Who I Am Page 17

  I can feel my heart thumping through my top. ‘It’s odd because I feel kind of numb in some respect but I also have these fluttery, bubbly feelings in my stomach.’

  She nods at me. ‘Do you mean, something similar to the feeling of butterflies?’

  ‘Yes, but kind of deeper.’

  She taps her lips with her fountain pen. ‘Are you worried about anything, Camilla, or has something happened to warrant you feeling worried?’

  ‘Not so much happened,’ I say. ‘Actually that’s not strictly true, I have made some changes, or more like, I’ve made decisions. And these decisions have led me to take certain actions. If that makes any sense at all?’

  ‘I see. Well, let’s take a look. These decisions, do they by any chance relate to the topic you’ve mentioned that happened many years ago? The one we only ever discuss metaphorically?’

  Even to me, this sounds ridiculous. I’m a woman approaching her forties with aspects of my life I’m only fit to refer to in code. ‘Yes. The very same,’ I admit to her.

  ‘Is this a good thing, would you say, that you have made some decisions? Because clearly this has been riding on your conscience for too long, sometimes the hardest thing of all to do, is to decide to make changes. What comes after this can strangely sometimes feel smaller in comparison to this first step.’

  I’m not so sure about this, I made the first step relatively easily, it’s what comes next that concerns me more. Consequences, reverberations, no going back changes. Or perhaps she’s right – in reality, it’s taken me nearly twenty years to make the first step. ‘I think it’s a good thing,’ I say. ‘But I’m really not sure, there’s no way to tell, too soon to say.’

  She makes a note in her pad, then looks back at me, ‘go on, can you illuminate any further?’

  I swallow hard. ‘A few months back, I was at a stage when I either needed to gain a level of acceptance and draw a line under my past – as you’d advised. Or decide on a course of action to tackle what was concerning me. You were right, I was swimming in no-man’s land without doing either.’

  ‘This is good, Camilla, and which way have you decided to go? To draw a line or take action?’

  ‘The latter, I’ve tried for so long to draw a line. Years. It hasn’t been possible.’

  ‘The line wouldn’t bend around your conscience?’

  ‘Exactly. No.’

  ‘It can be, you see… incredibly testing to reach a level of acceptance. Especially if this means we have to learn a level of understanding for the experience in question. Where maybe, sometimes… we have too many unanswered questions, also where there is a deep sense of injustice. Which is something you’ve suggested many a time.’ She pauses and tilts her head slightly. I freeze, far too close for comfort now, far too close. I cared about her, trusted her, of all people. ‘At least you’ve had the courage to take steps, Camilla.’

  I need to divert a little, feeling my body temperature rise, my leg muscles tense. ‘So why do I feel so…’ I rub my stomach as it flips with the public opening of this topic again, ‘so nervous? If it’s a positive course of action?’

  ‘Change is always daunting, regardless if it’s for the best or not. At this stage it is important to remind yourself you are still in control. We’ve touched on this before, how you felt as though you were clinging to a precariously balanced rock, but it was still your status quo, and precarious or not, it allowed you to feel in control. But maybe, and this requires some thought from you, maybe the control you felt was false, and to make the decision for change was the only way of taking back your life. But, change of any kind will always feel uncertain to a degree.’

  I only nod, as she is sniffing very close to the bone I buried years ago in my own back yard. Clinging to that very rock. I’ve changed so much since then, my perspective needed to change as quickly as the context I found myself in did.

  ‘The sensation in your stomach, the butterflies, may not be the consequence of anxiety, it could be more to do with anticipation?’

  ‘Anticipation?’

  ‘Yes, the physical response to excitement, anticipation, is very similar to that of anxiety. It’s vital not to confuse the two.’

  Could it be anticipation? It certainly was yesterday. In London. ‘I suppose it could be.’

  ‘Then, it is only a good thing, surely?’

  ‘Yes. But…’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But, what if I’ve made the wrong decision, and my life is about to take a turn for the worse. At least I knew where I stood before, if nothing else.’

  ‘You say this now but are you absolutely sure you did, Camilla?’

  Of course I did, or did I, haven’t I always been waiting, wondering? ‘I’m not sure, I thought so, but now I’m not so sure when you put it like that.’

  ‘Ahh, the life raft in the middle of the choppy ocean.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Clinging to a life raft floating in the depths of the ocean with a sense of security. Then when the ship finally arrives to take you to more solid ground, for a moment you are too frightened to let go of the life raft to swim to the ship. Choosing to cling to what you know best, however short term the safety is.’

  ‘I see. Yes, that’s probably it.’

  I’ve been clinging to this life raft, praying for the choppy waters to subside, refusing to consider what lies beneath the obscured surface. Whilst many a ship has passed me by, I haven’t once attempted to call out for attention. Quite the opposite, I’ve put my head down, held my breath, swam under water and hoped to God to remain unnoticed.

  38

  Cornwall 2017

  Andi

  Jesus Christ, it’s still only 04.08, my lamp clatters and clangs off the bedside table, as I fumble for paracetamol or aspirin, whichever comes first. Possibly both the way I’m feeling. Come on – it was 03.20, hours and hours ago, surely to God. The smooth coated pills swill down easily with tepid water, soothing my yard brush dry throat. What is the point in me coming to bed? I’m knocked out by a mallet the moment my head hits the pillow, then a few hours later, ding-dong and I’m wide eyed awake. Listening, thinking, fretting. If it wasn’t for the drink, I’d probably not even have those few stolen hours.

  I lie poker straight, staring at the ceiling, the window is open and a gentle breeze plays with the blinds, reminding me of the twanging rigging of the boats in the harbour. Maybe, it’s this disturbing my sleep? I closed the window earlier because of the ladder incident, then argued with myself, I couldn’t let myself fall at the feet of paranoia but despite the warmth, perhaps I should secure the window, use the air conditioning? Even the gentle lapping of the estuary waters I usually find so soothing is chewing at my ears. The monotone hum of the darkness of the night. I’m so alone. I catch myself, deliberating the prospect of creeping down to the kitchen, pouring a large glass of something to help me get back to sleep. These days chamomile tea doesn’t make a blind bit of difference, the milky hot drink before bed is as useless. I gingerly place one foot on the floor, just this once, just to help me sleep.

  No. Stop. I can’t do this.

  I force my foot attempting to resist me back under the cotton sheets, sitting up, I reach down for the bedside lamp. I’ll read, work, anything. I slump back against the feather cushions, reaching for the laptop I’d carelessly slung on Kyle’s side of the bed. I deliberately didn’t go on Twitter last night, which is ridiculous but I simply couldn’t face it. But now in the darkness of the night, my nervous ponderings have viciously turned to anger. Why am I playing the victim? Allowing this person, stalker to get to me? This is the internet, they could literally be the other side of the world, whilst I’m here shaking in my bed waiting for them to jump on me.

  I open Twitter to find many new interactions and begin skimming through them quickly until I reach the second from the last in the list, again. The same follower, the same profile photograph. But this time they haven’t offered a restaurant recommendation, they’ve sent me a reply, a
message.

  Long time, no see.

  I read each word over and over until my mind scrambles and it stops making sense, my breathing rises up through my diaphragm, that buzzing sound in my ears. Half terrified, half angry, fueled with adrenaline, I can’t seem to stop myself as my fingers respond before my head can stop them.

  Who are you? What do you want?

  Anticipating, dreading, glaring at the screen, I wait for a response. Fully appreciative of the time of day, why would they respond? I’ve also a deepening sick feeling, responding isn’t part of the game, they want to be in control? Not at my beck and call. They could be looking at my comments, smiling, having reeled me in hook, line and sinker. Some minutes later, I force myself to shut the laptop. This could be anyone, I tell myself, they probably have no idea really. Take some control back. I begin to count in my head to distract the crossfire of thoughts, then turn off the lamp and slide down under the sheets to pray for sleep. Kyle is home tomorrow night, I’m feeling strangely uneasy about it. Do I tell him? When I can’t tell him the whole truth? He’s supposedly catching the early train back; the children are staying over at Carol’s so Kyle can accompany me to one of the restaurants I’m reviewing. It’s sad to think, this is something I should be looking forward to, despite it being work, but I’m not. In fact, the very thought makes me want to lock myself away in a darkened room. Anywhere to escape reality.

  I wake some time later with the feeling of having only fallen asleep twenty minutes beforehand. Time to get up for the school run. Blinking over and over as my eyeballs roll over a layer of grit. Each and every muscle in my car crash body aches with tension, I drag myself from bed to the sound of bickering children in the background. Oh, to pull the duvet over my head and disappear. On autopilot, I make packed lunches before finally bundling us all out of the front door. Absentmindedly I drive to school, fending off countless childlike questions and background chatter. An hour later, I’m back at the house gates, willing myself to gain some perspective. On my journey home, I made my mind up to call Eve this morning as soon as I’m safely back through the door. I’m running out of people I can talk to. Rapidly becoming suspicious of the motives of those closest to me.

  I’m in luck, she has a cancellation for this lunchtime, I’ve decided that in order to relax sufficiently to gain anything from the hour we have together, I’ll pop into the wine bar across the road from the clinic first. For the next several hours in between I wander aimlessly from room to room in the house, I mosey up to the garage to check the ladder is still where it should be, then move around the house securing windows, locking doors, until it’s time to leave for Truro. I leave my car up by the station favouring a walk into town to help settle myself. Each car that passes could be following me, the guy standing across the road – maybe he’s watching me. Long time, no see? Who are you and what do you want? My mobile bleeps from somewhere in the depths of my bag, I catch my breath and decide to ignore it.

  I steal through the town centre, watching the eventful lives of others unfold before me. A middle aged couple brush past me, her arm linked through his, giggling and making idle chatter, I’m hit by a moment of sadness, how have I forgotten how easy life used to feel with Kyle? Bit by bit, day by day, week on week, our relationship has changed, slipped away to something unrecognisable. I churn these thoughts over and over before coming to a stop outside the wine bar, sneaking a glimpse of my desperate reflection in the highly polished glass front. I’m struggling to recognise those hollowed out eyes staring back at me, even in this distorted image, the tiredness smudging the sharp edges of past. I’m rapidly ageing, losing weight, somehow I even appear shorter, less upright. Flicking back my hair that hangs beyond my shoulders, I breathe in deeply and step inside.

  The alcohol tinged air fills my nostrils, temporarily lifting my spirits, as I make my way over to the curved L shape bar. ‘I’ll have a double vodka and slim line tonic, please,’ I ask the lad polishing a glass behind the bar. I don’t miss the expression on his face as he glances over my head towards the seating area. He’s too tactful to ask if I’m alone? Drinking alone? Desperate? ‘I’m supposed to be meeting a friend,’ I tell him, ‘but she’s called to say she can’t make it after all, so I thought I may as well have a quick one. Don’t want to have a completely wasted journey,’ a laugh falls from my open mouth for some reason. He smiles back, all even teeth and perfect but he’s not convinced. I want to tell him; it doesn’t make me an alcoholic, being here alone. But then I remind myself, he doesn’t care.

  I take my drink to sit in the window looking across at the clinic. Where the surfer like receptionist is sauntering, carefree, through the clinic’s front door, Ruan, I think it is, he’s clutching a white paper bag from the bakery. It must be utterly wonderful to be Eve, everything tickety boo, a strong mind, everything as it should be. What must she really make of people like me, unable to cope with an apparently perfect life. I jump at the trill of my mobile, then begin searching for it at the bottom of my bag, glancing towards the bar to see if I was noticed. I pull it out to see Kyle’s face filling the oblong screen. My finger hovers for a second before I press end. If you’ve called to check on me, Kyle, please don’t, it doesn’t help. I switch the status to silent. Or, if you’ve called to say you won’t be home later after all, I can’t say I care. I should but I don’t. How has this happened?

  Thirty minutes later, and a couple more vodkas down, I’m back in Eve’s tranquil room, slouching back into the squishy tub chair. My nerves have settled and I’m feeling relatively safe. Safe from what, I’ve still to work out. I could quite easily doze off for an hour or two. Eve lowers herself into the matching chair opposite me as I feel my worries begin to drift away.

  ‘It’s lovely to see you again, Andi,’ she tells me, ‘how have you been?’

  Does she really want to know or is she simply required to ask? I’d hate her line of work, dealing with other people’s misery. ‘Oh, you know, not too bad,’ I advise her, she doesn’t respond, my cheeks begin to warm, she identifies that I am in actual fact, lying and so she leaves the air free for me to correct myself. Clever, because I oblige. There was a time I’d have been comfortable with conversational silence. ‘Actually, not so good in all honesty,’ I admit. Honesty? What is the point of me being here, to lie? To convince myself I’ve nothing to worry about?

  She regards me in an accepting, it’s okay manner. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she soothes, ‘do you want to expand any on this? I saw you last week, has life been up and down since, or mainly only the down bits?’

  I think back, I can’t think of any good bits, how pathetically sad, ‘mostly only the down bits. Put it this way, I can’t recall any up bits anyway,’ I tell her.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘When you say things haven’t been so good, are you referring to life events, or more specifically your personal emotions, your feelings towards normal life events?’

  I quickly mull this over, so there’s a difference? No one mentioned this. It all feels the same – bad. ‘Good question, I’d need to say yes to both, I think,’ then I realise I could be opening up old stored away dark places, thanks to the vodka loosening my tongue. ‘But, if I think about it,’ I attempt to correct, ‘it’s probably more about me, my feelings. I’m feeling so, on edge, at the moment. In fact, I’m either on edge or I’m completely shattered, exhausted. Both I think.’

  Eve tucks a piece of loose ashen hair behind her right ear whilst nodding at me. ‘Well, feeling tired is a consequence of an emotional mind,’ she says. ‘When we’re feeling anxious, our mind becomes super active, ruminating and overthinking, this will disturb your natural sleep cycle in turn.’ She explains. ‘Can you describe the on edge feeling to me?’

  ‘A permanent butterfly feeling, jumpy and I can’t seem to close my mind down, if this makes any sense.’

  She smiles at me gently and I wish for the first time I could tell her the truth, offload my laden mind. Tell her, however I dress it up, I can’t get away
from the fact – I am a murderer.

  ‘Hmm, the dreaded wired mind scenario. Has anything recently triggered this, Andi? Or are you saying,’ she waves her hand through the air, ‘this anxious feeling has come about from apparently nowhere?’ Now adjusting her seat, tilting her head slightly to one side. ‘I’m only asking as just now you hinted that something may have happened to prompt this response?’

  I thought I’d moved her away from this. I glance across at her bookcase; I can’t think how best to answer without giving too much away.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she continues, ‘if you’d rather not say,’ can she actually read my mind? My God, can you imagine? ‘But the reason I’m asking is because if we are able to identify a reason…’

  ‘Sorry, Eve, but I’d really rather not talk about the possible reason today,’ I feel my heart beat quicken, she must be wondering what’s the point in me being here.

  ‘Sure, yes, of course, it’s completely your call, always,’ she says. ‘So tell me, have you had this feeling before, the anxious feeling?’

  I have most definitely, I’d kind of forgotten about it though, how could I have? ‘Not for a long, long time,’ I tell her, ‘probably not since I first moved to Cornwall in my early twenties.’

  ‘And are there any similarities, I mean, between the events you experienced the last time you felt this and events happening now in your life? I will say, it doesn’t need to be an exact comparison, it isn’t always obvious. It can be anything vaguely similar, to induce a similar feeling.’ She opens her hands up to me. ‘An example of this might be, to feel trapped, or insecure, out of your depth, or even loss?’

  I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t come today, so many questions far too close to the mark. But if I want to feel better, I need to do this, surely? ‘Well, yes really yes, to all of these feelings, and yes, I’ve been here before, in a similar fashion, anyway.’

  Eve nods, at least she gets it, because it’s nothing like before, not really, but like she says, the feeling is similar. Loss, such a huge feeling of loss, I moved to Cornwall with. Guilt, that too. I’ve never left it behind though, isn’t this what has stopped me, prevented me from properly engaging with my life, connecting with my husband, my children. No matter how much I’ve loved them… how can this be, when I can’t be me, just a burdened, guilt ridden form of me. Why did she have to die?