Inhale. Exhale. I rapped my knuckles on the heavy oak door and took a steadying breath to prepare myself. I’d been so close to confessing my sins to Steph, to unburdening myself from the secret I’d kept for so long. But a small voice had pulled me back. Instead, I’d decided to get deeper into my own mind. I needed the truth, regardless of what that might be.
The scent of flowery oils hit me like a wall as soon as I walked in. Tea lights flickered in intricate dishes on the reception desk, and a large reed diffuser rested on the marble table in the middle of the waiting room. Meditation music chimed softly in the background, and various health magazines touted the benefits of yoga and mindfulness.
As I approached the desk, the receptionist smiled warmly at me.
“First time?” She spoke in a light, feathery voice — I was sure it was an essential requirement of working in a place like this.
I nodded in response, and she passed me a pre-therapy questionnaire to complete, hooked onto a clipboard that said Find Your Inner Peace.
I sat down in the waiting room and started scanning the questions.
Have you ever self-harmed?
Have you ever had thoughts of violence towards yourself or others?
I hated these questionnaires. It was like they were trying to figure out what sort of psychopath you were before you even went in.
“Ms Walker?”
“Yes?” I looked up towards the softly spoken voice. It belonged to a lady in her fifties with kind eyes and a soothing smile.
“Please come with me,” she said as we entered her office, which was full of peaceful pictures of forests and lakes. “Before we start, we need to discuss your request. You’ve asked for repressed memory therapy. Is that correct?”
“Yes.” I followed her gesture and sat down on the impossibly comfortable sofa.
“Okay, well, repressed memory therapy — or RMT as we call it — is a type of psychotherapy. It’s most commonly used with people who are victims of sexual abuse who may now be displaying anxious behaviours and eating disorders due to their inability to move on from their past.”
A living, breathing cliché. “Yes,” I said. “I’m aware of that.”
She nodded her head encouragingly. “All right. Can I ask what it is you’re hoping to get out of these sessions?”
I braced myself, the overwhelming smells of the oils making my stomach churn. “A doctor has just suggested that I might have PTSD. I’ve been having the occasional memory black holes, episodes of disassociation I suppose you would call them.” I kept eye contact with her, trying to will her into understanding just how important it was. “One memory in particular — I need it back.”
After spending a good ten minutes going over the health and safety issues, the signing of forms to alleviate the centre of any liability if I turned into a full-on nutter, it was time to begin.
It was like staring into space for too long, until my eyes glazed over. That moment when you can still hear everything, but you’re not really there. I heard her voice, the therapist, easing me further into this state of calm. I inhaled deeply, letting my clenched fists unravel as I relaxed, willing myself to find what I’d lost within my mind. As I settled into it, it was like a pair of red velvet curtains opening inside my brain; the show about to begin …
I’m ten years old. I’m wearing my first bikini as I splash around at the lido. Mum is annoyed at Dad for buying me the bikini. She thinks it’s inappropriate and that I should be in a swimsuit, but I like the bikini — it has Minnie Mouse on it. I glance over at them, and she’s got Stephy on her lap, playing with her hair. She hasn’t even seen my swan dive — she’s too busy with her. Dad’s watching, though. I wave at Dad, who waves back. He’s paying attention. In fact, he’s not taking his eyes off me.
Now I’m eleven years old and getting ready for the first disco at secondary school. I’m nervous — all the girls say you have to kiss a boy at the first disco, otherwise, you’re not cool. I put my Superdrug mascara on, which Mum eventually let me buy. Dad says I look pretty, but shouldn’t kiss any boys tonight. Boys aren’t for kissing, he says. I’m planning on kissing at least two boys.
I’m twelve years old now, and Mum is gone. She’s been gone three whole months, but it’s been happening for two months already. At first, I thought it would stop, that Dad was mourning Mum in a weird way. But it’s happening more now. I wait each night for that fateful creak of the floorboards, for my bedroom door to be pushed open, a glare of light from the hallway creeping in with him. I grip the duvet cover between my fingers. But he peels it from me, slowly but surely. I know it’s not right, but he keeps saying that we’ve got to look after each other now that Mum is gone. We’ve got to be a proper family. Tears roll down my face as the sharp pain hits. It stays long after he’s gone.
“You’re okay,” comes the voice of the therapist. “Just focus on the sights and sounds around you in your memories. You’re safe.”
I feel myself scrunch up my closed eyes and wriggle on the sofa as a new memory bursts through. It’s Teigan, shouting at me for ignoring her when she’s trying to tell me how she feels. She’s calling me a terrible mother. I hear myself shouting back at her —“BE QUIET! — and then her face changes. She’s not angry any more — she’s frightened.
I wince as I see myself throw the lunchbox I was holding at her — it clips her forehead before falling to the ground. Teigan steps back, and her hand flies to her forehead. I move towards her, “Oh, God, I’m sorry!”
Teigan is frantic now. “I can’t believe you did that! I’m going to tell. My form tutor knows you’re a social worker, and she’ll report you for this. Then what will your work friends think of you?”
No, no, no.
She’s staggering back, clutching her face, her eyes wild. Why? I squeeze my eyes tighter and hear the therapist’s words again.
“Just breathe and stay with that moment. Follow it through — where does it lead?”
I’m back there, clasping my hands to my mouth as the first drip of blood falls from her nose onto the carpet. I’ve hit her. How could I?
Teigan staggers through the kitchen, aiming for the bathroom at the end. Her nose is dripping blobs of blood onto the laminate floor as she goes. I hear my own voice begging forgiveness.
“Teigan, I’m so sorry, are you okay? I’m so sorry, let me help you, I didn’t mean–”
Teigan’s roar of “LEAVE ME ALONE” hammers through my mind. She storms past me, tissues stuck up her bleeding nose.“I HATE YOU!”
I reach out to stop her. I can fix this. My hands grapple at the purple scarf flapping back from around her neck, the only part of her I can get hold of. It tightens around her neck, and she yelps at the sudden constriction of her throat.
Everything goes black.
“You’re safe,” the therapist keeps saying. “You’re safe here, just watching the pictures as they come to you in your mind.”
But nothing’s coming any more.
“When I get to five, you’re going to be back in full consciousness … one … two …”
I see Teigan’s face again, her eyes wide with panic, my heart exploding out of my chest. Then I’m back to being nineteen, leering over my father …
“Four …”
Then everything is dark again.
“Five.”
I shoot up on the sofa, my breathing ragged.
“It’s all right, you’re here.” The therapist rushes over with some water, a troubled look on her face. She watches me for a few moments before asking. “Did you find what you wanted?”
I stare dead ahead, my mouth gaping slightly open as I try to process what I’d seen. What I’d done.