I’d received the letter about attending some counselling sessions regarding my anxiety and depression sooner than I thought. I filled out the paperwork with Doctor Reiss and she’d sent it off for referral.
Today is my first session and, as I sit in the waiting area, I fight the urge to stand up and walk out. I don’t know what to say to this person, this stranger. I’m not sure what will come out of this at all. Seeing a counsellor isn’t going to stop Matt from having an affair. Only he can do that and clearly being pregnant isn’t enough to halt his desires of sleeping with someone else.
I look around at the various people in the waiting room who are, I assume, in the same position as me. Here to speak to a stranger about their deepest thoughts, their darkest secrets. I notice one man, around my age. He looks entirely normal, not at all like someone who is suffering from mental health issues. Then, I suppose, I’m sure I am viewed the same way by the others who occupy this space right now. There is such a stigma surrounding mental health, even nowadays. It’s the invisible illness: nobody knows you suffer from it because it can’t be seen. It isn’t a rash, or cast on a broken leg. It comes from deep inside you, something that cannot be reached by anyone other than the person dealing with it.
I am very much in acceptance that I struggle to cope with my thoughts, my anxieties and low self-esteem. However, accepting it and dealing with it are two very different things.
I grip the sides of the chair with my hands; a way of telling myself that I will see this through, even if I only manage one session.
The man sitting across from me looks up and we catch each other’s eye and nod in mutual understanding. It feels less intimidating knowing that the people I am surrounded by understand the stress of waiting in a reception area before baring your soul to someone you’ve never met.
‘Victoria?’ I hear my name and I look up to see a man standing at the beginning of a long corridor, looking at the several faces in the room.
I stand up and walk towards him, clutching my bag to my chest, like a child beginning their first day at school.
‘Victoria?’ he asks.
I nod.
‘Hi, nice to meet you. Follow me please?’ He starts walking and we enter a room near the end of the corridor. ‘I’m Tim.’
We sit down opposite each other, a small table separating us. A tall, thin vase is home to a single white lily in the centre of the table, alongside a box of tissues. I look up to see a painting on the wall. It’s an abstract piece in the shape of a woman’s head, her hair flailing out behind her in vibrant splashes of colour. Where her brain should be is a mass of black and grey strikes and I feel myself relate to the piece so much that it could be titled Victoria.
‘I see you were referred by your GP?’ Tim says as he reads over some notes.
I tear my eyes away from the art on the wall.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ I reply.
‘Anxiety and depression,’ he says. It’s not a question or a query. His tone is very matter-of-fact.
‘I’m pregnant and have stopped taking my medication. I didn’t want to rely on it when I’m supposed to be growing a person.’ I smile nervously and change my sitting position. I cross my left leg over my right and sit on my hands so I don’t start picking at the skin around my nails. Something I do when I don’t know what else to do.
‘I’ve had a read over your notes, Victoria. So I already know a little bit about you. But why don’t you tell me some more?’ Tim says.
Although I still feel tense, my shoulders raised and my neck stiff, I relax into the chair just a little.
‘I think my husband is having an affair,’ I state.
I watch his expression. He tries to hide it, but I can see the surprise creep in.
‘A suspicion like that can’t be easy on a pregnancy.’
I eye the tissues on the table, making sure they are within reach. I release my left hand and move the box closer to me, taking one tissue in my hand. ‘I accused my sister of being the other woman.’
Tim nods, his thumb under his jaw and index finger resting on his cheek.
‘It’s not her, Gill. She wouldn’t do that to me. I think I was clutching at straws because maybe I was just desperate to know,’ I say quickly.
‘Do you think the return of your anxiety and depression is because your husband is having an affair, rather than the fact that you have stopped taking your medication?’ Tim suggests.
‘I believe it could be a combination of both.’
I don’t tell Tim about my thoughts. About the darkest corners of my soul which scare me so deeply that I am too afraid to say them out loud, even to myself. I’ve always been a firm believer in that if you don’t admit to something, then it isn’t really happening. I suppose that’s how I have gotten through my life, how I am getting through the prospect of becoming a single mother.
‘Well, together we can find a way of helping you through your pregnancy and working out how to deal with the problems you and your husband face. Does that sound like something you would like me to help you with?’
I leave the clinic and stand outside, filling my lungs with air and breathing deeply. I’d expected nothing from my counselling session. However, I have left feeling a little stronger than I was on arrival.
Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can face Matt and confront him about my suspicions. I can do this on my own. I can be a mum and Gill would help me, support me in any way that she could. After our own parents abandoning us, she wouldn’t leave me to do things alone.
I need to talk to Matt when I get home. I need to know for sure that he is being unfaithful. However, my mind switches. If he admits it, maybe there will be a way around things. Maybe I could get past the affair and we could be a family. Of course, I would have to learn to trust him again. Is that something I could do? I’ve had trust issues ever since I can remember. Going into care as a kid, being split up from Gill when I was barely six years old, and never truly understanding why our parents chose the drugs and the alcohol over us is something I’ve never been able to come to terms with. There have been times when I thought I was over it. But now, being pregnant and married to a cheat, I worry that I won’t be able to offer my own child a better childhood than the one I had myself.
With my mind still swirling, I head home to my unfaithful husband.