.”
When asked whether they will be changing their procedures following the investigation, Dr. Martina said no.
“Our method has a solid scientific basis, and in the last two years, we have seen truly fantastic results with our patients. I do not believe that a patient of ours was the one to file the complaint. Sadly, many of the women who come through our clinic have been in toxic and sometimes abusive relationships. When I started my work with the Himlafall Clinic, I knew there was a risk of retaliation from jilted ex-lovers. All we can do is keep performing the work, remember the importance of it, and hope that the people who would do something like this will find the strength to seek out the care they need.”