“You had no right to go through my stuff.” I was pacing in the kitchen, spilling my coffee as I did so. After being caught out wearing a necklace Teigan had given me, Steph had offered me a herbal tea to “calm my nerves.” In my irritation, I’d told her to fuck her herbal tea.
“Look, I’m sorry about the necklace — I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. Here, I’ve taken it off. But come on, this isn’t really what you’re upset about. You’re upset about what you did last night and what the papers are saying.” Steph stood with her arms crossed, defending herself from my ambush.
“Well, of course I’m upset about that. I’m upset that my daughter’s been missing a week, and that the police have let the main suspect go because of no real bloody evidence. And I’m upset that you’ve helped yourself to my stuff, like we’re bloody teenagers or something, completely disregarding the fact that the necklace from my missing daughter might have some sentimental value!” I tipped the mug back and swallowed a large gulp of hot coffee, burning my tongue and throat as I did so. I coughed and spluttered, finding some relief in the burning pain.
“Look,” she said as she uncrossed her arms and pleaded with her hands instead. “I’m sorry that I didn’t think. But you know this isn’t the real reason you’re upset. You need to talk to someone, about everything. So go to that doctor’s appointment today.”
I frowned. “What doctor’s appointment?”
“The one I made the other day, after shopping, remember?” She placed a hand gently on my arm. “I really think it’ll be good for you.”
An hour and a half later, I was called into Dr Chakrovati’s room. The usual scent of disinfectant and antibacterial handwash wafted through the office. He was young, potentially still doing his rotations. I sat down awkwardly on the hard blue chair, unsure where to begin.
“How can I help you, Ms Walker?”
How could he help me? He could help me by finding Teigan, by getting rid of all my guilt and shame, by helping me face each day without fighting a ball of self-hate just to get out of bed in the morning.
“Um, well, I’m having a … difficult time.”
“Sorry to hear that, Ms Walker. Are you concerned about depression?” He cocked his head to the side and spoke with sympathy. He probably saw hundreds of patients coming in with depression and anxiety, hoping for a quick fix of anti-depressants and perhaps some CBT. But I knew I needed more than that.
“Not depression, well, not just that, anyway.” I chewed on the inside of my lip, thinking of all the times I had sat patiently waiting for service users to divulge their hidden traumas, their reasons for being the way they were. It was harder than I had thought it would be. “I, um, you might recognise me … from the news. I’m Teigan Walker’s mother.”
He nodded, calmly. He already knew. “Yes, I’m so sorry. This must be such a terrible time for you — I hope that they find her soon. I think, perhaps, something to help you sleep while this is going on? I can prescribe you Amitriptyline, which is a tricyclic antidepressant. If you take it around nine in the evening, it should kick in before you go to bed. I’ll prescribe you 25 mgs to start, and then we can review.”
I continued to chew on the inside of my lip, wondering whether I should just take this and leave, but I knew deep down there was more to say. I’d avoided it for long enough.
“Right, yes … thanks. I think I might need more of a therapeutic process, though.” I took a deep breath before lunging into it. The quicker I got it out, the easier, I figured. “I had a difficult childhood, and I think that’s had some long-term effects. My mum died in a car accident when I was twelve, and then I was raised by my Dad, which was … not good.” I cast my eyes downward.
“Sorry to hear that, Ms Walker. Not good in what way?” He interlaced his fingers and sat back in his chair, ready to listen to my tale of woe.
“He was … abusive.” I took another deep breath and stared down at my fingers. “Sexually.”
“Oh, right. Okay.” Dr Chakrovati sat forward in his chair again. I could see how hard he was working to appear calm and professional. He was only a junior. I felt a bit sorry for dumping it on him. “Have you ever disclosed this to anyone before?”
I looked at him, my tired eyes meeting his bewildered ones. “No.”
“Right.”
“I tried, once. But the school counsellor didn’t get it. I just got on with it. The abuse stopped when I was fifteen, as I was too old for him then.” I saw Dr Chakrovati swallow his disgust at this comment. “But as you can imagine, it broke something within me.”
The phone ringing in Dr Chakrovati’s office interrupted me. He hit the decline button. “Sorry about that, please, continue.”
“I went into social work, because I wanted to help kids going through what I went through.” My shoulders relaxed a little, as saying it out loud was actually a relief after all this time. “I had some difficult cases over the years. One in particular …” The carnage of the Dannot brothers case shot into my mind as I remembered Rhys’ screams, the blood pooling around Timmy’s body.
“Yes, child protection is a difficult career choice,” he said, “but very admirable.”
I nodded. “Thank you. It’s just that I think that case triggered something in me I’d been suppressing for a long time. I went off sick with stress for a couple of months after it, and since then I’ve never felt quite right.”
Dr Chakrovati sat forward again in his chair. “Can you explain what you mean?”
“I’ve always had a bit of a thing with my eating habits, to be honest.” I hung my head in shame. “I know I’m a walking textbook ‘sexual abuse survivor with control issues.’ It’s pathetically clichéd, I know.”
He offered a reassuring smile. “It’s textbook for a reason, though, Ms Walker. A completely natural response to what you went through.”
“I suppose. But since that case everything just sort of tripled. I wonder sometimes if it’s all taken more of a hit than I realised at the time.” I chewed at my lip as I carried on. “Like, sometimes I seem to have memory lapses, out of nowhere. Just black holes where the memory is completely lost. It’s like a fog of stress builds up, and then that’s it. I can’t retain what’s happening. All I know afterwards is that I’ve lost time.”
He tilted his head to the side and scratched at his beard with his pen. “Memory lapses? Can you give an example?”
Yes, I thought. I can’t remember the last moments with my daughter, for starters. My heart told me to be honest with him, but my head shouted not to incriminate myself.
“The morning my daughter, Teigan, went missing. We had an argument.” My eyes started to well with tears, and my throat became thick with emotion. “The last thing I remember is Teigan becoming very upset, talking about how I let her down and that I don’t care … After that, the next thing I remember is driving to work.” I risked looking in his eyes, terrified for the judgment I would see in them. But his eyes were kind, showing only sympathy and professionalism. “What does that mean?” I whispered as I voiced the very fear I’d been refusing to acknowledge. “Does it mean I did something bad and blocked it out? Is that possible?”
He leant back in his chair again and inhaled heavily, considering his words before he spoke. “Not necessarily, Ms Walker. You could have lost that memory for any number of reasons, but the likelihood is that it was an emotional and difficult interaction that your brain decided to protect you from by disassociating.”
“Disassociating, like when children disassociate from trauma?”
He nodded. “Yes, but adults can disassociate, too. Especially those who suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder. Sounds to me like the argument was getting too intense for you, and your brain went into protection mode. That fog of stress you talked about — that was your mind disassociating.”
“But,” I shook my head. “I don’t have PTSD.”
He spoke softly, his face still radiating kindness. “I think, Ms Walker, that you’ve probably had PTSD for a very long time.”