Читать книгу The Satanic Mechanic - Sally Andrew - Страница 23

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

I had both Henk and Hattie telling me what to do. I don’t like to be pushed around, but I was tired and lost, and they seemed to know the way. Before I left Oudtshoorn, I went to the doctor.

Doctor Walters had short white hair and kind blue eyes. His office was small and cosy, and he sat behind a leather-topped wooden desk. Against the wall were bookshelves, packed with fat books.

‘How can I help you, Mrs van Harten?’

‘My boyfriend thinks I need help after I was kidnapped by a murderer last year. My friend thinks I need sleeping tablets. The FAMSA counsellor says I am obsessed with food and must go on a diet.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘My problems are bigger than that . . .’

He waited for me to explain.

I said, ‘I have nightmares, and I wake up shaking. And I remember things . . . Well, it’s more like they are happening right now.’

‘Things about the kidnapping?’

‘No . . . Bad things that happened with my husband. He is dead now.’

‘When did he die?’

I swallowed. ‘A few years ago. But the problem is getting worse lately. Since . . . since I’ve had a boyfriend. It’s made it worse somehow.’

‘Hmm,’ said the doctor. ‘Did you have a traumatic experience in the past?’

I looked at the paperweight on his desk. It was a glass cat with wide staring eyes that could see right though me, like I could see through it.

‘Were you abused by your husband, Mrs van Harten?’

I nodded. Should I tell this man what really happened?

‘Do you experience any feelings of dissociation?’ he asked.

He was changing the subject now. I wouldn’t have to tell him my secret.

I frowned and asked, ‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you sometimes feel disconnected and far away from others, or even from yourself? Do parts of your body feel as if they are operating in a discordant fashion?’

I nodded. ‘Sometimes my hands do something different from what my head wants them to,’ I said. I remembered how I’d struggled to heat up that orange pudding when I was upset. And how that time with Henk, my mouth had called out something without asking me first.

He said, ‘Are your nightmares like flashbacks – as if you are reexperiencing the event in the present?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘just like that.’

‘Is your current boyfriend abusing you?’

‘No. The opposite; he is so good to me.’

‘Sometimes intimacy brings up old wounds,’ he said. ‘Do you experience feelings of powerlessness or depression?’

‘I do feel sad about what’s happening. I’m not in control of my life, like I should be.’

‘And low libido? Sexual drive?’

‘It’s not that I’m not interested, but we can’t get really close, that kind of intimacy, because I feel sick, and the shaking and flashbacks start up again.’

‘Hmm. Did you have bad sexual experiences with your late husband? Rape?’

I looked at the glass cat and nodded.

‘And these psychological problems have been going on for more than six months?’ he asked.

‘Yes. But like I said, it’s got worse recently.’

‘It sounds like you have PTSD,’ he said. ‘Post-traumatic stress disorder. It sometimes occurs after a traumatic event or series of events. Most common in men after war experiences, and women after domestic violence.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh.’

I felt relieved to have a name for my problem and a man who understood it.

‘Can you fix it?’ I said.

He gave a sad smile. ‘Unfortunately there is no quick fix for PTSD. But, over time, counselling can help. You said you have a counsellor?’

‘Yes, but I am not sure she understands . . . like you do.’

‘Counselling is not my department, but try to find yourself a PTSD counsellor or support group.’

‘It’s funny,’ I said, ‘I just spoke to someone yesterday who was in a PTSD group. A mechanic—’

‘Well, do look into that. What I can give you is an antidepressant, which can help improve your mood and regulate your sleeping.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘okay.’

He wrote out a prescription and handed it to me.

‘It may take a little while to work properly, but be patient,’ he said. ‘It will take the edge off while you sort out your problems.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Walters.’ I felt tired and hungry.

‘I wish you all the best, Mrs van Harten.’

‘Doctor?’

‘Yes.’ He was closing a folder on his desk.

‘Does this mean I can stop the diet now?’

‘Hmm. You certainly won’t cure your problems with a diet,’ he said. ‘Addictive eating could be part of the PTSD profile, but it’s a symptom rather than a cause. Of course, there’s no harm in losing a bit of weight.’ He kept his eyes on my face, not the rest of me. ‘I’m not a dietician, but different diets go in and out of fashion. If you apply common sense, you should be fine. Obvious stuff: exercise, eat healthy food, only eat when you’re hungry.’

The problem is, I thought as I left his office, I am always hungry.