‘No, of course not,’ he says. ‘Only in the last year, or so.’
‘Exactly. These thoughts belong to depression, not you. Depression is a black cloud hovering. It’s not inside you, it’s not who you are, it just seems so. At the moment, your perception of you, of life in general and how you interpret it, is not the truth. A symptom. Like pain is a symptom of a broken leg, blood is a symptom of a cut.’ The difference between me and this client is – I can’t shake the psychopath off my trail. You are the black cloud. The similarity is if I allow you to be part of me, to creep inside my mind again, then you win.
‘You must remember: this is not your real world. Our emotions can distort how we think. We can become inflexible, thinking in black-or-white, all-or-nothing terms. But life has many grey areas. We can also become extremely negative, forgetting to count or even see any positives. Catastrophising and personalising, disqualifying what is working, still and despite. We forget about all the resources we have to help us. Is this ringing any bells?’ I see the bells are resonating for us both. This is all very well and good, but often easier said than done. He untenses his legs, allowing them to fall into a more comfortable position.
‘Yes, but how do I get back to how I used to be?’ he asks. I’ve asked myself this so many times. The simple answer is – I will never return to a carefree and light-hearted body. I can’t ever untread the steps I’ve taken; I’ve trained myself to think as a psychopath. As the words roll off my tongue, practised advice, a genuine wish to help my client, the irony hammers at my head. Never make judgment at surface level. No one knows what lurks beneath the muddy obscured depths. The ones who do not reveal, who do not speak, tell lies to cloak and bamboozle, are often the ones nearest the edge. What I hold in my mind is mine; what you think you know is probably wrong. I will never sit in the chair opposite.
Fifty minutes later, I show him out of my room. Ruan is busy on the phone, so I close my door behind me. You are my depression, aren’t you? Attempting to conquer. Hungry to isolate. Pilfering my confidence. Chewing away at my energy. Were you in my home, this morning? The kitchen door was locked after all, but I’m not wrong: something alien was definitely lurking in the atmosphere.
Chapter Seven
Before
I notice eyes; they speak to me. I always observe the eyes. Your eyes didn’t see the truth. Didn’t express the truth. They told lies. Lies I was too young and naive to see through. I wanted to believe; my beliefs let me down. I gathered information to fit the perspective I sought to hold. A downward spiral, eventually taking my self-belief with it. Then it was too late. Immersed and pulled under the tidal waves and layers of life. Swimming to drowning. A seamless transition. Then, as I struggled against the current, I cut the very lifelines that might have kept me afloat. You watched me do it, one by one, friends and family; holding tightly to isolation. Cast away from the shore without an anchor. How did I not realise it was all part of your game?
We began so ordinarily.
An evening enjoyed in a plush dining establishment determined the first stage of entrapment. So speedily it happened. After I secured a work experience secondment in a brain rehabilitation hospital. Not long graduated, working towards my doctorate. So much to be happy for. This time highlighted the preciousness of life; unbeknown to me, I was about to lose the freedom to live it. Do you remember how you were so thoughtful, so interested in my work, my clinical cases? And you were, just not for genuine reasons. I was merely one of your textbooks; you bookmarked my chapters as useful or not.
We were introduced through respective managers, by caustic chance. An organised charity meal, mixed tables peppered with professional heads. Following that evening, my manager attempted to warn me; his friend being the senior partner at some eminent solicitors in Birmingham. Apparently you were renowned for being a sharp operator. It didn’t trouble me; I knew better. Being a psychologist, I understood people, no worries. Why was I born pig-headed? Sharp doesn’t come close though, does it? You asked me to join you the following week for a fine dining experience in Brindleyplace, Birmingham.
Why would I not accept?
An eatery I longed to visit, but my student debt persuaded me otherwise. A French chef stolen from a legendary bistro, assured to delight the palate. The surroundings were chic, with colourings and textures of planet Earth. Atmospheric dimmed lighting to complement diners of all shapes, ages and demeanours. Candlelight danced to the sound of the centrepiece waterfall. Extravagant yet gracious. I couldn’t wait.
You were early, I was late.
You hooked me from this first date. You stood to greet me, leapt to pull back my chair ahead of our waiter. In the pretence of a gentleman. I was charmed.
The dawn of the deception.
Didn’t we chat so easily with your sharp sense of humour, such an acute attention to detail, to me? An analytical brain, taking observant notes. You used it to flatter and empathise. Nothing slipped past you, such diverse conversation, so effortless. Considered and articulate. Watching, studying all the time.
‘May I say, your work sounds so incredibly fulfilling, Eve, so meaningful. You must gain an enormous amount of satisfaction. Unbelievably fascinating, isn’t it, the human mind? I’ve always been captivated by what makes us tick. Nothing in your league obviously; popular psychology mostly.’
‘Hmm, there’s a lot of it about, that’s for sure. Not everyone thinks as you do though, trust me; some people avoid me like the plague, thinking I’m some form of witch. I either break up the conversation entirely or I’m expected to know each and every intimate detail within two minutes of meeting someone. Special powers, I don’t have.’
You smiled warmly. ‘They assume you can read minds, am I right? So tell me, what am I thinking right now?’ You chuckled.
I laughed. ‘Exactly, yes, seriously, people do actually believe I can, and say those things.’
You swirled your wine with purpose. ‘How amusing. If only you could, Eve. How incredibly useful that would be. Though I would be an extremely worried man. Tell me more – what’s it really about?’
‘Well, it’s often rewarding, though it’s also incredibly sad at times too.’ You raised your eyebrows as if surprised. ‘I mean, my cases don’t always hold a happy ending. Take last week, a man in his thirties was admitted, following a car accident. Out with his family for the day, his wife was driving, she asked him to pass her something from the footwell. He took his belt off for a few seconds, to reach for it, just as the car left the road, collided with a tree. Two young girls, he has, now he’s in a coma. His prospects are poor. Given the region of the brain damage, he’ll never be the same again, if he wakes. Very probably never recognise his children again. Sometimes it’s crueller still for the families. You’re not really allocated time for the families, but I often give them my break time. Honestly, if you could see the damage it does, you’d do the same. Or we’ll meet up after my official shift has finished in the café at the hospital. They often feel so completely helpless. It’s all so truly heart-wrenching.’
You rubbed your smoothly shaven chin, took a cool swig from your enormous wine glass. ‘Hmm. But at the end of the day – you can’t win them all.’
‘Win?’
‘Your cases – some you will be required to let go of, I’m sure, in order to focus on those you can win, help, I mean.’
‘Oh, I see, yes, I guess, it’s a sorrowful fact – life isn’t always simple, is it? Not if you’re human.’
You smile, deep in thought. ‘No, but it’s the challenges that make life fun. Or in your case more, more worthwhile.’ Your eyes so intense.
‘Uh-huh, I suppose that’s one way to look at it. We do have debriefing sessions, but can you ever accept, come to terms with, such appalling sadness?’