Читать книгу When Bad Things Happen in Good Bikinis - Helen Bailey - Страница 14

I went to one Mindfulness-based therapist who told me if I would only breathe and be present in the moment, I would realise that death was alright. Oh, how hard it was not to put my hand on his arm and tell him his lovely wife would not ever come home again, that she was at this very moment dead, and then ask him how serene his moment felt. ~ Megan Devine

So here I am, desperately needing help, but after my encounter with the Fat Man, Beardy-Weirdy, Flaky Face and Doktor R, distrustful of conventional psychotherapy. I consider relying on my small band of loyal friends and ditching counselling altogether, but Doktor R had tossed a phrase into one of our sessions – ‘sympathy fatigue’ – and I begin to worry that there is only so much weeping and wailing normal people with full-time jobs can stand.

Somewhere on my travels, I’d picked up a leaflet for a ‘Soul Therapist’. I dig it out. This sounds exactly what I need, a counsellor who practises healing and spiritual enlightenment.

After an exchange of emails outlining what has happened, I book an appointment for Thursday afternoon at two.

The day arrives; it’s unseasonably warm. Full of hope that Soul Therapy is the way forward, I put on my manky but comfortable trainers, and walk from my home in north London, down the hill to the therapist’s practice. I’m early – way too early. Aimlessly mooching around the area to kill time, I wander into a delicatessen. Displayed on the counter is a single fat slab of carrot cake smothered in cream cheese icing. The cake looks tempting, but because of the heat, I delay its purchase. The last thing I need is a sad greasy puddle of icing by the time I get home. The plan is, if I’m still hungry after my session, I’ll go back and get it.

The woman who greets me at the therapy rooms reminds me of Lady Penelope from Thunderbirds, right down to the slightly puppetish nodding of her head. She gives me a smile, the type of smile with which I am now depressingly familiar – tight and sad and full of pity – this time from a mouth painted in an alarming shade of orangey-red lipstick. I know within seconds that Lady Penelope is kind, but not for me.

She asks me to tell her again about the accident, so, sobbing, I recount that fateful morning. She suggests that before we move on to other areas, we use this first session to do some healing to replenish my energy levels. She talks about chakras, points me towards the couch, and as I am about to swing my legs onto the pristine covering, I clock my shoes: dirty and battered. I go to take them off and, apologising for their disgusting state, explain that I walked here. She sounds surprised that I have made the trek. I assure her that in this heat I will get the bus back up the hill.

I lie down and close my eyes, aware of her hands hovering over my body.

Within seconds, my stomach starts to rumble.

I apologise.

Lady P tells me that the rumbling is a sign my chakras are opening; energy is moving around my body. I have a degree in Physiology, and whilst I haven’t used it for 25 years, I’m pretty certain the curriculum didn’t cover chakras as a reason for digestive disturbance.

The rumbling gets worse and I begin to stress that I might fart.

I wonder if Lady P will explain it as my chakras exploding.

I tense my bum and start obsessing about the carrot cake. I should have bought it before the session and not worried about the icing. What if it’s gone? It’s the only thing that’s whetted my appetite for ages and now someone else – someone who isn’t grief-stricken, just greedy – might have bought it. The more I think about the carrot cake, the more my stomach rumbles. I mentally walk into the shop: I can see the cake and – Oh! – there were sausage rolls too. I could have a sausage roll and a slice of carrot cake. But what if they have both gone?

The session is over. Lady P asks me if I have seen any lights, felt any warmth, experienced any tingling?

I tell her the truth and say I felt nothing, withholding my feelings of anxiety over carrot cake and my rumbling gut.

She says she has a strong sense that my emotional energy is very weak, but that my physical energy is surprisingly strong. As I lace up my trainers, I cynically reflect that anyone could have deduced this from my walking/sobbing combo.

Lady P is kind, sincere and means well, but as I hand over my money, we both know I won’t be back.

I’m in the deli. Oh! Happy! Happy! Joy! Joy! The carrot cake is still there, along with an ‘artisan’ sausage roll. The girl behind the counter puts them in a bag and then squashes them with my impulse purchases – some cheese and a pork pie – but I don’t realise this until I get home.

I’m annoyed that I have spent more money on quackery, disappointed and tearful that yet another avenue of therapy has failed me. I’m still lost, frightened and grieving my husband.

24 hours pass. On Friday evening, sitting in the garden, I reflect on the day. To my surprise, I realise that it has been the calmest day since the accident, almost peaceful with minimal tears. Perhaps it was just the calm before the next storm as the feeling didn’t last, but weeks later, the day after my Soul Therapy session still stands out as the calmest I have felt in the last four months.

I haven’t been back to Lady Penelope – there was no connection – but as for healing being a waste of time? Now, I’m not so sure.