I blink several times, trying to absorb the question. It’s huge.
‘Don’t think too hard. Just tell me the first words that come into your head.’
‘Scared,’ I say. ‘Nervous. Worried. Jittery. Worried? Did I say that already?’ I try to block out Brian’s nodding head. ‘Frightened. Tired. Anxious.’
The doctor nods, her eyes never leaving my face. I feel like she understands me, that if Brian would only leave the room I could tell her all about my worries for Charlotte and my fear of James and she’d calm me with just a single nod of her all-knowing head.
‘Do these feelings … are they overwhelming sometimes, Sue?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how would you like to feel?’
‘Calmer. Unafraid. Happy. Content. Whole.’
‘Whole?’ A frown crosses her brow.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Whole. I feel split into scattered parts. My heart is with Charlotte, sitting by her bed, holding her hand, even when I’m not actually there. But my head is pre-occupied with my ex-boyfriend,’ Brian flinches, ‘trying to work out what his next move might be and how best I can protect my family.’
‘I see.’ More nodding but this time she taps something into her computer. When she looks back at me her expression has changed. The compassion has morphed into professionalism – a bland non-smiling mask meant, I am sure, to calm and reassure.
‘There is medication I could give you,’ she says, ‘to help with the anxiety. It’d help you feel less overwhelmed and more able to cope.’
Brian’s face brightens and he parts his lips to speak but is silenced by a look from Dr Turner.
‘We could try that,’ she says. ‘But I would recommend that you take it in conjunction with therapy. Some therapies, CBT – Cognitive Behaviour Therapy – in particular can be hugely helpful when dealing with PTSD. What do you think, Sue? Would you like me to arrange for you to see someone?’
I don’t know what to say. I feel awful, like this poor doctor has been tricked into thinking I’m ill when I’m perfectly healthy.
‘No,’ I say. Brian inhales sharply. ‘To the therapy I mean. I don’t have time for a lot of sitting around and chatting and—’
‘CBT is more than just chatting, Sue. It’s about changing the way you think.’
‘I appreciate that. I really do. But I’ll just go for the medication, if that’s okay.’
‘It is.’ Doctor Turner’s eyebrows are raised but she seems satisfied with my response. She turns back to her computer and clicks several times with her mouse. A couple of seconds later she swivels around to the printer and tears off a green prescription form.
Brian leans over and puts a hand on my knee. ‘You’re doing the right thing, Sue.’
He smiles, his eyes shining with relief.
I half-listen as the doctor talks me through the medication, telling me when I should take it, what might happen if I drink alcohol or combine it with other drugs, explains about possible side effects and then suggests we make an appointment for six weeks time to review my progress.
‘You might feel differently about CBT then,’ she adds. ‘If you change your mind just let me know.’
‘Maybe.’ I take the prescription she’s holding out, fold it in two and slip it into my handbag.
The doctor smiles a half-smile, nods briefly at Brian and then swivels around to reach for a book on the shelf behind her. Appointment over.
‘Come on then, darling,’ Brian reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly. ‘Let’s go to the chemist and get you dosed up.’
Thursday 31st May 1991
It’s been nearly two months now since James and I split up and, despite Hels telling me that time is a healer, I feel worse now than I did the day we split up.
I spoke to Hels the morning after and told her what had happened. She gasped when I told her about James holding me against the wall and said that, if she ever heard me make excuses or blame myself for James’s behaviour again, she’d never speak to me again. Then she ordered me to report him to the police. I know she was just worried about me but her comment annoyed me. James wasn’t a criminal. He was drunk and scared I’d slept with someone else. Yes, he’d lost his temper and got a bit rough but he didn’t actually hit me.
I didn’t tell Hels the real reason I was refusing to go to the police – I was secretly hoping that, by the end of the day, James would be on my doorstep with a bunch of red roses and an apology. He didn’t. He didn’t ring either. And I drank and smoked myself to sleep for a second night.