Authors: Victoria Leatham
Tags: #Medical, #Mental Health, #Psychology, #Psychopathology, #General
Bloodletting (20 page)
I knew there were valid reasons that we were asked to do these things, I’d even written them down in my notes, but that didn’t mean I was going to do them.
The one thing I really focused on, because I’d been so surprised to find that it even existed, was continuing to try to counteract my internal critic. Every time I noticed that little—or, to be honest, not so little—voice saying something negative I’d stop and think about it. Did it make sense? Did it really reflect what had happened? Did it reflect what I’d done? Was it, in CBT-speak, an example of black and white thinking, or over-generalisation?
If, for example, I forgot something, it didn’t mean that I was stupid—even if that’s what I automatically told myself—but only that I’d forgotten something. It didn’t really reflect on me. If I said something foolish, it didn’t mean I was an idiot, only that I’d said something foolish. It was the kind of thing that should be taught in Parenting 101, but often isn’t—or is forgotten by the time children are old enough to go to school. Initially the process felt silly but as an experiment I kept at it.
Telling myself I was terrific wouldn’t ever have worked but it seemed that I could do something about these small, disparaging thoughts.
Very quickly, as I began to listen to them, I realised that they weren’t small at all.
It was like watching a film in which the narrator judges the protagonist’s every action. From the very beginning, you know that the narrator hates that character and isn’t going to let them get away with anything.
As I began to address the criticism, slowly, slowly, something else began to happen.The images lessened.The layers and layers of poisonous criticism had clearly, by making me feel inadequate and guilty, made the images much worse, much more violent.
At first there would be hours without thoughts of self-harm, and then I found it could be a whole afternoon. It was as though, after years of hostile occupation, I was getting my mind back—and the more of it I had back, the more control I had. Because I wasn’t overwhelmed, I also began to be able to combat individual images by literally saying ‘no’ to myself when they arrived. I was able to refuse to look at the screen.
Gradually, the images became less graphic, and the traumatic, confronting pictures of slashed arms with torrents of blood gave way to images of the back of my wrists.The damage that I knew existed on the inside was hidden from view.
Something had at last shifted and made it possible for me to begin to protect myself.
As the assaults on my mind lessened, and I was able to begin untangling what was happening, it became possible to see that the images really weren’t random but were in response to very specific thoughts, actions and feelings. Something as simple as paying my rent a day late could provoke, indirectly, the internal suggestion that I slash my wrist. I was guilty. Bad. Cutting myself was, the internal critic suggested, an appropriate response to my behaviour.
It wasn’t always about significant issues then, which explains why the problem had become so pervasive—and invasive. Those internal horror films were my way of appeasing myself, my critical self. If real blood wasn’t going to flow, my mind had decided, the imaginary would have to do. It wasn’t only an escape or a way of subverting my feelings, but imaginary punishment. And the imagination, as I had learnt over the years, is a very powerful thing.
Even if I managed to stop making myself feel so awful, there was no doubt that from time to time, life would make sure I felt rotten.That’s how things work. I didn’t know what I’d do instead of attempting to harm myself, how else I’d cope, and didn’t think about it. It was enough, for the moment, to be feeling as though I were gaining some control.There were options that didn’t involve drinking, smoking, drugs or obsessive behaviour. In the film
Secretary
the woman exchanges her sewing kit of blades for the pleasure of being spanked by James Spader. I was uncomfortable with being touched—except when I was drunk—so this wasn’t really an option for me. But it wasn’t just about being spanked. Like my friend Annabel, who had recently found God and as a direct result stopped cutting herself, the woman wanted someone else to take responsibility for her life. It was about submission, and while I could see the appeal, this wasn’t what I wanted.There had to be another way.
My last month in Perth was unusually social. Melissa had left, but a friend who I hadn’t seen for a very long time rang, saying she and her boyfriend would be in town for a few days. The timing was perfect. She’d rung on the weekend I’d been out of hospital, and they arrived three days after I’d been released the second time. I’d been there a month altogether.
I just had enough time to tidy, clean, and stock the fridge.
Work no longer mattered. I tidied files and put things in order, but did little that was constructive. My assistant, and the other women I worked with, were friendlier than they’d ever been. For the first time since I arrived, we began eating lunch together outside in the sun, rather than over papers at our desks. As we chatted, all three of them admitted that they thought things must have been difficult for me, but that as I’d seemed to be getting on well, they’d left me alone.
My boss offered to have me stay, if I felt that would help. She had a large house, and as her daughter was away at university there was a spare room, with its own bathroom and study. I didn’t expect so much kindness, and like Melissa’s spontaneous offer to come over when she heard I was sick, it made me feel uncomfortable. And sad somehow. There were people out there who cared, not because they had to but because they just did.
Annie and Charles asked me to dinner regularly, and to the movies. I still hadn’t told them the truth about why I’d come over in the first place and why I was moving back, and they didn’t ask.
Rachael, who I’d lived with in Melbourne, arrived after my other friends left. She’d been meaning to visit since I’d moved to Western Australia but my hospital visit, and imminent departure, propelled her into action. As I stood at the arrival gates at the airport terminal, it occurred to me that I was really looking forward to seeing her— and that I’d really enjoyed having other people to stay too.
I must be feeling better, I thought.
I could have told Rachael about Eva and the situation at the magazine when I lived in Melbourne—she would have been sympathetic, she would have understood. But then, the need for secrecy had seemed more important than anything else. I’d believed it was Eva’s secret— open secret though it was—not mine, so hadn’t talked about it.
If I’d known back then that talking didn’t always mean betrayal, I might not have had to leave.
At 3 pm the day before the removalists arrived, and the day before I was due to fly back to Sydney, I started packing. Rachael had put the books in boxes but I hadn’t realised that I had so many other things. By five I was struggling with a headache and the realisation that it was going to take all night. And then Annie rang.
She’d offered to help before but, old habits being hard to break, I’d said no.
I didn’t even think about refusing this time, and she turned up half an hour later.
The six months in Perth had been worth it. It seemed that finally, I’d found the help I needed—and so now was able to accept the help I wanted.
By my bed was a parcel with a card on it. ‘Dear Vic, Welcome back! Love Felicity.’ Opening it, I found some expensive hand cream, the sort of thing that I’d never buy myself.As I unscrewed the top and smelt it, I thought, why not? Why didn’t I buy this kind of thing? Was it self-indulgence if it made you happy? And did it matter if it was?
Now that I was back in Sydney I had no real plans, except to take things quietly. Felicity said again that I could stay as long as I liked and that she was glad to have the company.
Peter had paid off my credit card debt. Initially I’d said no to this, but over about a week he’d talked me into it.‘It’s not a present, it’s a loan.’ It meant that I didn’t have to take the first job I was offered, which was a very good thing. I was feeling better but fragile. Peter had always been generous, and I couldn’t understand why he put himself out for me. Suddenly, I wanted to know.
‘Did it ever upset you?’ I asked. ‘The razor blades, the hospitals?’ He had always seemed impervious—except for that occasion when he nearly fainted as I was being stitched up. It had made it easier for
me to lean on him.
‘Yes, yes it did.’ He looked away.
Late one night, years before, after collecting yet another set of blades from me, he hadn’t gone straight home. Instead, he walked into the middle of a nearby oval and cried.‘It could have been me.’Whatever I was struggling with, he had recognised it in himself.
Without any pressing debt, I looked forward to not working for a while, to sitting in cafés and reading, to visiting galleries, to catching up with friends.To enjoying myself.
On the second day back, I heard about a part-time job with a publishing company. It sounded interesting and although I didn’t really want to rush into work, commonsense got the better of me.Vacancies in the industry didn’t come up often.
After half an hour, the man on the other end of the phone asked me to come in and see him.
A week later, I turned up at the interview without feeling nervous. I didn’t need the job, so there was no pressure.They wanted someone two or three days a week, and the hours were flexible. Initially, it would be for three months, while they decided what to do with the posi-tion.This wasn’t permanent, but if I wanted to start on Monday, they’d be delighted.
I was stunned. The phone conversation had apparently been the real interview, the meeting a formality.The job was ideal as I could earn some money and at the same time think about what I wanted to do. Where I wanted to be.
For once there was no pressure on any front.
But I knew it wouldn’t stay that way, so on the recommendation of Dr P, started seeing a new psychiatrist, Dr K.A small, plump man, he seemed more nervous than I was.
At the end of our first appointment he suggested that I needed twice-weekly psychotherapy.We could have a trial period of a month or so, and see how it went.The idea was that I would establish a relationship with him that could be a model for others, a relationship in which I could feel comfortable expressing myself. He seemed to think that this was a big problem for me and that it made me feel more isolated. It was strange to be in a psychiatrist’s office and not talking about the images or the urges or depression. Relationships, isolation— they seemed so mundane somehow. I wasn’t sure that we needed to talk about these things, but, out of a sense of obligation, I continued to visit him.
The truth was that things were changing. And while isolation had sounded mundane, I noticed that once I began to let people help me, I felt better and it wasn’t so much because they were helping me, but because I was letting them. And it made them happy. Felicity said she liked having someone to come home to and have dinner with, someone to chat to.
There wasn’t anything wrong with needing other people. It was normal.
The job, which I’d been a little unsure about, was great. I could use all the skills I’d learnt previously but no-one expected me to know everything. And I was enjoying working three days a week.
After two months, they began interviewing people for the permanent position, people who had experience in the area. I wasn’t sure what to do, as I wanted to stay but didn’t feel confident. I approached the man who’d hired me originally, and asked his advice.There were lots of things we could do to improve the way the area was run. I hadn’t suggested much so far, but would love the opportunity to make some changes.Was it worth even applying?
He looked surprised. Did I want to work full time?
I didn’t even need to think about it: I’d had a break and it was time to get back into it. I put in an application and waited.
Waiting wasn’t something I was good at and the strain began to affect me.Violent images fluttered through my head.They were nothing to do with critical thoughts but were a direct response to stress. The only response I knew. But it wasn’t just the wait that was causing these bloody pictures to reappear.
Eva had commissioned a review from me, and it was overdue. I’d put off calling her to ask for an extension but finally picked up the phone.The assistant editor answered.‘Vic, we’ve been trying to contact you.’ Of course they had, I should have rung a week ago. ‘Eva died yesterday.’
Before I knew what I was saying it came out,‘She didn’t...?’
‘No, she died of a heart attack.We just wanted to tell you personally, because she was so fond of you.’
The last time I’d seen her she’d seemed so much better. She’d put on weight, and although she blamed the medication, she looked healthy for the first time in years.We had sat in the same Italian restaurant and had drunk too much chardonnay, as we’d done so many times before, and the manager had greeted us both like members of the family.
Where had I been? What had I been doing? I was asked. Eva’s hands were free from bandages, and she told me that she’d been seeing a psychiatrist twice a week for several years now. He had been encouraging her to write.
Would it be sensible to publish something? she’d asked.We’d then talked about the taboo involving self-mutilation, and the pros and cons of writing about it. Perhaps a book would help families and friends understand what we went through, what was going on in our heads. What we couldn’t tell them. There were risks, of course. Did she want people knowing about her private life? Was she prepared to talk about it, on the radio, in the media? And what if instead of helping, it made someone start doing it?
She needed to weigh it up but I, for one, hoped she’d write something. There were handbooks and memoirs around about anorexia, bulimia, depression, and so many other disorders, but very little was available on self-harm.There was plenty on the Web,but it was often too graphic, or too clinical. I knew this because I’d tried many times to find something.
As I sat on the train home that evening, I wondered what had happened to what she’d written, and indeed what her story was.What made someone so clever, so able, so caring, harm herself?
Was her story, in essence, so very different from mine?
There was to be a memorial service at the end of the week, and I decided to fly down to Melbourne for the day.
The service was moving, and the wake filled with all of the people I remembered from my time at the magazine. There were authors, academics, newspaper editors, and critics. After a couple of hours, it was time to say goodbye to various people.
‘You know that there has already been speculation about who’ll take over?’ one asked.
It wasn’t something I’d thought about, and was surprised that he’d even mentioned it. But then, he was a part of the company that ran the magazine, and it was his job to think about succession. My name had come up in discussion—was I committed to Sydney, and what I was doing now? The position was about to be advertised but would I think about it?
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Eva couldn’t speak highly enough of you.’
On the plane home, I didn’t know what to think. I’d always wanted to edit a magazine—specifically that magazine—but Eva had always said she planned to die in the job. I didn’t think she’d meant it quite so literally.
I was delighted, amazed, flattered, that other people thought it was something I could do. And I knew they were right. I knew the systems, the writers, the printers. It would mean moving back to Melbourne but my furniture was still in storage, so that wouldn’t be hard.There’d be competition, I knew that, it was being advertised after all, but I was in with a strong chance.They’d actually asked me to apply.
I kept the conversation to myself.
Two days later, on the way to see my new psychiatrist, I had one of the worst mental images I’d ever had. In the past, they’d operated like film screenings, and while they’d been awful, they hadn’t taken up my whole mind.This was how I’d managed to continue doing other things, like talking, or driving.This was different. I felt as though I’d been hit.
Both my arms were in front of me, covered in open, gaping wounds
with blood flowing freely from them. I was enveloped.
I told Dr K.
He asked what I thought might have caused it.
‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’Things were going well.There was a possibility of what I’d always thought of as a dream job, and I was still in the running for the full-time position where I was, which I was really enjoying. I didn’t understand what was happening.
He asked if I was worried about anything.
‘No,’ I said, and told him about the funeral, and the magazine.
‘Do you actually want the job in Melbourne, were they to offer it to you?’
I was taken aback. Of course I wanted it, I’d always wanted it. Or did I? Or was it that I felt I should want it because it was prestigious and would be a great career move, because it would be challenging, stimulating and high profile. Because someone else thought I should have it.
I’d not admitted to myself that the past associations worried me, and that I was worried about how demanding the job would be. Deep down I knew that even though I could do it, Eva’s shoes would be very hard to fill. I wasn’t sure that I was the right one to try.
Over the last two months, I’d been happy.Work was satisfying and not stressful, my friends were close by, and, I had to admit, I loved the weather and the harbour. Did I want to give that up? Would it be sensible?
That night I called the person who’d spoken to me at the wake and told him I wouldn’t be applying. This was after ringing previously to say I would. As I put the phone down I wondered if I’d done the right thing, and indeed if the job at the magazine would have really been offered to me.
I’d never find out, and perhaps that was a good thing.
Over the next couple of days I began to feel calmer again, and on the following Monday, I was offered my job, permanently.
It was time to get my own place again.This time, I wanted it to be cosy, a place where I wanted to spend time. I found an art deco one-bedroom flat with big windows and the harbour at the end of the street. I bought bookcases, wooden blinds and seagrass mats. I hung pictures and bought saucepans. For the first time, it didn’t feel as though I were camping. I stopped sitting on the edge of my chair.
At around seven one Sunday evening I heard a knock on the door. Iwasn’t expecting anyone and thought that perhaps it was a neighbour. It was Alex. He looked the same as ever.
He was just passing by apparently, and thought he’d say hello. He’d been meaning to for a while.
I’d deliberately not called him since getting back.
He asked if I’d had dinner.
I wasn’t sure if it was a general question, or if he was suggesting we go out.As ever, it was hard to tell.I said no,and offered him soup, which was what I’d been planning to have.
He made a face. ‘No, thanks. There must be somewhere decent around here.’
So he was asking me out.
I was wearing an old T-shirt and shorts.‘There is, but do you mind if I don’t change?’ I didn’t want him to think he was worth making an effort for.
‘God no, I don’t care.’ He never had.
We were the only customers in the restaurant, so the waiters hovered.After ordering wine, he filled me in on what he’d been up to recently.Things seemed to be going well for him too and he’d just been offered a job overseas. We talked, and ate, and drank, and actually enjoyed ourselves. It had taken ten years to get to this point.
I still wondered what he was doing there.
As we walked home it became obvious. He was single and wanted what he’d always wanted from me. Only this time it was different. Iwasn’t interested and I said no. He could sleep on the couch if he wanted, but not with me.
He went home.