Creative Writing – 'I Can't Relax'

‘I’m worried about this vegetarian thing,’ Emma crisply informs Orla Fallon, sitting bolt upright in one of the counsellor’s padded wooden armchairs, with one leg crossed over the other and her arms folded across her stomach. ‘I’m not so sure it’s a good idea.’

‘What are your concerns?’

‘My God, where do I even start? What if he doesn’t get enough protein or iron or vitamins… B12 is a big one, I know.’

‘Did you express these concerns with Brian during your conversation last week?’

‘If you can call it a conversation…’ Emma heaves an enormous sigh and rubs a thumb and forefinger against her temples. ‘It turned into a fight, of course. What’s new?’

Orla smiles a little sadly at her. She is tall and slender, immaculately dressed in a light beige suit, with sleek fair hair tied back into a bun. Truth be told, Emma has always been a little envious of the other woman’s hair. Her own coarse red mane is a nightmare to manage sometimes: she practically has to wrestle it into submission before work each morning.

A small blue notebook rests on Orla’s lap. She does not often write in it during their sessions, much to Emma’s relief. That was a huge concern for her when she agreed to these counselling sessions: that Orla would constantly be making notes about her, passing judgement on her life, making her feel like a broken object in need of repair. Emma would never have considered going to Orla at all if Brian’s counsellor hadn’t recommended it. She had told Emma and Frank – in the aftermath of that bleak, terrible incident with the pills – that their son’s healing process would be greatly assisted if they, as his primary caregivers, received counselling too. Emma doesn’t know whether Frank has done it or not. He keeps saying that he is going to. Family counselling had been mentioned as an option too, but Emma is unable to see that working at the moment – can’t see it turning into anything other than a furious shouting match between herself and Frank – and hasn’t Brian been subjected to that particular spectacle often enough as it is?

The embarrassment of undergoing psychotherapy is hard for her to shake at times. Yet here she is nevertheless – sitting down opposite the bright-eyed, immaculately groomed Orla, with her neat blonde hair and pocket-sized notebook – because she would do anything in the world that might help her son.

‘Well,’ she goes on, after taking a deep, steadying breath, ‘in fairness, Diane told me that he cooked every one of his dinners last weekend, and made a portion of them for her too. ‘So I know he’s capable of looking after his own food if necessary. He’s old enough to make his own decisions about what he wants to eat. I accept that. Or at least, I’m trying to. I just…’ She trails off, staring into a corner of the therapy room, where a tall blue lava lamp casts a soothing glow across the carpeted floor. She often finds her eyes being drawn to it during these sessions. ‘I just worry about him isolating himself from other people. I worry that he’ll never quite be comfortable in life, he’ll never fit in with anybody, and I … I want to protect him. Always.’ Now she can feel tears threatening to well up in her eyes. Fantastic. Just what she needed.

‘He may not necessarily be isolated,’ her counsellor says gently. ‘Vegetarianism has become a very common lifestyle choice recently, so he is bound to meet plenty of people on a similar path, if he decides to stick with it.’

‘Well, most people aren’t on that path,’ Emma replies curtly, ‘and it’s most people that I worry about. In the last school … well, you already know what things were like there. Kids made fun of him for his hair, his eyeliner, his clothes … so this vegetarian thing will give them an extra reason to mock him.’

‘Can you really know, Emma, without a doubt, that this decision will cause him to be mocked? You say it as though it’s an absolute certainty.’

‘I … I suppose it isn’t an absolute certainty, no. I just worry about it.’

‘You know, Emma, you have talked a lot about your fears of Brian becoming isolated. What about you?’

‘Me? I’m fine.’

Her response was too quick, too sharp, too hostile. Emma knows that at once. She knows – before she even turns to look at Orla – that a quizzical expression has flickered across the counsellor’s face. She has seen it several times before.

‘Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t look at me as though you’ve struck a nerve or something. Because you haven’t.’ Even as Emma says these words, she can hear how childish and petulant she must sound, and is immediately annoyed with herself for it.

‘I’m not attempting to do anything, Emma,’ Orla says mildly. ‘As you know, these sessions are all about fostering an attitude of open inquiry. You are the one who understands your own life better than anyone else, and it’s not my role to strike nerves or upset you in any way. I simply help my clients to identify certain thoughts they have that may be affecting their wellbeing. I draw attention to them when I feel it may be appropriate, but you are welcome to disregard anything I say that doesn’t feel relevant to you.’

Emma turns her gaze to the lava lamp again. There is something hypnotic about the thick, gloopy material within: its constant melding and separation, its rising and falling cycles that repeat themselves over and over again. She enjoys the regularity, the rhythm, the peacefulness of it. After watching one particularly mesmeric blob detach itself from the bottom of the lamp and float upwards, she realises with a start that she has started biting one of her nails. It’s a terrible habit – she managed to stop it about a decade ago – but it resurfaces every now and then, in her unguarded moments. She moves her hand down to her lap at once.

‘Well, okay…’ she sighs a little grudgingly, ‘I suppose I don’t have much of a social life to speak of, but I honestly don’t feel I need that. I have Brian. I have my work. I used to talk to the women at the school gates sometimes – when Brian was younger – but that was just polite chit chat… I was never much of a socialiser in school or college or anything like that, but I didn’t need to be.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with being an introvert, of course. But humans aren’t solitary animals. Maintaining some connections with other people is important. Do you see your family often?’

‘I did visit my mother recently’ – Emma can’t help rolling her eyes at the memory – ‘and all she talked about, all day long, was how angry she was now that politicans are talking about holding a referendum on abortion soon, and didn’t the people already vote on this, loud and clear, back in her day? No chance of me getting a word in. The time before that – back in Easter, I think – was even worse. She went on and on about Brian’s clothes, telling me how inappropriate they were, and what did I think I was doing, letting him go out like that? I’m only thankful that she didn’t say anything to Brian’s face. His clothes, the make up he wears … I don’t know if it means anything. I did ask him once if he was gay. He said no – that he just likes that kind of look. I wouldn’t have cared if he was gay, of course I wouldn’t, but I told him if this was causing the bullying, I just wanted to know how I could help, what I could do –’

‘You’ve gone back to Brian,’ Orla points out gently. ‘Every time we begin to talk about you, the subject returns to him.’

‘I am his mother. It’s my job to worry about him.’

‘Of course. Parenthood is an extremely important part of your life. But I’ve observed that every time we begin to discuss your own feelings and experiences –’

‘Because I can’t relax,’ Emma cuts in impatiently. ‘How can I go on about myself right now, knowing what things have been like for him? I give him the two antidepressants he needs every morning. Then I take the bottle to work with me. When he’s at home during the day, I make sure I have it on my person at all times, so he can’t get it, and at night, I hide it in my room. I don’t sleep very well. I threw out all of my sleeping pills, all of my painkillers … if I ever get a headache or back ache or anything like that, I just have to let it run its course naturally. Some nights, I’ve lain there with the most intense period pain you can imagine, but I’ve just had to grit my teeth and bear it, because I won’t have painkillers anywhere in the house. I just won’t. I’ve hidden the knives too, and I’ve searched his room a few times – as carefully as I can, so he won’t suspect I’ve done it – in case he decides to buy more pills. I worry that I’m not with him often enough, I work too much, I put too much of the burden on poor Diane … seeing as his own father can’t be arsed … but … I can’t give up work – how else would I pay the mortgage?’

The air seems to reverberate with the force of her words.

‘That sounds like a very difficult burden to bear,’ Orla says quietly, after a few seconds of silence have passed. ‘Emma … this may or may not be of interest to you, but I know of a single parents’ support group. It’s run by a colleague of mine –’

‘I don’t like the thought of everyone in some group knowing my business,’ Emma snaps at once. It’s an automatic response for her at this point: to baulk at the mere suggestion of strangers finding out anything about her.

‘The group is run under an ethos of strict confidentiality,’ Orla assures her. ‘You can say as much or as little as you like. I’m not saying it will solve all of your problems, of course, but often, talking to others in similar situations can help us to feel less isolated. It’s simply there as an option. You have spoken about feeling a lack of support in your life, and this is something that could help address it.’

Emma focuses on the lava lamp for a few moments, her brow furrowed. She is feeling somewhat torn. Every cell in her body cringes at the idea of turning up to some support group – she can’t deny that – but this is meant to be about Brian. She has to remember that. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for him. Maybe if she went to this group, she would learn something that might help him.

‘When does this … this support group meet?’

‘Wednesday evenings.’

‘I work on Wednesday evenings,’ Emma says flatly.

‘Every Wednesday?’

‘Not always, no. It depends…’

‘You are the owner of Price Watchers, aren’t you? You would be able to give yourself an evening off on occasion.’

‘Yes, but stability is very important. My staff need to know exactly when I’m going to be in and when I’m not. I like to keep to a regular schedule. I’ve had to change it a bit since Brian went back to school, obviously. I like to be in the house most afternoons, when he gets home. I think it helps him to know that I’ll be there when he comes in. At least, I hope it helps him.’ Then, before Orla can point it out, she hastily adds, ‘Yes, I’ve gone back to talking about Brian again when I should be talking about myself. I know, I know…’

A glint of humour comes into Orla’s eyes. ‘You may say whatever you wish during these sessions, Emma. I haven’t made it my mission to catch you out!’

Emma can’t help but smile grudgingly at this.

‘Listen, I’ll write down the details of the group for you.’ Orla tears a page out of her notebook and makes a note on it, before passing it to Emma. ‘It may be of some assistance. Think about it.’

‘I will.’

‘Good,’ Orla says warmly, before glancing at her watch. ‘Well! Our time is up. We’ll leave it there for today.’

Thank Christ. Emma heaves a sigh as she rises to her feet.

Image Sources:
Woman with therapist – Dignity Health
Lava lamps – YouTube