Page 59 of A Wistful Symphony

I huff bitterly. “How do you think? I’m fucking devastated.” I take a deep breath. “To lose my dream job and the love of my life in one blow …. I barely have the strength to sit on this bed and talk to you.”

Sharon tilts her head. “You’re sad, Eric. I can see that. But I believe there’s another emotion taking over your actions throughout this entire ordeal. One that’s appeared time and time again in the past couple of months. Want to try again?”

I scrunch my brows and search inside myself. I’m not good with emotions, never was. Whenever they surface, I have tempestuous reactions that often make things worse. So I bottle them. And I’ve done it for such a long time that now I have a hard time identifying them.

With a long exhale, I sense my body. There’s a pressure on my chest and a lump in my throat. But beyond that, my jaw is taut, my muscles hard, and my stomach churning. Like a kettle full of scorching water, its bubbles bursting at the edges, the pressurised vapour threatening to explode.

“I’m—” I pause, the feeling finally clear.

“Angry. That everything I worked for turned to shit. That despite ten years passing, we fell into the same mistakes. That Andrew has given up a second time, despite saying he loves me. That he can’t see the wonderful man he is.

I’m furious, Sharon. So fucking livid I could scream. ”

Her expression softens, and she offers me an approving nod. “That’s more like it. This rage has been guiding your actions for a long time, Eric. You’ve been lashing out at the people around you. People who do not deserve your anger. Like your sister.”

“I know.” I scowl. “We already covered it in previous sessions. Raging is bad.”

“Not quite.” There it is again, the tilt of her head when I’m not following the correct path. “Anger is a useful emotion if you know how to use it. It protects you. Lets you know when you’ve been hurt, and where your boundaries lie. The problem isn’t anger, but what you do with it.”

“And how am I supposed to use my anger in a good way?”

“By understanding it. Knowing where it comes from and redirecting it towards healthy intentional actions.”

I massage the nape of my neck, holding in an urge to laugh at her. It all sounds so good in theory, but in the real world, not letting anger rule my actions seems close to impossible. “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“And that’s what I’m here for.” She perches on her chair. “First, do you know who you’re angry at?”

“Andrew, of course,” I say without even thinking. “Weren’t you listening to everything I said?”

She tilts her head a third time. “You certainly resent him. That’s clear enough. But think deeper than the surface, Eric. Not just now, but ten years ago as well. Is there someone else you might be angry at?”

Her words make little sense to me at first. I wrinkle my forehead and reflect. My father? Yes, I’m angry at him, but he was nothing but a catalyst for everything that happened to us. Your mother? Hardly. If anything, I pity her for everything she’s been through.

Then, the realisation hits me like a ton of bricks. “I’m angry at myself,” I say, glancing down. “Because I can’t experience things and react like a normal human being. Even after years in treatment, I still fall for the same traps and shoot myself in the foot. I wreck everything I touch.”

The truth leaves a bitter taste on my tongue, and your words come to my mind, clear as day. “I’m not responsible for how you react, Eric.”

Sharon’s dark eyes soften, and her smile widens. “That’s a good start. Do you wish to hear my insight about it?”

“Please.”

“You suffer from deeply rooted ableism, Eric. You’ve never accepted your mental health issues and your limitations.

And therefore, by guiding your life through neurotypical rules, you exhaust yourself.

You set yourself up for failure from the start and then get angry when it happens.

And it’s far easier to lash out at others than to take accountability and admit you’re self-sabotaging. Does that make sense?”

I take a deep breath, my chest heavy with shame.

I’m not like others and I’ll never be. In my eagerness to function by the world’s rules and get external validation through my hard work, I lost everything.

Sharon is absolutely right. I lost you, Andrew, because I’d rather battle against my mental health than work with it.

I’d rather drown than admit I need help.

“Yes, it does,” I answer in a hushed voice.

“Do you wish to unpack it?”

“I do.”

“Wonderful.” Sharon puts her hands on her lap and leans forwards. “Then we can begin.”

The talk with Sharon put some perspective into me, and in the evening, I gather the courage to leave my room for dinner. I walk down the stairs for a glass of water and some sturdy form of nourishment when I find Nan Olympia watching television in the sitting room.

“Done with moping, dear?” she says, tapping the cushion by her side. “Come, sit with me.”

Usually, I would pass on quality time with Nan, but there’s nothing else to occupy my time. And frankly, watching an old movie with my grandmother looks like the highlight of my week.

“Wine? I have a spare glass somewhere.” She fills it close to the brim before I have the chance to refuse.

“What the hell, why not?” I mutter. As I take a sip of the Chardonnay, Gone with the Wind’s opening theme plays on the telly. The iconic streak of violins, lavish enough to enchant the audience for over eighty years. “Great score,” I say to no one in particular.

“Indeed.” Nan raises her glass. “Outstanding acting as well. Did you know Vivien Leigh is British?”

“I sort of work in the film industry, Nan,” I reply with a spirited grin.

“Did you also know she was accused of having a ‘difficult personality’ because of her bipolar disorder? And yet she won two Oscars and is still remembered as one of the greatest actresses of all time.”

I take another sip, my brows creasing. “Is there a point to this trivia talk?”

Nan Olympia peers at me dead in the eye. “Eric, what are you going to do about your job?”

“Try to move on and bust my arse when I come back, so I won’t be fired.”

“Rubbish,” she scoffs. “My dear, do you know why I retired from the West End stages at the prime of my life?”

Here we go again , I think, having heard the story a million times. “Because of Granddad?”

A snort comes out of her tapered nose. “Oh, heavens, no! That chaff wouldn’t make me give up on my career in a million years. I tell that to your mother and aunt so they’ll still believe in love.”

I frown, never having heard this version before. “What was it, then?”

“Just as I was offered my first role in cinema, all the way across the pond, I found out I was pregnant with your mother. At first, I thought I would take a sabbatical and then get back in the saddle, but once I looked into those big brown eyes, I knew. No role I could ever play would be as important as raising her.” She flourishes a hand and takes a gulp of wine.

“Soon after, your aunt came along, and the rest, as they say, is history.”

My brows scrunch harder. “I’m failing to see how that applies to my case, Nan.”

“Young man, you can choose to be like Vivien Leigh, who thrived in the industry despite her mental health, or you can follow my path and concentrate on your personal life. Both are equally important and valid.” She raises one thin brow at me.

“Would you call me worthless because I gave up on my career? Or your mother, for that matter?”

“Of course not, Nan.” I say at once. “I would never be where I am if not for you two.”

“Then why do you think that about yourself just because you lost an account at work?”

I lower my head and stare at my wineglass.

It’s the same thing Sharon said to me. I’m always seeking external validation with my music, because I associate my inner value with productivity.

Because I don’t believe I can be loved if my work isn’t good enough.

That’s why I spiralled so hard when Marvin interfered with the BBC job. That’s why I crack every time I fail.

“What do you want to do with your future, dear?” Nan asks. “If you could do anything.”

There’s no need to think hard. I’ve known that answer since the beginning. “Music, of course.” I smile. “It’s my happy place. Whenever I sit at the piano, I can forget all the bad things and let the music cradle me.”

She nods. “And when was the last time you felt like that at work?”

I chew the inside of my cheek. “It’s been a while.”

“Then go back to that place. Let the music you make be a pleasure, and not a burden, Eric.” She raises her wineglass. “There’s no point in working so hard for something that doesn’t make you happy.”

“Okay.” I gently bob my head. “I think I can do that.”

“Darn right, you will. Now watch the movie, dear.”

I face forward, the hint of a grin etching its way to my lips, and let Gone with the Wind ’s main theme pump determination into me.

“Great score,” I whisper again and take a long sip of wine.

I leave the blinds open so the morning sun will pour its rays on my face and urge me to get up. Despite my lack of desire to move out of bed, I rise, have a bath, and go downstairs for breakfast. After all, today is another day.

“Morning, honey,” Mum says from the kitchen counter. “French toast?”

“And some scrambled eggs, if it’s not too much trouble.” I pour fresh coffee into a mug.

“Of course not.” Her face splits in a wide smile. “Good to see your appetite coming back.”

“Yeah, Nan gave me a reality check last night.”

Mum chuckles and turns to the frying pan.

I will not be hard on myself. One task after another is how I intend to get by today. Eat, get my room in order, come up with something on the piano. Anything at all. And try not to fall apart while doing it. That’s the hardest part.

Once breakfast is done, I fiddle with the books and papers in my room to keep myself busy.

My mother keeps everything tidy like I still live here, so there’s not much organising to do.

Instead, I dive into nostalgia, looking at old sheet music and notes from early compositions I did in my school years.

All crap, but it’s nice to see how far I’ve come.

The concertos we used to play together fall from a folder and I pick them up, recalling your long agile fingers plucking violin chords, your angled face on the chin rest bearing a serene smile while playing the most complex songs.

I always imagined you being the first chair in an orchestra and receiving a standing ovation from the audience.

I close the folder and fondly rest my palm on its cover.

An ache tightens my chest, leaving sore remnants.

I will not fight it anymore. This time, I’ll let my feelings take form and pour all over me.

My eyes close and I take a deep breath. There’s sadness, a sea of it.

But also a wistful longing. A certainty that, despite the bittersweet moments, I was loved, and I was happy.

However fleeting that was, however painful, how can I ever regret it?

After lunch, I decide to stretch my creative muscles and try some composition. I’ve been out of it for days, which is enough to put me in a rut. Perhaps it’s better this way. To sever myself from everything I’ve done before and start anew.

The hardwood piano greets my fingers like a long-lost friend.

A callused friend, however. Yellowed ivory, hard to the touch, with two annoying notes out of tune on the fourth and sixth octaves.

How I managed to practise properly on this old thing, I’ll never know, but at that time, everything seemed possible.

Transporting myself back to those years is one encouraging thought.

A chord sounds. A cadence. A variation, then another.

I don’t know how much time I spend aimlessly fingering the piano keys.

My first song is melancholic, filled with grief.

It has your name written all over. Tears threaten to rise at the corners of my eyes, but I carry on.

If today my music has to be about you, so be it.

After an hour, I find myself playing the main theme from the Sense and Sensibility score.

It’s good work, I have to admit. Soon, the theme gains a will of its own.

It wants to fly away, morph into different shapes and take courses I had not envisioned before.

That’s the spot. What I’ve been looking for all these days.

I scribble everything of substance on a blank sheet music—an actual paper sheet, which I haven’t done in years—yearning for the next segment.

Raw music, carrying me away from all the misery.

Themes come and blow away with the afternoon breeze. At some point, Nan’s cat jumps on the keys with a dissonant thump, and I enjoy myself, creating jazz variations to that unique sound. Staccato. Glissando. A key change.

A laugh bursts out of my belly, surprising me. That’s the power of music. A silly set of notes can bring joyfulness after such dreadful days. Like a child, I keep playing with the keys and marvelling at the discovery of fresh sounds until dark.

The next day, I repeat the experience all over again.