When I Ran Away by Ilona Bannister (best books to read now .TXT) 📗

about resilience, but it doesn’t matter. There’s some NHS trigger word I’m supposed to say that will make her keep me on but I don’t know what it is, and even if I did, I don’t know if it means they’ll continue my counseling but also send Social Services to the house.

When they said I could get free therapy I thought it was so progressive, so not American. But it took three months to get the first appointment, weeks and weeks of distress piling on top of me. And then I ended up in a dirty doctor’s office because no one listened to the part about the fluorescent lights and medical settings triggering my panic. I got Lorraine, watching the clock, checking boxes, deciding I’m better in four sessions that could have been six but that’s my fault. Just like everything else.

I could find a private therapist, but that means I’d have to talk to Harry about it and I can’t face that conversation. And it would have to be somewhere I could bring the baby, and I’d have to go during school hours, and I’d have to get on a train or a bus and go to Wimbledon or Mayfair. But these simple steps—a matter of a Google search and a phone call—are overwhelming and impossible in a world where a choice between doing the dishes and the laundry leaves my chest tight and my heart beating so fast that sometimes I sit on the front steps of the house with the baby so that, in case I pass out, someone walking down the street will find us and call for help.

Seeing Lorraine was supposed to be easy: close to home, I could walk, someone else did the admin. But Lorraine doesn’t see me.

“…so, why don’t we review the supports you have in place and talk about some ways that you can find other…”

Fuck this. “That sounds like fun, Lorraine, but I’ve got to go.”

“Our session isn’t finished.”

“That’s OK, I’m letting you know now, well in advance, that I won’t be here next week.”

I struggle with the door, my scar prickling every time I move the stroller. Lorraine doesn’t help me. She just turns in her chair and says, “I’m sorry to hear that,” not sorry at all.

The therapy was hard to get but not the diazepam. I told the GP that I was having a hard time and within my ten minute time slot, barely a question asked, she gave me the prescription and the number for the borough counseling service.

I said, “Can I drink on these? I can’t be spaced out, I’ve got a baby and a kid.”

She said, “It’ll take the edge off. Bye now.” And she smiled as she held the door open.

I’ve pushed Rocky to the high street. I can turn left, go home and take the pill, have a drink and let it all go. Or I can turn right, pick up food for dinner, get Johnny from school and be their mother.

“You alright, pet?” I’m startled by the voice. It’s the white-haired checkout lady from Sainsbury’s on her cigarette break. The nice one who loves babies. Pet. Such a sweet name to be called. She touches my elbow. “You been standing ’ere for a bit. You OK?”

I’m so tired. My bones are tired. Exhaustion is pulling them apart, stretching my veins in every direction like a spider’s web, and I am just as impermanent. Transparent. I can hear the creaking hinge blink of my eyelids. I can’t move from this spot, overwhelmed by the possibility of crossing the street. I want to lie down on this sidewalk, absorb the heat from the concrete. This morning I saw a black plastic bag stuck to the street. It was a shopping bag like you get from the corner shop, except I thought it was a dead bird and I started to cry. That’s not the first time that’s happened. Does this woman know how that feels?

“Lovey?” She touches my arm.

“Yes, sorry, I’m just so sleep deprived. You know how it is with these little terrors.”

Somehow there’s still the ability to speak, to be paralyzed on the inside but still moving on the outside.

“Oh, I know, dear, but it goes by fast, too fast. Isn’t he gorgeous? You give your mummy some peace, you ’ear?” she says to Rocky, who turns to look at her with a dimply smile. Charm that he didn’t inherit from me.

“You’ll be OK, love, it don’t last for ever.”

“That’s what they say. See you tomorrow. Always need milk and nappies, you know?” She pats my arm. I watch her put out her cigarette on top of a trash can before she goes back into the store. “Thank you,” I whisper, and turn right.

10 wine, formula A Wednesday in August 2016, 6:25 p.m. London, Grand Euro Star Lodge Hotel, Room 506

I’ve been crying for nine minutes. I know that because I’ve been holding the phone, watching the numbers change. The ladies are still bickering on TV but I’ve lost track of the plot. I check the phone again. Another new email. But this one’s a sudden burst of hope—maybe we could talk and…

Gigi, babes, how are you??? Sorry I didn’t get back to you last week. It’s been mental. Have you seen my Guardian article? It’s so huge for the firm. Anyway I just wanted to say don’t worry about what happened in the office. It’s OK, everyone understands. Remember when I came back I was a wreck too. So should we get the babies together? It’s sooo crazy busy for me the next few weeks, but I’ve got the nanny now and I sent her your details so she’ll coordinate a playdate at mine. I’ll try to pop in if I can if it’s my work from home day. And let’s do drinks next Thursday night? Might have a Law Society thing but let me check and get back to you. We all miss you here.

Got