Page 8

Chapter 7

‘Why do you think you’re here?’ he begins.

His voice is soft and calming and at odds with the spikiness I feel.

‘I’m not mad, I know why I’m here,’ I reply. ‘Read your notes.’

I look towards a brown manila folder lying on the wooden table that separates us. A few sheets of white A4 paper poke from the side, but I can’t make out what’s been written. I can hazard a guess though.

‘I read them this morning,’ he says. ‘But I’d prefer to hear it from you, in your own words.’

I look around the room. It’s white and sterile, much like the rest of the building. Everything here is colourless: the people, the bedroom I’m forced to share, the lounge where the only voices are those coming from a television no one watches, the dining room where we eat in silence.

He and I are both sitting in leather armchairs opposite one another. There are two framed photographs hanging from the wall, both generic Ikea images. One is of a pier leading out into a blueish lake and the other is of grey pebbles on a calm shore.

‘What is it with psychiatrists and water?’ I ask.

‘You’ve seen a psychiatrist before?’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘If I answer yours, will you answer mine?’

I nod.

‘Well, some of us believe being near water can induce calm and make people feel at ease. It promotes a sense of relaxation, especially for those experiencing mental health concerns.’

‘Like me.’

‘Is that what you believe you’re experiencing?’

I raise an eyebrow to suggest it’s a rhetorical question and he moves on.

‘What do you think when you look at those pictures?’

I study the one featuring the pier. ‘I think,’ I reply, ‘how far would I need to swim before I could drown myself.’

He doesn’t react.

‘Kidding,’ I add.

‘Are you still experiencing an urge to end your life?’

‘No. Not anymore.’

‘Could I ask what’s changed? You were brought to this facility because you were found by Beachy Head – historically, a popular cliff edge used by people planning to end their lives.’

‘Planning to end your life and actually doing it are two very different things.’

‘Your medical notes suggest a history of depression. You spent time in a facility similar to this one, eighteen months ago.’

‘Why did you ask if I’ve seen a psychiatrist before when you already know the answer?’

He doesn’t answer.

‘Okay, so yes, I did go to Beachy Head to kill myself, is that what you want to hear? But I didn’t go ahead with it, did I?’

‘Why?’

I think back to three days ago, and to the storm. To the rain lashing my face, the soaking wet clothes clinging to my body, and to looking out over the silver sea and its beckoning waves. Finally, down to the jagged rocks below. And I remember how, just as I was about to relinquish control of my body to the wind and let it carry me over the edge, I heard her voice. She spoke to me, quite gently but with absolute clarity. I decide not to answer his question but ask one of my own.

‘Does everyone have a voice in the back of their head?’

‘Most people have an internal monologue, yes.’

‘What if it’s not your voice? What’s that called?’

I have all of his attention now. ‘It can be one of many things, such as dissociative identity disorder. People can feel as if they can have several personalities inside them, that can control their behaviour at different times and in different ways. These identities can have their own histories and traits.’ He gazes at me for one long moment. ‘Is that what’s happening to you? Did a voice belonging to someone else suggest you end your life?’

I don’t tell him it actually saved it.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I just changed my mind.’

‘And what’s to stop you changing your mind again and going ahead with it when you leave here?’

‘I won’t,’ I reply confidently.

It’s true. Because she won’t let me. And now I know she’s here, I don’t want to. She has my best interests at heart. She has shown me a way forward. A way for me to live.

She’s made me understand that it’s not myself I need to kill.