Page 2 of The Therapist

ONE

SIX WEEKS AGO –JULY

Lana

As I close the door on Natalia, my last client for the day, I take a deep breath, hoping that it will help the headache but it doesn’t.

I know better than to overload my day with appointments and yet I had been unable to refuse anyone for today.

I took off two weeks for the July school holidays and now that my son, Iggy, is back at school, I have to get through the backlog of patients who have waited for me to return, which I’m really thankful for.

It’s taken me some time to build up my practice and I know that every client who comes through the door is another opportunity for me to help someone, another person who has put their trust in me.

I’ve only been back for two days and the glorious holiday in Bali, where Iggy and I revelled in the warmth and the sunshine at the beautiful resort I booked for us, is a memory that I will always treasure.

The pictures of the bright blue sky and the sparkling waters of the infinity pool have filled up my phone for me to look through and enjoy on dark, damp days.

Winter in Australia is not supposed to be terribly cold, and for the most part it’s manageable during the day, temperatures only dropping to freezing at nighttime.

But this winter, the rain is so persistent that I know it’s contributing to the low-level sadness all my patients seemed to have walked through the door with.

My office has a large window that looks out onto a park across the road and it usually allows a lot of light into the space, but today I’ve had to have the bright overhead lights on all day, dispelling the shadows, both literal and metaphorical.

I’m sure that’s contributing to my headache.

I feel guilty for leaving my patients and indulging in a holiday with my son but I needed to recharge the batteries, to take some time for myself. Something I am always advising my patients to do.

When people are struggling, poor weather like this rain can contribute to feelings of melancholy.

Even now, it drums against the window as below, drains on the street fill up and overflow.

Getting home in the traffic will be a nightmare for everyone.

Peak-hour drivers tend to be more aggressive when it rains but I’m still holding on to my holiday glow so I will use it to extend patience to everyone else on the road.

The rain wasn’t the only reason I made the decision to treat my son and myself to a holiday. I might have qualifications and the ability to steer other people through any emotional difficulties they may have, but sometimes, it’s a different story for my own life.

My ex-husband, Oliver, remarried six months ago.

His new wife is only a few years younger than me but she is a fitness instructor and a great cook and she has a persistently cheerful view of the world.

When we were slogging through our own months of therapy as we tried to save our marriage – before Oliver made it truly unsalvageable – Oliver often pointed to my tendency to over-analyse everything, to dismantle his thoughts for him until he found himself questioning his own ideas, as one of my worst traits.

‘Why can’t we ever simply sit on the sofa and watch a movie without it turning into an intellectual exercise or a discussion about my faults as a human being?

’ he said. That was in addition to all the other things he said.

‘Why can’t you take a compliment without wondering why I’ve said it?

’ ‘Why can’t you let it go when I look at another woman, it’s just a look, it’s what men do.

’ ‘Why can’t you control your jealousy?’

If I never hear that phrase again, I’ll be fine.

Becky, Oliver’s new wife, is exactly what he wanted.

Her perfect body and glowing skin are complemented by thick auburn hair and ice-blue eyes.

And Iggy loves her. ‘She makes the best brownies and she likes to build Lego cities with me,’ he informed me after he got to know her.

‘Daddy says she makes him feel peaceful. What does that mean?’

‘Just that he likes her,’ I replied. I never gave Oliver any peace, is what he meant.

But I’ve been like that most of my life, always watching, always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to go wrong.

I can’t blame my parents, they’re lovely.

My anxieties started at school when I realised that not only would I not be adored by everyone but that I was one of those kids who are, for one reason or another, actively disliked.

I rubbed people the wrong way without even understanding how I was doing it.

As I grew older, that knowledge shaped me, making me shy, wary, worried all the time.

‘Try to have fun,’ my mother would say when I was a teenager and I was invited to a party –something that seldom happened.

In self-defence perhaps, I’ve developed into an introvert and that’s something I have accepted.

Being around people sometimes wears me out, which is why I find long days of patients so exhausting, but at the same time, I am compelled to help people and this is the best way I know how.

I have seen what can happen to a person who has no one to talk to, who feels they can’t reach out for help or that the help they’ve reached out for is not there when they need it most.

And even though I can’t abide small talk and meaningless chit-chat, the things people are hiding from the world have always fascinated me.

Who are they behind their masks? Perhaps I did my degree for the same reason many psychologists do: I wanted to heal myself.

I think I was actively searching for who I was behind my own mask, for the reasons that people didn’t like me.

What did they see? Who was the person I was showing to the world, and was she very different to the real me?

Growing older has helped, as has becoming a mother, but I am scarred by my formative years and I know that.

My mother used to tell me that the teenage years are the best years of your life: ‘Lots of freedom and no real responsibility,’ she would say with a laugh.

From the things she told me about her life, I know that her teenage years were very different to mine.

She attended parties, dated, experimented with fashion and played every sport she could.

I stayed in the shadows, hid in the library, hoped that if I was noticed, it wasn’t by someone who wanted to make me the focus of their entertainment for the day.

I was bullied from my first year of primary school, but high school was where it reached an insufferable level that I nevertheless suffered through until the very end.

‘You can move schools,’ my mother offered many times over the years, but I knew that I would be taking myself with me to any new school.

There was something about me, about my looks and behaviour, that made me a target.

I hoped that university would be different because there would be not hundreds but thousands of different people and perhaps finding like-minded souls to connect with would be easier.

And it was. Life changed and moved on but I can never forget those years.

I suppose few people are unscathed by their childhoods.

Becky has never been bullied. I know that without even asking her the question. I’m sure she was one of the popular girls at school, surrounded by friends and always invited to every party. And now she is Oliver’s new wife.

At least I am no longer in love with Oliver.

When we finally admitted to each other that our marriage could not be saved – partly thanks to him, it must be said – my ex-husband and I agreed that we would do everything in our power to make the transition easier for Iggy, who was only three at the time.

And we have stuck to that, remaining friendly and letting Iggy know that we still like each other.

That’s taken some work on my part but Iggy is a combination of me and his father, inheriting my olive skin, a darker version of my brown hair, and Oliver’s green eyes and smile.

When I look at him, I see Oliver, and so I could never hate Oliver because of how much I love Iggy, but I still hold a lot of anger towards my ex-husband.

His marriage to Becky, to beautiful Becky who is so at ease in her skin, affected me more than I would have liked.

Oliver hated how jealous I was of other women and I hated how much attention Oliver paid to other women.

But that’s not what bothers me the most about his new marriage.

It’s how much Iggy likes her. No one likes to be replaced, especially in their son’s affections, and Iggy does seem to adore Becky.

She is sweet and kind and always finds time to play with him, something that a single working mother has in short supply.

Don’t be ridiculous , I chide myself. You’re his mother, he loves you more than anything. Be happy he gets along with her and that means Oliver spends as much time as possible with him .

Being grateful came so easily in the Balinese sunshine after a sumptuous buffet breakfast of exotic fruit and pancakes.

On a day when the rain has splattered against my office window for the last five hours, it’s difficult to remind myself that I have lots to appreciate, but I am trying.

Oliver is in Europe, where it’s summer, with Becky, who dresses in tiny skirts and tight tops.

They are doing the grand tour that he and I were going to do for our tenth anniversary. The anniversary we never got to.

Back to work. Stop all this ruminating , I instruct myself.