Page 45 of A Wistful Symphony

Family étude

T he emergency session with my therapist was a fruitful one. It’s been years since I’ve talked about Marvin with anyone, and peeling back the layers of my past with a trained professional brought me some unexpected clarity.

I’m not that wounded kid anymore. I’m a grown man.

And there’s little Marvin can do to interfere with my life if I don’t let him.

As for my job, he can put in a word or open doors for me, but what will happen from that point on is entirely up to me.

If the BBC hired Bluebell Studios, they liked my music.

Period. They wouldn’t put their work at risk based on a single man’s reference. Marvin is not that powerful.

Say that again, Eric. Marvin is not that powerful. Repeat it until you actually believe it.

My therapist also stressed that, as far as my sister is concerned, the choice of reacquainting with Marvin is up to Delia.

‘Out of my control realm,’ as she often says in our therapy sessions.

I hate that expression. It’s as useless as saying ‘stop worrying.’ Logical as it is, it’s impossible to follow her advice when feelings are involved.

When I’m so afraid what happened to Mum might happen to her.

I can’t control it, as much as I can’t control my thoughts. And I can’t stand that.

But that’s not the hardest truth I need to digest. The real kick in the nuts came when she suggested I go back to my psychiatrist. It’s been six years since I’ve been off my meds and some silly part of me thought I’d be rid of them for good.

Except the intrusive thoughts are affecting every inch of my life, and the anxiety made me go back to smoking and hurting myself with compulsions.

It was hard to argue with that, so I complied.

Trying to work with a fresh dosage of anxiolytics is a real challenge.

My mind is slow, I’m nauseated more often than not, and I sleep every chance I get.

The doctor tried to give me a sick leave, but I refused.

Two weeks away from work means I can kiss the project goodbye, and I can’t have that.

The score is the only thing giving me a shred of self-worth at this point.

Isn’t it awful to admit something like that?

Since it was the latest trigger, my therapist told me to stay away from the piano until the meds kick in, and once it’s safe, we’ll resume exposure and response prevention therapy.

Easier said than done. Staying away from what defines my existence is a punch to the heart.

To separate me from my music? She might as well have severed my limbs.

And the trickiest part is: how the hell am I going to explain that to Ms Thorne?

“Eric, can you come to my office once you’re done?” Ms Thorne pops her head in the production room as I’m working on post-production for the track we recorded earlier.

“Sure,” I answer nonchalantly as my head goes straight to the thousand reasons she could have for summoning me.

She hated my last work. Jameson presented a much better track than mine.

Someone spilled the tea on my last flare, and she’s pulling me off of the team.

She’s giving Jameson the score. The thoughts populate my head like a choir of voices speaking all at once, so loud I can barely concentrate.

When the track is done, I take the lift to the fourth floor. Three knocks on the door announce my presence, and a muffled ‘come in’ echoes from inside.

“Ms Thorne? Did you want to see me?”

“Yes. Please have a seat.” I take the grey suede armchair in front of her desk and nod for her to go on. “Eric, I want you to be perfectly candid with me. What happened to your hands?”

My head lowers, and I take a long glance at my fingers covered in plasters before speaking. “I had an OCD flare last week while trying to compose. Ended up hurting myself. Not on purpose,” I hasten to add. “It was an accident.”

“I see.” A tiny purse creases Ms Thorne’s lips, and her square jaw tightens.

Shit. She’s not happy at all. But what was I supposed to do?

Lie about my wounds and tell her I’m a lousy one in the kitchen?

It wouldn’t work. She’d sniff the lie a million miles away, and it would just make me look worse.

After all, she knew exactly what to ask.

As if someone had called her and told her everything beforehand.

Was it you, Andrew? No one else knows about this.

“Has anyone told you about my flare?”

Ms Thorne chuckles and offers me a sympathetic grin. “I’ve known you for years. It’s doesn’t take a genius to guess you’re going through something, considering how you’ve been at work lately.” She leans back in her chair, and I exhale, relieved you didn’t say a word.

She continues. “Did you have the chance to see a therapist?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And what did they have to say?”

I clasp my hands on my lap, the tips of my fingers squashing the tender flesh. Damn it. I should’ve seen this point in the conversation coming and prepared accordingly. Now all that’s left is to tell the truth and hope for the best.

“She suggested I go back on medication, and”—I hesitate before adding the last part—“that I should refrain myself from playing until my anxiety is managed.”

“Which is why you’ve been working on post-production all week.” Ms Thorne lets out a long sigh. “This puts me in a tough spot, Eric. If it’s affecting your mental health this much, I should pull you out of the project.”

My eyes bulge in terror, stomach sinking to the ground.

“No, please Ms Thorne. I can handle it.” Leaning forward, I put both hands on her desk.

“I’ve checked our schedule, and most of the composition work is done.

I can work on recordings and production duty for a couple of weeks until my meds stabilise, then I can fine-tune the adjustments of the extra compositions. ”

“Eric.” She takes off her glasses and presses the corners of her eyes. “This is dangerous to both you and the company. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Please, I have it all figured out.” My mouth is so dry my tongue sticks to my palate. “I just need a chance.”

Ms Thorne sits in silence for a few seconds, and the wait for her answer threatens to steal my breath. I need this. Desperately. I must show myself I can do this despite my poor mental health. Despite Marvin’s discredit. That everything I’ve worked towards for so long wasn’t for nothing.

I need to prove to myself I’m worth something.

“Fine. I’ll take you at your word.” A wide smile splits my face, but before I can say anything, she raises a finger. “That’s your last chance, though. If anything else happens, I’m pulling the plug.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Ms Thorne. You will not regret it.”

I leave her office in a rush, hoping to God I’m right.

Being at home is a stark contrast after my frenetic workdays. One of my therapist’s recommendations was that I leave my job at the workplace. No more over-hours, no more composing at home, no more thinking about the score with every step I take. Create healthy boundaries, she said.

Boundaries. We’ve talked about them so many times, and I’ve ignored them all. This is the result. Life has a funny way of making you bite your tongue.

I wake up and wander the flat, not knowing what to do.

I’ve never had so much free time on my hands.

Now and then I glance at the piano, longing for the familiar touch of ivory on my fingers.

Then thoughts of work come, of how I need to finish the goddamn score, and with a shudder I picture the trail of red on the keys.

I’m afraid. Afraid the thing I love the most will end up hurting me.

It’s a maddening feeling.

Every day after your classes, you come to my flat and stay with me.

I believe you’re wary of leaving me alone, in case I hurt myself.

It makes me feel like such a burden, but it is what it is.

I can’t afford to pretend like I don’t need help.

Like I don’t need a support system. Sure, I have my friends.

They call or check in via text constantly, which I’m most thankful for, but they can’t drop everything to be with me. Not like you’re willing to do.

I sleep a lot, and despite your constant nagging, eat little.

Courtesy of the meds. It’s always like that in the beginning, until my body adjusts.

In the meantime, you do your best to keep my attention away from work.

We binge films and shows together, play my records, or you read some of your books to me.

You even bring your violin, and, after my extensive requests, agree to play me some of your own compositions. How lovely they are.

By the weekend, however, the surreptitious presence of the lustrous black instrument is too much to bear.

We decide to spend the rest of my abstinence period at your place, away from the piano’s tempting aura.

The psychiatrist says I shouldn’t run away from triggers.

That I should face them. Sit with the discomfort. But this week, I can’t.

Baby steps.

You live in a cosy little flat in an old four-storey building at the bottom of the Harringay ladder. Old, as in, no elevator. By the time we reach the third floor, I’m panting and sweating. No wonder you and Danny are so fit.

The sitting room is big enough to accommodate a worn brown leather sofa, a chipped wooden coffee table and a rack with an outdated flat-screen television.

The only opulent thing in this place is the bookcase, filled ground to ceiling with various tomes.

Music, pedagogy, philosophy, fiction classics.

A lopsided grin finds its way to my lips when I see the Jane Austen collection, minus the Sense and Sensibility volume you gave me on my birthday. You haven’t replaced it yet.

Sense and Sensibility. The miniseries. I need to write the next song. Now.

I shake my head, squeezing my eyelids tight, and move away from the bookcase.

“Something wrong?” you say, coming up behind me.