44. "Rachel's Counselling".

[see 25. "Rachel's Massage" for background to this story.]

After the prostate surgery and cancer scare it’s a relief to relax into a regular weekly massage. We talk little, but the knowledge of Rachel’s hands on my body builds trust. I feel stronger. In the autumn I decide to forgo the massage and start counselling.

As preparation for the first session, Rachel invites me to jot down what I hope to achieve through the process.

We sit opposite each other in her front room amid the scent of sandalwood and the warmth from burning macrocarpa. There is no music. Just the crackle of the wood-burning stove and the sounds of water trickling over the jade Buddha on Rachel’s desktop.  

I give her my notes to read.

‘Trying to reconstruct my life out of

            the collapse of my health

            the collapse of my marriage

The two are closely related.

Can deal with the situation intellectually

            but not emotionally

                        emotional pain

                        huge sense of loss

                        of failure

                        abandonment

                        loss of heart

                        loss of spirit, breath

            fear that the best part of my life is over

            don’t want to become a sad self-pitying old man.

Need to learn to live ‘alone’ contentedly.

Need to be able to trust again, to love again.

Need to want to go on for my sake.

Need to understand/deal with emotions: love, hate, anger, revenge, betrayal, humiliation, dependency.

Need … to move on, let go.

Need to deal with the disheartening aspects of my health: lack of energy, travel fears, relationship issues.’

“Depressing, isn’t it?” I say to Rachel when she finishes reading.

“No, it’s a good list,” she says. “A good start. To be able to set it out like this is a good start. Nice and clear.”

“Clarity can be a trap,” I say. “One I’m particularly prone to. Like I’ve written there. I can intellectualise about it. Stand outside myself. Be objective, whatever that is. But inside I’m just mush. An emotional wreck.”

“You’re in better shape than a couple of months ago, James. Don’t forget that. Not so depressed. And remember what you told me about last year. How you were in despair. In fear of your life. Where would you rather be? The very fact you’re sitting here is positive. Means you’re facing your fears. Confronting your emotions. Or at least ready to try. So don’t put down how far you’ve come already. These things take time.”


“It’s such a long list, such a long road.”


“Don’t worry about that. We can work at it. Sort it out. A step at a time.”


“Hmm, sort it out,” I say. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”


“There’s no hurry. Let me find you some things to take home and read.”


Rachel rummages through her desk drawers, periodically passing me a copy of an article or leaflet. I glance at the headings and briefly scan the contents as she gives them to me. They are mostly lists of advice couched in pithy little aphorisms. ‘Guidelines for overcoming depression: get out of bed in the morning… clear yourself of emotional sludge… beat the worry habit.’ ‘How to create abundant energy: have some fun... play with children… don’t sweat the small stuff… bloom wherever you are planted… drink plenty of water… wear your body as though you loved it… keep your mind in the flow of the moment.’ ‘Ten major rational beliefs: whether I like it or not, reality exists and I’d better accept its existence before I set about changing it… while it is desirable for me to be approved of and loved, I do not need it to survive.’ ‘Ten major irrational beliefs: I must be thoroughly competent, adequate and achieving… when people act obnoxiously and unfairly, I should blame and damn them and see them as bad, wicked, or rotten individuals.’ Plus segments about ‘the age of integrity’ and ‘the serene sixties’ from a book called New Passages. As I scan the material sceptically, knowing full well what frailties have brought me to this point in my life, knowing how badly I need help and advice, a critical voice tells me it’s all unscientific psychobabble.


“What I thought we might start on today,” Rachel says as she hands me the last piece of paper, “is coming to terms with living on your own. Is that OK?”


“Sure,” I say. “You’re the boss.”


I adjust a Turkish cushion into the small of my back and try to settle more comfortably into the armchair.


“So,” Rachel says, “what do you feel are the good things about living on your own? About not being in a relationship?”


“Well, I can fart indiscriminately,” I say.


Rachel pulls a face and laughs.


“Well, I suppose there is that. Anything else?”


“Get to play the music I like. Get to watch my choice of tele programmes, videos, DVDs. Take control of the remote. Watch cricket and golf in peace and quiet. Reruns of Six Feet Under. And I can put the light on in bed to read in the night. Not creep out to the toilet in the dark and stumble about banging into things.”


I pause. Rachel raises her eyebrows expectantly.


I think for a moment.


“Seriously, there are things I particularly value. I like not having to compromise. On anything. Just pleasing myself most of the time. That’s a real luxury. I’ve hardly ever been able to do that. Always felt obliged to somebody or something for what I did with my time – a wife, children, work commitments. Now I can live my life at my own pace. Slop about if I feel like it. I really like that. Give more time to myself, to my interests. Spend time on my own.”


“You can handle that OK?”


“A lot of the time I quite enjoy the solitude. What was it some ancient Roman said? He was never less lonely than when by himself. I enjoy moments of peace, reflection, contemplation. It’s just that there’s no one to share them with.”


“Was that one of the good things about being in a relationship for you? Sharing those moments?” Rachel asks.


“I suppose so. But they were few and far between. We had such busy lives.”


“So what were the good things?”


“Companionship. Sex. A warm bed. Not being alone on a Saturday night. Having someone special to care about, fuss over, make plans with. To holiday with, give gifts to. I miss little things. Sharing the chores, the trivia of daily life. Shopping, cooking, cleaning. Stuff like that.”


“Things that you miss though. They depend on the quality of the relationship, don’t you think?”


I shrug.


“Yes, I guess so.”


“And, with Anna?”


“It was good,” I say. “Very good. For a long time. Then it turned to custard.”


“Do you want to talk about it?”


“No.”


“You feel you’re the victim?”


“Yes.”


“I can understand that James, but that’s not a good way to feel. Not in the long term. You can’t go on blaming Anna for everything that’s happened. Not if you genuinely want to let go and move on. You need to think about that. About your contribution to the breakdown. Perhaps we should talk about that next time.”


“OK,” I say, “I’ll give it some thought. Promise.”


“Anything else you miss?” Rachel asks.


I look out the window at the gold and russet liquidamber, bright against a darkening sky.


“The big thing I miss, Rachel, is the history. The sense of continuity. Breaking up, divorce, fractures that. You lose touch with your past, with shared memories of your past, stories about the children when they were young, old photographs sparking reminiscences, shared family history, the holidays you had together, the houses you lived in, cars you owned. I hate the fragmentation of it all. That makes me sad. Like falling leaves.”


“It’s still your history, James,” Rachel says quietly. “Perhaps you need to reclaim it. To know yourself you need to understand your past, your memories. Your history.”


I snap out of my reverie and turn back to face Rachel.


“Yes, I’m sure you’re right. But how? How do I do that?”


“Talk about the past. Write about it. And about yourself.”


“You’ve suggested before that I should write,” I say.


“Are you ready for that now, do you think?”


“I think I might be. But what should I write about first?”


“How about yourself?” Rachel says. “How you feel about yourself.”


“I’m not sure who I am,” I say. “My life’s so dislocated. And my feelings such a jumble.”


“Write about what your life’s like now then, what you’re doing from day to day, and how you feel about that.”


“I’m not sure I’m ready to confront feelings,” I say.


“Well, start with some facts. Facts about yourself. Write down half a dozen facts about yourself. A little self-portrait to get you started.”


“Slippery things facts, though not as slippery as feelings. I like facts. I can give facts a go. Hard facts. Something to hang on to. Is that what you want?”


“If you’re comfortable with that. It’s a start,” Rachel says. “The important thing is to start. And remember, it’s not for me. You’re not writing for me.”


“Don’t you want to read it?”


“Only if you want me to.”


“OK,” I say, “I’ll give it a go. It’ll be all over the place and horribly self-conscious. Writing about myself. It’s outside my comfort zone.”


“All the better for that. Once you get into it, the self-consciousness will disappear. You’ll see.”


I start that night.