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- Herausgeber: Biteback Publishing
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
When Anna Wickins began counselling with her therapist, Paddy Magrane, she could barely speak in their sessions, silenced by traumatic memories from two decades before. But as trust built, Anna felt able to open up and she started to talk about the terrifying ordeal she experienced at university. As Anna examined her past, a transformation was occurring across the room. Listening to her tale awakened painful memories in Paddy about the horrors that occurred at his boarding school. After two years of healing work, Anna and Paddy embarked on an unusual therapeutic exercise: a visit to the site of her trauma, where Anna physically confronted the scenes of her nightmares. With Paddy's reassurance and support, she was finally able to leave her demons behind. Once robbed of a voice, Anna now helps others to find theirs, in the same way that Paddy helped her. Told in alternating perspectives, Both Sides of the Couch is a searingly honest account of how counselling shapes both client and therapist. A unique window into therapy, it shows, for the first time, the journey through the eyes of both participants. Both Sides of the Couch is a moving and inspirational story of finding light in the darkest of times.
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Seitenzahl: 301
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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“A raw, honest and powerful book about the messy journey of healing after rape for the client and the impact that this has on her therapist too. Both Sides of the Couch is an important book that shines a light and offers hope.”
Madeleine Black, author ofUnbroken
“Delicately written, with heartbreaking detail and searing honesty, Both Sides of the Couch is a hymn to the power of vulnerability.”
Erin Kelly,Sunday Times bestselling author
“As compulsively readable as a thriller but with the heart and depth of a modern classic in therapeutic writing. I will never forget this book.”
Sarah Hilary, award-winning author
“What a powerful book. So insightful. So honest.”ii
Louise Beech, author ofEighteen Seconds
“Bold, courageous and compelling, this innovative dual-perspective account of recovery from trauma demonstrates how a therapeutic relationship built on compassion and trust can navigate the vicissitudes of therapy towards healing and hope. A hugely brave, honest and important piece of writing.”
Dr Chris Merritt, clinical psychologist and author
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v
anna
For Sam
paddy
For Ella
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‘The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.’
Carl Jung
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CONTENTS
NOTE TO THE READER
Both Sides of the Couch is a therapeutic memoir about finding light in the darkest of places. For the authors, the path to recovery involved the examination and processing of historic trauma, much of which is described in the book. Readers should therefore be aware that the story discusses the impact of sexual violence, child sexual abuse and self-harm and contains a graphic depiction of self-harm.
The conversations in the book are based on Paddy’s therapeutic case files and Anna’s personal notes. They do not represent word-for-word transcripts but are retold to convey the essence of the exchanges.
The authors have changed some dates, names, identifying details and locations to maintain anonymity. x
CHAPTER 1
Devon, July 2020
ANNA
I drive along the narrow country lanes towards our agreed meeting point, windows down, hair blowing wildly across my face. The hedgerows are filled with campion and cow parsley, and as I speed past, they blend into stripes of white and pink reminiscent of my daughter’s favourite Drumstick sweets. It could be just another normal sunny day in Devon. It’s almost too easy to forget where I’m going today.
I make a couple of left turns, and the early morning sun streams through the passenger side window. I catch sight of my bare arm as I change gear. The scars have almost faded beneath my tanned skin, but I know they’re there. A constant reminder. A ball of dread begins to build in my stomach, twisting my insides, and a screaming voice in my head tells me not to go back to that place, to keep driving. I could go to 2the beach for the day, read a book under a tree, do anything but this. It’s a strong temptation.
I pull in to the side of the road to let a tractor go by and it gives me a chance to pause. To breathe. Trying not to panic, I turn my attention back to the countryside and I hear a melodic sparrow’s birdsong. At least I think it’s a sparrow. Soft and sweet, yet it has a boldness. The more I focus on the sound, the more it soothes my nerves and increases my bravery. I can do this. I have to.
The farmer waves a ‘thanks’ as he passes. I wave back cheerfully, my panic contained for now.
I continue down the lane, swerving potholes, and park awkwardly. Paddy is already there in his car, waiting. He waves. For the second time today, I wave cheerfully but fraudulently back.
Hopping into his car, I ask him how he is before he can ask me the same question.
‘Fine,’ he replies.
I resist the temptation to mention that ‘fine’ isn’t an answer, as he has so often pointed out to me.
‘And you?’
‘I’m OK,’ I reply, sounding more optimistic than I am.
We can both feel the nerves, the anticipation, the sense of the unknown in the day ahead of us. There’s an incongruence between what we’re saying and how we’re feeling, and we both know it. I’m certain that neither of us is feeling ‘fine’ or ‘OK’.
It’s a beautiful summer’s day in 2020 and the public are 3allowed to travel again after Covid restrictions have eased. While others are using their new-found freedom to visit loved ones, take much-needed holidays or explore new places, Paddy and I are travelling for a very different and unique reason.
I take a look around his immaculate car. It’s a complete contrast to mine, which is littered with children’s toys and crumbs.
‘I’ve sanitised the entire car and I have plenty of hand gel,’ he says. ‘There are also masks and gloves in the boot.’
‘Imagine how dodgy that would’ve sounded pre-Covid. Do you have a rope and shovel too?’ I joke.
He laughs and I feel myself relax a little as I sink into the passenger seat. I’m ready.
PADDY
‘Seen anything good on Netflix?’ I ask, accelerating onto the motorway.
As opening lines go, it’s on a par with a hairdresser’s ‘Been anywhere nice recently?’
But there’s a reason I’ve opted for something anodyne.
Anna and I have been working together for over two years by this point. It’s not the longest I’ve seen a client, but the nature of our therapeutic relationship means that she knows me better than anyone else I’ve worked with. 4
Over the course of our sessions, I’ve revealed a number of aspects – both personal and mundane – of my life. Anna knows about my childhood and my experience of parenting. My life outside the therapy room.
The American psychotherapist Irvin Yalom likens self-disclosure to a kickstart. This is exactly how I experience it. Anna was often more inclined to open up if she’d heard me do the same. If I was prepared to be vulnerable, then she was too.
Self-disclosure served another purpose in our work. Sometimes, towards the end of a particularly difficult session, Anna needed a little help decompressing, so that she could leave therapy and face the journey home in a calm and grounded state. In those moments, we’d slip into a more conversational space, exchanging thoughts about the books and films we’d recently enjoyed.
Now, we’re on our way to Bristol and face hours in the car together. We’ve agreed not to treat the entire trip as a therapy session. There is plenty of time for that once we reach our destination.
We talk about Russian Doll, a Netflix show we’ve both enjoyed about a woman who’s trapped in a time loop, dying repeatedly only to return to a New York apartment where her birthday is being celebrated. There’s something about the show that resonates with us both. Neither of us says it out loud, but I can’t help wondering whether it’s the protagonist, who is forever trying to figure out what’s happened to her.
Our conversation fills the car, pushing other thoughts 5out of my head. We’ve prepared so well for this moment. Drawing on her organisational skills and motivated by an understandable desire to retain a degree of control, Anna has compiled comprehensive risk assessments that consider every possible outcome of the trip. She is clutching several printouts filled with possible scenarios – panic attacks, nausea, dissociation – and how to manage them. I’ve discussed the trip at length with my supervisor, Sue, a therapist I see every month to discuss my client work. We’re as ready as we could possibly be.
But this is still unknown territory. Few therapists attempt journeys like this: a visit to the scene of a client’s trauma. It’s sometimes incorporated into trauma-focused cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT), but it doesn’t feature regularly in other therapeutic schools of thought. Our trip is unorthodox, to say the least.
I’m acutely aware we’re out in the open, away from the safety and confinement of the counselling room. We’re heading to a place filled with dark memories, where we’ll inevitably collide with life, with all the unpredictable sights and sounds of a city – people chatting and arguing, distant sirens, music booming from cars. To complicate matters further, the country is only just emerging from lockdown, like an animal blinking hesitantly in the sunshine after months hibernating underground. The air is heavy with palpable uncertainty and anxiety.
The negative thoughts creep into my mind, spreading like ivy. I focus on the road, on staying in the conversation. 6
We’ve tried so many different tactics and strategies in our therapy sessions. This trip feels like the last throw of the dice. But Anna has worked so hard. She deserves to heal. We have to make this work.
CHAPTER 2
‘All sorrows can be borne if you put them into a story or tell a story about them. But if we cannot find a way of telling our story, our story tells us – we dream these stories, we develop symptoms, or we find ourselves acting in ways we don’t understand.’
Stephen Grosz,The Examined Life: How We Lose and Find Ourselves
Devon, July 2018
ANNA
Two years previously, I found myself at the beginning of a very different journey.
I was sitting in the front of our family car – my husband Sam at the wheel and our three small children strapped securely into their car seats, each clutching a favourite teddy – with a bowl balanced on my lap. 8
I’d already thrown up twice before we left and although I had nothing left in my stomach, I wasn’t confident that I’d manage the whole journey without needing to be sick again.
My suspicions were confirmed. Five minutes from our destination, we were forced to stop at the nearest coffee shop where I had my final nervous vomit.
I popped some chewing gum in my mouth and walked slowly across the cafe’s car park. As I reached our car, I paused, my hand on the door. I didn’t have to do this. We could drive away and have a family day out. Then, I looked at my children, innocence splashed across their faces, and reminded myself exactly why I was doing this. Get a grip, I thought.
A few minutes later, Sam dropped me at a house opposite a graveyard in an isolated, rural village – not the most auspicious location for a first therapy session. Our small children giggling and singing in the back of our car had helped to distract me from my nerves on the final leg of our journey, but now the time had come to get out and do this alone. I couldn’t hide any longer. I had to face my fears.
I opened the car door to a blast of unbearable heat. We’d spent the past few days camping as a family and the lack of sleep, combined with the relentless scorching sun, had left us all feeling somewhat irritable. Anxiety about the impending appointment had heightened each day of the holiday and we had cut it short, returning a day early. Having spent the week in shorts and T-shirts, I’d panicked all morning about what to wear. I wanted to look professional, make a good 9impression. In the end, Sam thankfully took the decision out of my hands and pointed to a floor-length sundress. Always ready, I paired it with trainers, just in case I needed to run.
Head down, in case anyone saw me, I plodded up the driveway. My shame weighed me down heavily into the gravel. I approached the porch, scattered with honeysuckle, and by chance I looked down. I stopped abruptly, with my foot hovering over a majestic hornet. Berating myself for almost killing an innocent creature, I watched in awe as the bewitching insect flew busily between the sweet-smelling blooms, seemingly oblivious to its near-death experience.
I took a deep breath and tentatively pressed the doorbell, only to be greeted by a beautiful fox-red Labrador barking protectively through the door.
No one came.
I knocked a little too forcefully. The doorbell might be broken, but just in case I’d already annoyed the therapist, I took a few steps back. Still no answer. My nerves began to reassert themselves and I started to feel like an inconvenience: a familiar sensation.
Perhaps I’d got the time wrong. Part of me hoped I had, and part of me hoped he wouldn’t turn up at all.
I looked around to discover the hornet was no longer visible, its hypnotic buzz now silent. Suddenly, there was a razor-sharp pain on my shoulder and I watched as the large wasp flew away. Its yellow and black stripes, alluring only moments before, were now obviously hazardous. There was searing white-hot pain as the venom fired into my bloodstream. 10I felt a stab of anger at the creature whose life I’d spared. Typical, I thought, that the things I’m most kind towards end up hurting me the most. I had started to regret this.
I retrieved my phone from my bag. We’d only had email contact before today and in my increasing panic, I’d forgotten we were complete strangers. I called the therapist’s number.
‘I think I’m outside your house,’ I blurted out with no ‘Hello’ or introduction to who I was.
‘Anna?’ he replied. ‘I’m so sorry, I’m running late. I’m stuck in traffic, but I’ll be there soon.’
Not too soon, I hoped.
I spotted a bench near the front door and sat down to Google hornets, discovering that only the females sting. Adaptable and warrior-like, they can be vicious when their homes are threatened. It wasn’t hard to relate to those qualities.
I’d give the therapy process six weeks. I would tell the therapist the bare minimum and he would fix me. Six weeks. It sounded like such a long time, a whole school summer holiday, but I believed that I owed it to Sam and to our children to be ‘better’.
As I sat alone on the bench, hot and uncomfortable, I started to dread having to tell him the real reason I was there. It was a secret I’d hidden for nearly twenty years that had become increasingly difficult to ignore, bursting out in many unhelpful ways.
Would I have to tell him? If he made me tell him, then I’d do it in a matter-of-fact way, so he’d know it didn’t bother 11me. That it was just an event in the past and I was strong enough not to let it affect me. I didn’t want him to think I was weak or that I couldn’t cope. I was already so embarrassed and ashamed to be there, to be asking for help, and ashamed of just being me.
PADDY
When a new client starts therapy, I’m aware they’re taking a big step, choosing to entrust their innermost thoughts and feelings to a stranger. That takes enormous courage.
I feel a sense of great responsibility. I want to prepare the ground for that first encounter, ensure the counselling room is calm and ordered and that my mind is emptied of external stresses, ready for whatever clients bring.
On the day of Anna’s first session, I was far from prepared or stress-free. The whole week had been thrown into turmoil by the unexpected closure of my youngest daughter’s specialist dyslexia school. My wife and I had fought hard to secure her a place, but now, just months into her time there, the school had suddenly closed its doors. Since then, we’d been travelling all over the West Country, desperate to find an alternative in time for September. But that day I’d mistimed the journey and got stuck in traffic on the way home.
Some ten minutes after the session was due to start, I tore up the drive, my shirt damp and clinging to me with sweat. 12Anna was sitting on a bench outside the front door. She looked calm. My dog Lola was barking ferociously behind the front door. Hardly a warm welcome.
Normally, clients enter the house via a side door. It’s to ensure that my work and my home are kept separate. I also think it’s important to steer clients clear of the private spaces within, in case they start to construct a fantasy in their head of who I am. It’s not that I wish to offer a completely blank canvas, but a client who sees a room filled with personal effects can unconsciously begin to draw conclusions, which can then influence how they interact with me and with therapy. Think, for example, how a photo of a therapist’s child might affect a client struggling with infertility or someone who’s divorced and alone, isolated from their family.
‘You found me,’ I said, attempting to sound calm and welcoming while my heart was hammering in my chest. ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Anna. ‘Although I think I’ve been stung by a hornet.’
‘Are you sure you want to continue with the session?’
Anna nodded.
Another client in the same pain might have elected to go home. In hindsight, Anna’s decision was telling. As it turned out, she could withstand unbearable pain.
I unlocked the door, introducing Lola, whose barking ceased as soon as Anna stroked her. I led us through the sitting room, all but tripping over a vacuum cleaner. It felt like the session was descending into chaos with every step. 13
I told Anna I had an analgesic spray that would numb the pain and nipped upstairs to the bathroom to fetch it. Once I was back in the counselling room, I stood behind her and sprayed it directly onto the sting on her shoulder.
So here I was, a therapist who’d turned up late and stressed for his client’s first session, who’d led her through his messy home rather than through the calm and contained side entrance and who was now invading her personal space. As the session unfurled, my actions assumed even more significance. Given what she described, it struck me that the last thing Anna needed was a strange man positioning himself directly behind her.
Finally, we settled.
‘The sessions are fifty minutes long,’ I hurriedly explained, keen not to waste any more of her time. ‘And with the exception of my supervision and in the event that you were in danger of hurting yourself or someone else, the sessions are completely confidential.’
Anna was silent, squirming on the sofa.
‘So,’ I said, ‘what has brought you to counselling?’
ANNA
My leg began to shake and a wave of nausea hit me. Now I was going to have to talk.
My eyes dropped to the therapist’s white Converse and my 14lip started to tremble. ‘I had a nightmare…’ I whispered, as though someone had suddenly stolen my voice. I was unable to finish the sentence, as memories of the bad dream entered my head and the tears began to flow. I’d never cried in front of a stranger in my life and I felt embarrassed, almost penitent, believing that he must have thought I was highly unprofessional.
My mind wandered back to a few nights ago, to a terrifying nightmare that resulted in my first-ever panic attack.
I had woken suddenly, sitting up abruptly in bed with an audible gasp. Drenched in sweat and disorientated, I stumbled clumsily across the landing to the bathroom, the children’s nightlights helping to guide my path. Barely making the toilet bowl, I vomited as quietly as I could, trying not to wake the peaceful house.
After emptying the contents of my stomach, I began to silently cry. The tears fell by themselves and splashed gently onto the floor, before they turned into sobs and I was gasping for breath. I lay down on the cool tiles as I felt invisible hands around my throat, squeezing every last breath out of me. I couldn’t swallow and I couldn’t remember how to breathe. The more I attempted to gulp air into my lungs, the more my chest and throat restricted. I was scared. Terrified, in fact. My thoughts were a confused muddle. Was I dying? Having anaphylaxis? My heartbeat was so deafening I was sure the rest of the house could hear it.
Eventually, my breathing became staccato and my heart rate slowed slightly. I willed myself to move. I heard my 15two-year-old turn over in his bed and my maternal instincts jolted me back into reality.
After making sure that everyone was safe and triple-checking that the front door was locked, I climbed back into bed, trying not to wake a soundly sleeping Sam. The sheets had cooled and dried from my sweaty nightmare and I started to shiver. As I lay wide awake, images and scenes from the dream began to play over and over again on a continuous loop. Spinning trees, a screeching car, a front door, blurred faces, smells and noises. I began to cry again, silently sobbing into the pillow until exhaustion took over and I fell into a restless sleep.
I don’t know how long I’d been reliving that moment in front of Paddy – only a few seconds perhaps – but it was long enough to experience some of the sensations from the panic attack that had followed my nightmare. My breath had quickened and as I looked down at my wrist, my sports watch was flashing like I was sprinting, with my heartbeat at its peak. If only Paddy could just have read my mind, instead of me having to voice anything.
‘Would you like to tell me about the nightmare?’ Paddy gently asked.
His kindness was unsettling and yet reassuring and calming at the same time. I tried to ignore the instincts that were screaming at me to keep my mouth shut. Every time I’d tried to speak up in the past, it had backfired, badly.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I shook my head and glanced longingly at the door. The exit. The escape route. 16I was so tempted to run away and not come back. But as I was in the middle of nowhere and Sam wasn’t coming to get me until the end of the session, I didn’t have much choice. I reminded myself I was there for a reason and tried to be brave. I thought of the hornet’s warrior-like spirit. I knew that I wasn’t going to get anywhere unless I talked. My eyes rested on a map of Devon on the wall. It soothed me slightly. Maps have always brought me comfort and a sense of order and logic when I have felt lost or unsure.
‘Yes… but not yet,’ I managed to say.
Silence fell between us. His constant eye contact was unbearable. Fifty minutes felt like an eternity. I fidgeted under his gaze.
Unable to stand the awkward silence, I pulled out my phone.
‘I’ve written some stuff down,’ I said. ‘It was actually quite cathartic.’
I hoped he would think that I had processed it all and was fine now. That I wasn’t damaged or broken, and maybe I wouldn’t have to come back again.
I unlocked my phone and froze as I stared at the screen. I was paralysed with indecision. There was more silence. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk. I didn’t know what to do. I’d spent decades suppressing a secret and not wanting anyone to know, and yet I desperately needed to tell someone. I couldn’t imagine or dare to hope what it might be like not to have to carry the sheer weight of my secrets. Maybe it would be OK if I wasn’t planning to come back. I could let him read 17my notes and that would help me somehow. The nightmares would magically stop and I’d never have to see him again.
I passed him the phone, my hand shaking with nerves.
‘Would you like me to read the notes?’ he asked.
I hesitated. And while all of my instincts screamed NO, I nodded.
‘To myself or out loud?’
‘Out loud is fine,’ I said. Although as soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
PADDY
As I read the words, it became clear that this was an account of an event that had occurred almost twenty years previously, while Anna was studying at university.
Although brief and unemotional, like an office memo, it was charged with electricity and filled with pain.
CHAPTER 3
Eighteen. Just started university. Flatmate’s birthday. Drank a lot in our halls then went to a club. Was wearing clothes I wouldn’t normally wear – borrowed from flatmates. Short skirt, vest and boots.
Got upset and ran out of the club without keys or coat.
Bumped into X not far from the club and cried. We were by a grassy area with trees and bushes and he took me behind a bush and we sat down. We kissed and then I stood up and said I needed to go home. He pushed me down…
Afterwards I ran back to my halls and saw friends. Was upset. Eventually one asked if I’d been… and I nodded.
Next day no one spoke to me. My friends wouldn’t talk to me and eventually started sending me messages saying I was a slag and a liar etc.
Hung out with new friends and spent as little time as possible at my halls. Got on with life.
Last day before I went home for the summer. Alone in my flat. Didn’t check the peephole. X came in and… Second time.
CHAPTER 4
Bristol, July 2020
ANNA
As we enter the city centre, it’s eerily quiet. I mirror the silence and stop making conversation. I can’t think of anything to say anyway.
Although I haven’t been here for almost twenty years, I begin to recognise roads and landmarks and as we drive past grand civic buildings, I can feel my nerves build to an unbearable pitch. We stop briefly at a junction and I focus on the tick-tock of the car’s indicator. It reminds me of a rollercoaster. The clack-clack-clack of the chain pulling the carriages up the first ascent, the fear building; except someone has forgotten to pull down the safety bar.
A wave of nausea hits me and I clench my teeth. I fidget and shift in my seat.
‘You OK?’ Paddy asks. 20
We’re at the top hat, the highest point of the rollercoaster; the point of no return. I want to get off and retreat to safety. I realise I’m holding my breath and my knee is bouncing rapidly up and down. I don’t want to shut him out; I need to make the most of this trip.
‘I’m nervous,’ I force myself to reply. And as I exhale, I can feel myself grow a little calmer – the pressure dissipating like dandelion seeds scattering through the breeze. Even after two years of therapy, I’m still surprised at the power of actually verbalising and acknowledging my emotions. The rollercoaster’s safety bar is finally secured.
‘Me too,’ he confesses.
I know that the only way I’m getting off this rollercoaster is if I ride it to the end. With Paddy’s admission that he’s nervous too, it feels like he’s joined me on the ride, although I’m still not looking forward to it.
Paddy parks and we both hesitantly get out of the car.
‘Ready when you are,’ he says.
I take a deep breath. I feel prepared and brave. I also feel scared and weak. This trip could reawaken all of my deepest fears or it could free me from the past. I want nothing more than to move on with my life. The trip is a risk we’re both willing to take.
I pull my rucksack onto my shoulders, which are already tense with nerves, and start to walk. In my head, I have an order of the places I need to visit, which strangely has become the opposite of what I meticulously planned in the 21many months leading up to this moment. I think I’m saving the hardest parts for later.
‘There’s the museum and the uni buildings.’ I’m pointing out the bloody obvious like a terrible tour guide. I know that I’m deflecting from what’s going on inside me. Trying to hide the rising dread. But I’m scared that if I pay even the slightest bit of attention to it, the terror will overwhelm me and I won’t be able to continue.
Fear has held me captive for the majority of the past twenty years. Today, I have the opportunity to confront it.
CHAPTER 5
‘When we face pain in relationships our first response is often to sever bonds rather than to maintain commitment.’
bell hooks, AllAbout Love:New Visions
Devon, July 2018
ANNA
Despite Paddy reading softly and without emotion, his voice sounded like a scream. It hung in the air and I imagined myself grabbing handfuls of the words and shoving them back into the phone. It was too late – everything that I’d kept inside for so long was suddenly out.
As he finished reading, I realised that I’d teared up. I swiped at my eyes with a finger before he could see. It was a lot to share in one go. Especially with a stranger, even as kind as he was. I didn’t deserve kindness.
Paddy handed me back the phone.
He said nothing. 23
I said nothing.
It was another excruciating silence. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Was I in trouble?
PADDY
Rushing to speak when Anna was silent seemed the wrong reaction, so I responded with a silence of my own. But I wanted to communicate an important message within it. Anna had just told me something that she’d held inside for nearly two decades. I wanted my silence, above all, to communicate acceptance.
When I eventually spoke, I was careful not to use the word ‘rape’. For whatever reason (and it later became clear), she had chosen not to use it herself and it was critical that I remained within her frame of reference. I needed to hear what was being communicated and respond in a way that showed her I understood her inner world and what it meant to be her.
ANNA
‘Which part upset you?’ he said, finally piercing the silence.
I was irritated that I hadn’t hidden my tears well and that 24he’d noticed. ‘I don’t want people to look at me differently,’ I heard myself say.
With the exception of Sam, the people I’d told before had. I was certain of it. And at that moment, I was certain that Paddy thought less of me. Why wouldn’t he? And why would he believe me when others hadn’t?
‘Did you report it?’
My shoulders dropped and I let out a disappointed sigh. That familiar and predictable question. I didn’t report it, so I’m not a proper ‘victim’.
I shook my head. He doesn’t believe me.
I glanced up at him. His brow furrowed as he seemed to be searching for something to say. Another silence.
‘You’re not to blame, Anna.’
Fresh tears rapidly replaced the ones I’d wiped away. Tears of shame, embarrassment and mortification but also of relief and confusion at his kindness. Paddy wasn’t saying he didn’t believe me. He looked pointedly at the tissues next to me, but not wanting to make a fuss or admit I was upset, I used the back of my hand.
His empathy was frightening and I panicked – realising that I had let my defences down. My heart began to race and a sense of dread spread through my chest. It was frightening because I knew deep down it meant that he could see through the façade that I’d carefully constructed. The sturdy walls I’d built to protect myself from pain and rejection had suddenly crumbled, leaving me unguarded and exposed. A stupid mistake; I should have known better. I berated myself 25for showing weakness, for letting him see my tears. I was undeserving of any kindness. He had no idea! Of course I was to blame. Did he not read it properly? My defences came back up and I deeply regretted sharing my words with him.
‘How does it feel, letting me read those words?’ Paddy asked.
Fucking awful. Crushing. Like I’ve been promised a puppy and instead been shot at close range.
I composed myself. Sat a little taller.
‘Good,’ I replied, attempting a smile.
I didn’t know why I had said it, but I knew that pleasing people was usually a good option. Safer, even.
PADDY
All therapists make mistakes. I rarely hit on the perfect analogy, phrase or interpretation – the one that ‘fits’ the client, that makes them feel heard and understood at the deepest level – first time around. But with luck, those ill-fitting words act like stepping stones, helping therapist and client to move forwards together towards an understanding that does fit.
Inevitably, there are occasions when a mistake feels less constructive and more clumsy or insensitive. Asking Anna whether she’d reported the rapes struck me, almost immediately, as a misjudged comment. It placed responsibility on her, when she bore none. Why had I said it? The truth is I was reeling from the impact of her revelation – feeling, 26quite suddenly, out of my depth. I’d been practising for over ten years and in all that time had never encountered a client who’d been raped. In trying to lock on to facts, I’d hoped to gain some scaffolding. What I should have done was stay with her, precisely where she was.
‘I’m glad I’ve found a counsellor,’ I remember her saying towards the end of the session. ‘I won’t have to tell my story ever again.’
I doubted that would be the case. But there seemed little point drawing her attention to what lay ahead if she committed to the work. Hope is fundamental to therapeutic success.
As we drew to a close, I invited her to think about writing down the nightmare if she had it again. It might have seemed familiar to her, but the content could have useful things to impart, while possibly offering another route into the therapeutic work.
ANNA
I felt extreme relief hearing our family car pull into the drive. The hour had been so painful and not only because of the hornet sting. In fact, in a strange way, that physical pain had provided a welcome distraction from the emotional pain I was trying so hard to avoid. I couldn’t wait to leave and before I’d even walked out of the door, I knew I wasn’t going to return.
CHAPTER 6
PADDY
Anna was at the beginning of a journey. Years before, I’d begun one of my own.
