“Well done. You have made the first, and what will probably be the hardest, step towards resolving the issues you face. You have reached out for help and I am here for you; working together we will help you move on from your current state of disconnection and confusion towards a greater understanding of yourself and the pathway you wish to take in the future!”
Abby found the contact details for Mallory Atkins while surreptitiously peeking at a little blue book in her GP’s waiting room. The unambiguously named Directory of Qualified Counsellors in your Local Area sat glaring at her, begging to be unearthed from its half-buried position amongst old copies of Woman’s Weekly and Reader’s Digest while she waited to be called for her quarterly B12 injection. The good thing about taking a 7:45am appointment was that the waiting room was empty; there was nobody to see her slowly pick up the little blue book, gingerly open the front cover and quickly take a photograph of the first page with her phone. Obtaining the information, provided you wanted a counsellor whose surname started with A, was as easy as that. Actually phoning a counsellor and admitting she needed help Abby found much harder.
“It’s all so bloody American and I am purposely holding a grudge against all things American,” she had protested.
But Melissa was having none of it. “You cannot possibly blame an entire country for the misdemeanours of your husband and one woman of limited morals, and being as you are clearly not taking ‘get over it’ plan A seriously,” she paused momentarily to eye Abby up and down, “then it’s time to bring plan B into action.”
Abby dismissed both the need for plan B and the concept of seeing a counsellor. “The new wardrobe is coming soon; I have put sticky notes in my Next directory and everything.” A fact which was true: she had tucked them inside the front cover of her Next directory before she popped it away in the cupboard. “And I don’t need a counsellor, honestly Melissa… what would I say? My mind’s a mess!”
“But that’s the point, you’re confused. A counsellor will help you with that. Now stop making excuses and give this Mallory woman a call!”
As the already-dialled phone was thrust into Abby’s face she had no time to back out before she could hear the chirpy voice of Mallory Atkins in the earpiece.
Mallory seemed to Abby to be an overly optimistic, flamboyant woman, probably in her mid-forties. She was little more than five foot and had an amply rounded figure. Her cheery voice, edged with a slightly condescending tone, was largely unthreatening. In truth Abby soon found that she quite liked Mallory’s habit of hyperbolising every little bit of praise she readily lavished upon her £40 an hour clients. Besides, she was the only counsellor in the A section of the directory who did home visits after the children were in bed. She was Abby’s only option!
Dressed entirely in sky blue and wearing chunky gemstone jewellery Mallory carried a large carpetbag that reminded Abby somewhat of Mary Poppins. Thankfully she had no measuring tape with which to summarise Abby’s state of mind – “Abby Turner, practically crazy in every way!” Mallory’s kit bag contained the paraphernalia of counselling: a notebook and pen, a large box of man-sized tissues and a bottle of Evian. Thankfully there were no hidden crystals or incense sticks to burn – which Abby had sworn would have seen her counselling debut come to an abrupt end.
By their second meeting they were no longer discussing the particulars of Abby’s situation; they were onto the nitty-gritty and it was time to discuss her feelings. This was not an easy thing for Abby to do, particularly as the confusion that frequently took over her mind and her subsequent emotional shutdown meant she didn’t have a clue how she truly felt about any of it.
“Are you angry Abby? You don’t seem angry. Do you feel anger? Resentment perhaps?”
“Yes, I suppose, all of those things.”
“Can you show me that anger? Do you want to get cross? Show me how you feel.”
“I can’t.”
“But why? You feel those things, don’t you? Don’t you want to let them out?”
Abby took a breath. Yes, at times she felt all of those things. At times she was so angry she barely knew what to do with herself. But could she summon all of that on this Tuesday evening at 8:30pm? No! What did Mallory want to see? If only she could replay her tantrum; she was sure the praise Mallory would bestow upon her would not only see her nominated for an Oscar for her performance but would also see her ascending the steps of the stage and making her heartfelt acceptance speech. But in truth, on this Tuesday evening she felt empty. Devoid. Nothing to report and she was paying for the privilege of sharing that with Mallory. Feeling somewhat that her emotions had been darted with a tranquiliser big enough to fell a bull elephant, Abby felt out of her depth and sought to distract Mallory.
“I have a book.”
“A book? What sort of a book?”
“A book I am using to help unscramble my feelings. At least, I am trying to.”
“That sounds wonderful, tell me more about… about your book.” Mallory clasped her hands together in anticipation.
“It’s silly really—”
“Uh-uh, nothing is silly,” Mallory interrupted, waggling her finger, causing her gemstone bracelets to clang together. “Remember that in these sessions we can share everything in the confidence that all things are valid! Please… carry on.”
“I got the idea from the Oasis at school. It’s a place we send children when they can’t cope – you know, with their emotions, things at home, that kind of thing. One of the ladies in there told a child in my class to keep a book. A book where he could put his feelings, you know, to help get them out of his mind. I thought it was worth a try. I thought it might help me too.”
Mallory’s eyes widened. “What a wonderful idea! I am so proud of you!”
Abby felt relieved that she had offered Mallory at least something to lavish praise upon; it seemed important to her and Abby didn’t like to disappoint her.
“And tell me, has it helped? Have you put your feelings in it?”
Oh bugger! Abby knew Mallory’s wide eyes and excited anticipation were not expecting a few quotes and one statement of intent that she had only partially kept to.
“Really, it’s just notes, you know – not much of importance.”
Mallory shook her head, drawing Abby’s attention to the wiry grey streaks that caught the light amongst her thick black hair.
“But your feelings are important! You must understand that Abby. If you would like I could… I mean, you could show me your book, share your thoughts with me.”
Abby shifted uneasily in her seat. She should never have made it sound so grand.
“Your thoughts and feelings – they matter Abby; understanding that will be the key to setting your mind free.”
Unable to cope with much more counsellor speak Abby went to her bag and took out her book. Nervously, she handed it over. Mallory opened it. The giraffe Simon had made her fell out onto Mallory’s lap.
“Oh, what’s this?” She held it up inquisitively.
“That? Nothing,” Abby insisted, “just something for the children; it must have slipped in there when I popped it in my bag at school.” (Or, Abby thought, my husband made it for me as a reminder of the first time we made love, when everything was new and special, and when I was sobbing over it the other night I decided to put it in my book to keep it safe and far away from the inquisitive hands of my children!) She took the giraffe and placed it in her pocket. Some things and some feelings she simply wasn’t ready to share.
Mallory turned her attention back to the book and read with interest. Raising her eyebrow, she picked up her pencil and made a note in her own notebook. Oh Lord! Abby wondered what on earth she had revealed about herself.
Mallory tapped her pencil against her lip. “I like this! We can use this.”
Hmm. So perhaps she wasn’t as disappointed as Abby feared she would be.
“How would you feel if I gave you some homework?”
Homework? Abby wasn’t sure she liked the idea. “What would you like me to do?”
“I would like you to write a letter, either to your husband, or to the woman – Helen, you said, didn’t you? Tell them how you feel. Tell them your thoughts and feelings.”
“I couldn’t, I can’t; it’s too… too much.”
“Oh, not to send, oh dear no – in your book. Write as if it is to them. It might help you unlock some of your frustration and give us something to work from. Can you do that?”
No! Abby felt quite certain that she absolutely couldn’t, and yet the words were out before she had time to stop them and she agreed despite herself. “Yes, of course!”
Mallory clapped her hands together and beamed.