My therapist behaved like a goat today.
I am not sure I can be much clearer than that to be honest.
It isn’t a metaphor.
I was sitting on his plushy three seater purple sofa, my legs curled up underneath me, my phone on silent beside me, the summer rain angrily pounding the window behind me, and absentmindedly ploughing through my troubles, all inside of me.
The past few weeks there have been issues.
I feel as if on occasion, I have been forced to eat and chew through, and swallow and stomach a lot of different people’s dinner, and because I have been filling up and feeling nauseous and bloated from eating all of their food, there has been no room for mine, and no inclination for me, to eat my own.
When I have sat down to eat mine, while listening to some music, putting a wash on, playing Thomas the Tank engine and trying to decipher the council tax bill, I have felt so full and sick I have just ignored it.
Left it on the side to go moldy and sweaty. (God I hate sweaty food, don’t you?)
I have been ignoring the smell, ignoring the flies, the warning signs, and continuing to finish the dinner of others.
That is a metaphor. Obviously.
You see, I am currently trying to lose weight, so of course all I can think of is food.
But do you understand what I mean?
‘I understand, Lexy.’ James my therapist responds for the first time as a human and not as a farmyard animal.
I paused for a second at the sound of him speaking but when my phone flashed on the table beside me; I glanced guiltily towards it, trying to scope who had text me without it being obvious, when out of the silence, I heard it properly again.
He was baaing at me.
Like a goat.
He is quite sexy my therapist. He is what I would describe in this setting as a sexy, caring, cute, kind hearted, warm eyed and precious… goat. He sits, each time I see him, unraveled in front of me in his armchair, waiting and selflessly willing to help me ‘eat my dinner.’
Seriously. Cant. Stop. Thinking. Of. Food.
I am not sure what the point he was making was, although at some point I am sure I asked, I cant actually remember, but everyone has their own stuff don’t they? I didn’t want to press it, in case he got upset.
Maybe he was grieving for a long lost dead goat or something, I don’t know.
Like I say, I can’t remember.
I don’t remember much at the moment.
It worries me.
It’s like stuff is falling out of my head.
I don’t mean long ago memories and the likes either.
I am not actually forgetting the stuff I would LOVE to forget.
Remember falling off a table headfirst in to the crotch of your best friend’s dad when you were drunk, and shouldn’t have been, on your 16th birthday? Check.
Remember what letter comes after K in the alphabet? Um….
I’m losing the mundane stuff and none of the stuff that still makes me go red!!! (Sorry Mr. Torrebadella.)
I now, am unable to spell ‘house’ without spell check (haus) and on Friday last week I was interviewing someone for my ‘aunty Janice’ (she needs an assistant for her new business) and forgot their name at least 34 times during the half an hour slot.
I was already mortified but when he went to leave I was quietly confident I finally had it nailed and merrily shouted ‘goodbye Steve!’ as he left.
And do you know what I heard him mutter under his breath?
‘Its Fucking Dave, you moron!’
Oh the shame.
I am a moron.
I do remember however, that when I was sectioned ‘they’ mentioned memory loss as all being part of depression, but to be honest, I struggle with that.
I don’t like to think depression could rob me of anymore than it already has.
The word depression is really starting to scare me.
In a big way.
I guess I am only now beginning to fully understand the consequences and the potential physical harm of constantly fighting and living with this illness myself.
It is frightening me.
It is just so foreboding and intimidating.
Anyway… So when I remembered this, I did what I always do with stuff that scares me (phone bills, the gas man, eggs….) I locked it in the cupboard marked ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ and instead decided to take matters in to my own hands, and diagnose myself, by of course typing Memory Loss in to Google.
The sensible thing to do.
I thought if I could prove it wasn’t depression, I would have nothing to be scared of.
Turns out that instead of depression, I potentially now have either, Aids, south American worms living in my inner ear, Dementia, Alzheimer’s or the EBOLA VIRUS!
It was at this point and with a huge sigh of relief that I unlocked the ‘THINK ABOUT IT SOME TIME NEXT NEVER’ cupboard (letting out the gas man too- poor bloke was starving) and felt slightly relieved that I probably wasn’t going to shit out my gall bladder any time soon and that it probably was depression causing my memory loss.
Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming.
‘What makes you believe you are forgetting things Lexy?’
(Therapist rule number one – NEVER ASK WHY, ALWAYS; WHAT WHO OR WHERE. WHY IS UNANSWERABLE!!!)
I shift in my seat, secretly pleased he has stopped behaving like a goat and beginning to wonder if I had imagined the whole thing. I then begin to panic about what else I may have imagined, and after pondering whether the Irish one actually did do the washing up this morning or if I just imagined it, I then come to and realise, shit! He has asked me something!!!
‘What?’ I whisper.
‘What? Are you Joking?’ He doesn’t look amused.
‘What?’ By now I am alarmed.
He sighs. ‘You have an irritating way of making a point, I asked what is it that is making you think you are forgetting things!’
It was at this point I started to cry.
It was as if a damn had burst.
I was gutted, and sad, and lost and mostly scared.
‘Probably because I have the Ebola Virus or Aids, or lots of tiny worms living in my ….’ I burst out between sobs. ‘Or maybe, maybe I am losing my memory because this depression is actually sending me mad. I am scared James, I am so scared. This illness terrifies me James. I feel like it has the power to steal me from myself. Sometimes all I hear in my head are monsters. The noise is so loud. Louder and louder. Everybody’s voices, everybody’s troubles, my own voices, my own self hatred, my mother, my father, I even hear Doodle barking!’
I pause and reach for a tissue. My hand shaking. The worst was still to come.
‘Yesterday I made Addy dinner and forgot to feed it him. He must have been starving! I only realised when I had put him to bed. He had his desert, and his bottle and I was praising him for eating all his dinner, but he didn’t eat it! It was sat by the sink!’
I shake with guilt and fear.
He waits until I have finished.
The bastard… BAA’S AT ME AGAIN!!!!
Snot flies down my noes as I explode with laughter, all over his rug. (Sorry again Mr. Torrebadella.)
‘You have to slow down. I am putting you back on one thing at a time. You have to be able to eat your own dinner. Try to politely refuse everybody else’s issues. When it gets too much, apologise and walk away…’
‘But then I feel badly for doing so! It is a never ending cycle!’ I interrupt, frustrated ‘then my brain tells me I don’t care, or I am not a nice person, or that they hate me!’
‘Homework.’ He responds. ‘In the moment.’
‘This week you are not allowed to multi-task at all. AT ALL. If you are playing with Addison, put your phone down. If you are washing up, wash up. Dance, please try to enjoy the feeling of doing one thing at a time.
I want you to slow down. Your brain my speed up at first, but eventually it will slow down. Do you hear me? ONE THING AT A TIME. Slow down.’
‘Ok’ I sniffled, and after spending at least 20 minutes looking for the car, I finally set off home.
The problem is, I don’t know how to do one thing at a time anymore.
I am a mother.
But I think it may be important to at least try.
Which is why I am going to stop typing while I eat this cake.
Anyway, what was I saying?
Oh that’s right!
My therapist baa’s like a goat at me, and I can’t remember why!
Maybe he has the Ebola virus.*
*Or tiny mexican worms in his ears.
Oh my god!!! I can’t believe I just ate CAKE!!! I am on a diet!!!!!!!!!