Help Me!
Page 19
My answer was clear as day. ‘No’.
‘So why are you thinking so much about him?’ she asked.
‘Because I have to think about something.’
And I had done the same with Geoff: he had never said anything to lead me on. He just saw me as a friend, I’d made up the rest in order to do what I always do, which is run like hell from something real. I messaged The Greek. He didn’t reply.
I ended September feeling angry – at Doreen, at angels, at Geoff – but mostly at myself. Nine months into self-help and what had got better for me? I’d ignored a man who liked me by becoming obsessed with one who had no interest. I was more stupid with money than I’d ever been. After finally ripping off the sticker with my pretend weight of nine stone nine pounds, I saw that I’d put on nearly a stone since The Secret by saying F**k It, let’s have the ice cream/pasta/cake for breakfast. And now I’d wasted two weeks trying to talk to angels? Who had I become? I mean, really? What was I doing to myself?
11
Sick
‘All this thinking about yourself is not good for you.’
– Mum
I was making myself sick, for a start.
At the beginning of October, I was struck down with a sore throat, shivers and hacking cough. I would have asked my angels for their healing powers, except, well, I didn’t believe in them. Instead I went home to Mum and spent a week being fed toast, watching Gossip Girl and eating paracetamol.
At first it was fine. It was actually nice to have an excuse not to work or do self-help and just to lie under the icecream-coloured duvet I had as a child. It felt good to have Mum bring me tea and ask me if I want marmalade or jam on my bread. But after ten days – about the time Netflix started asking me ‘How often do you watch teenage drama? Often/Very Often?’ – the novelty wore off.
The doctor told me it was a virus and that I just had to rest and drink lots of fluids. But a week later, when I’d been sick for almost three weeks, I looked for an alternative diagnosis. A self-help diagnosis. You see, in self-help land a bug is never just a bug. There is always something more happening, some sort of deep-rooted emotional or psychological cause.
The Secret says that you cannot get sick unless you are on the frequency of sickness – Was I on the frequency of sickness? Rhonda said something about someone who cured themselves of cancer by watching comedies so I started watching Parks and Recreation on my laptop. It was funny. But it did not make my glands any less hamster-y.
Tony Robbins talked about a doctor who cured people with nothing but water and so I drowned myself in fluids. But he also said that anything that happens frequently is happening because it fulfils one of your human needs such as a way of getting love and attention or significance – did I get sick in order to be looked after, to feel special?
John Parkin of F**k It used to get sick a lot too – I think he had eczema. I found a podcast in which he said that he only started to get better once he said F**k It and accepted his dodgy skin. So I lay in bed with eyes closed, repeating in my head: ‘I accept my sore throat and headache.’ I was then furious when all this acceptance did not prompt an instant cure.
Louise Hay, the matriarch of modern self-help and founder of Hay House publishing, even created a list documenting all the emotional causes of illness. She said that people who got regular sore throats were ‘holding in angry words’ and ‘feeling unable to express the self’. This rang true – I never spat things out! I never could tell people what I was thinking. Gemma had spent years encouraging me to stop my people-pleasing ways and to ‘speak my truth’ but look what happened when I spoke my truth with Sarah. I should have kept my swollen gob shut.
Another site said that constant coughs and colds were a way of staying like a child. Oh. I did not like that theory but, seeing as I celebrated my thirty-seventh birthday at home with my mother getting fed homemade vegetable soup, I had to admit there might be something in it.
I tried these theories out on Mum, who was having none of it.
‘Marianne, you’ve had ENT problems since you were in primary school. Some people have arthritis, or migraines – it’s just a weakness you have. Just rest.’
‘Yeah, but arthritis is caused by resentment. And migraines, I think are – actually I don’t know what causes them. I think it’s something to do with putting too much pressure on yourself.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Marianne. People get sick. End of story.’
‘But I always get sick – much more than other people. Rachel doesn’t get sick as often as I do, neither does Gemma, or you . . .’
And that was true. I got sick all the time. A late night, I’d get a cold. Busy period at work, I’d wake up with a sore throat. For most of my twenties, when I was working in newspapers, I was a walking, talking case of tonsillitis. Ironically, I was the deputy health editor at the time.
After surgery to remove my rancid tonsils didn’t cure me, doctors told me I was on the verge of Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and I panicked. A colleague gave me a copy of a book called The Joy of Burnout by Dina Glouberman. It argued that sickness is a way of telling you that something has to change in your life, so I quit my job to go freelance and had, generally, been healthier since.
But was I burning out again now? Was self-help making me sick? Was my sickness my body’s sign that all this thinking about myself was not good for me?
For nine months I’d thought of nothing else but me, myself and I, analysing every second of my life and every facet of my personality. There was hardly a minute in the day when I didn’t think, Why did I say that? Why did I do that? Am I self-sabotaging? Am I scared of being rejected?
At first, I had thought the self-analysis would be helpful. I had thought that if I kept going I’d get to the bottom of the mess in my head and I’d be fixed – but it wasn’t working like that. The more I looked at my flaws, the more I had. I could have spent a whole year addressing my money issues alone – and I hadn’t realized that was one of my problems. I hadn’t even got into men yet! Let alone my fear of confrontation, and the crazy voice in my head that told me everything I did was a total failure.
And that voice was getting louder every day. Despite the daring deeds and beautiful moments, I felt like a bigger failure than ever because I was failing at self-improvement. Why wasn’t I perfect yet? Or at least richer? Or more productive? By now, surely, I should at least have had more money in the bank than I did at the start of the year, I should have taken up jogging or been meditating every day. As it was everything in my life had got worse.
One of the arguments against self-help is that if any selfhelp book worked we’d buy one and that would be it – we’d be cured! I’d downloaded five in the last week. The more self-help I read the more I wanted to read. I kept thinking that the secret to happiness lay in the next book, the next book, the next book. It no longer occurred to me to figure anything out myself. Instead I kept turning to the men and women in my head. What would F**k It John say I should do? What would Tony say? Or Susan?
I had the same relationship to self-help that I had to wine: one glass was too many and twelve was never enough.
My friends no longer got a moment on my Facebook feed – it was too full of quotes from the Dalai Lama. I used to hate inspirational quotes, written in italics set against a mountain backdrop – but my brain was now a sea of affirmations and slogans. ‘Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.’ ‘The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of the dream . . .’
At weekends and evenings I’d found myself ignoring my old friends to go with Daisy to lectures on living an ‘abundant life’, ‘listening to your spirit’ and ‘manifesting miracles’.
As I lay in bed with unwashed hair and unwashed pyjamas, I thought about how disconnected I’d become from my old life. I hadn’t heard from Sarah since May and I hadn’t seen Gemma in months. I had only met her baby boy once, which was inexcusable.
I hardly even talked to my sisters anymore. I w
as sulking with Helen after she’d suggested that my attempts to talk to angels were an even more worrying development than naked yoga.
She was right – I had lost my sense of humour.
I’d become that person you’d back away from at parties. The one who gives a two-hour answer to the ‘How are you?’ question – an answer that involves therapy-speak about my childhood and inappropriate details about issues with men.
I kept thinking about what that woman had said at the barbecue in August.
‘Self-help books only serve to make neurotic people more neurotic.’
Was that true?
I called Rachel.
‘Do you think that any of this is helping?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Like, do I seem wiser to you? Or happier? I’m worried that all this thinking about myself is making me a bad, selfish person.’
‘Well, it’s good you feel that way. It means you’re not totally self-obsessed.’
Emphasis on the totally.
I went back to sleep and woke up four hours later in wet sheets. It was 4pm and already getting dark. I went into the kitchen, where Mum was making bread.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Better. I think my temperature broke.’
‘Good, now change your sheets, have a shower and wash your hair – it will make you feel better.’
‘OK.’
‘And tomorrow I want you to go next door and see Carmel. She’s always asking after you when she sees you in the paper and you always say you’ll go and say hello and you never do.’
‘OK.’
‘I mean it. The poor woman can hardly walk but she never complains. Do any of these books tell you to do things for other people – or is it always about yourself? It’s not healthy for anyone to think about themselves as much as you have. You wouldn’t be able to lie around like this if you had three children to look after and a house to keep clean.’
Her comments stung. I wanted to flounce out of the room and tell her that she was judgemental and critical and miserable and unenlightened but I couldn’t. I knew she was right – it wasn’t just a virus making me sick, it was me.
I was quite literally sick of myself.
That night we watched X Factor. A crying teenager was sent off. ‘This is very cruel,’ said Mum. ‘We’re no better than the Romans.’
The next day I went to see Carmel, who was eighty-five and recovering from a hip operation.
‘How are you feeling?’ I asked.
‘I’ll be back on the dance floor soon!’
‘Good! You look well,’ I said. And she did. Hair still stiff from recently removed rollers, a pretty lilac cardigan which matched the flowers on her skirt.
‘I like your cardigan.’
‘Thank you.’
I felt ashamed that I was sitting in her immaculate sitting room with unbrushed hair shoved into a messy ponytail and an over-sized jumper that I may have slept in. She was eighty-five and still put lipstick on every day. I couldn’t even be bothered to put a brush through my hair.
‘That’s a lovely picture,’ I said, pointing to a black-and-white photo on the mantelpiece of her and her husband on their wedding day. ‘You must miss him.’
‘Every minute of every day . . .’ she said, looking out of the window, her eyes becoming damp. ‘But enough of that. Isn’t it a beautiful day?’ she said. I looked out of the window too, at the leaves turning burgundy and gold, falling from the trees. This was usually my favourite time of year but I hadn’t even noticed it until now.
‘And how is it going at the newspaper?’
‘OK. I’m not working in the office anymore, I work from home, so that’s nice.’
‘Such freedom you have.’
‘I know, I’m lucky.’
‘And what fun are you having? Any suitors?’
‘No, not really, life is quiet.’
She carried on chatting, telling me about her book club and a charity fundraiser at the church.
Radio 4 was on in the background and the news came on. We started listening to accounts from Syria. It was a shock to hear the news after months of avoiding it.
‘I’ve never known the world to be as unhappy as it is today,’ said Carmel, shaking her head. ‘You have to count your blessings, that’s all we can do. Make the best of every day. Life’s short.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’
I went out to Carmel’s driveway and swept up the leaves, enjoying the feeling of the cold fresh air making my cheeks pink. Someone was burning leaves nearby and the smell filled the air. It was one of my favourite smells. It meant that Christmas was around the corner, the nights drawing in.
As I brushed the rough bristles against the ground, gathering up piles of gold, orange and red leaves, I felt myself calming down. It felt good to be in the fresh air, in the physical world, using my body instead of getting lost in my head. It felt good to be helping somebody . . .
And then I had an epiphany: I’d been doing all this selfhelp stuff wrong. I didn’t need angels and affirmations: I needed to focus on being a good person rather than a happy one! Think of others rather than myself! That’s why Mum and Carmel had a steadiness and contentment that I lacked – they didn’t have time to think about themselves, they were too busy looking after other people. They Just Got On With It! And that’s what I’d do. I would go old-school. Become a selfless saint rather than a selfish navel-gazer!
That would show everyone!
12
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, by Stephen R. Covey
‘Begin with the end in mind.’
The church is empty except for a handful of people kneeling near the front by the organist. The scent of lilies hangs in the air. I walk up towards the gleaming mahogany coffin standing by the altar. My shoes click on the stone tiles and so I put my weight on the balls of my feet, tip-toeing.
I get closer to the coffin. The lid is open. I keep walking and then I am there. Right next to the deceased. I don’t want to look. I mean, nobody likes looking at a dead body – especially when it’s your own.
But I do look and there I am. Dead. Stone cold and rigidly dead.
My skin looks even more deathly white than usual and a layer of powder sits on my face, creating a chalky effect. My lips have been painted a weird shade of raspberry. Who on earth picked that colour? The clothes are better – black trousers and a cream silk blouse. I am slim in death – so that’s something.
I look up and see Mum crying behind the coffin, she is blotting her nose with a paper tissue. Sheila and Helen are standing next to her, looking bored and irritated.
I take a seat on the front bench and look at the piece of paper on it – there’s a badly photocopied photograph of me on the front. It’s a school picture. Surely someone could have found a more recent picture than that? I look at the dates on the printout. I am forty-two when I die. Wow. Forty-two. What happened? But deep down I know what happened.
I sit quietly, wearing the same outfit I am wearing in the coffin. A priest appears and starts talking about life and death and God’s mysterious way but his heart’s not in it. He’s going through the motions. And can you blame him? He’s never even met me.
‘I’d like to invite Marianne’s loved ones to say a few words,’ he says, with hushed solemnity, bowing obsequiously as he backs away from centre stage.
Sarah appears. Her hair looks great – it’s in a bob. ‘You look lovely!’ I want to say but I don’t. Now is not the time. She walks up to the pulpit and takes a deep breath. She looks down at Steve and the little girl sitting next to him in the congregation.
‘Is that your daughter?’ I want to shout. ‘That’s so exciting! You have a child!’
She takes a deep breath.
‘Marianne had it all but it was never enough,’ she says, her chin jutted forward in defiance, determined to say the truth.
‘This was her own doing and I’m done feeling guilty about it.’
She steps down and sits next to Gemma, who is crying.
Then it’s Sheila and Helen’s turn. They go up together. Sheila looks at the congregation. ‘She left a mess. As usual,’ she says. A slight laugh in the audience. Look! They are laughing lovingly about my poor housekeeping! It wasn’t all bad! I was known and loved.
‘Thanks for leaving us to look after Mum,’ she says, this time looking at the coffin. Helen stares out towards the back of the church, her face a mask of disdain. She wouldn’t even look at dead me. They sit down.
Then Mum. She looks so old and frail, stooped over in a black dress, clutching her tissues. I want to hug her, rub her back, say I’m sorry. She is shell-shocked, her eyes swollen from tears.
‘Thank you all for coming, it’s very kind of you. I don’t know what to say.’ She looks broken. ‘I just don’t understand . . . I don’t know how she could have done this to herself.’ Her voice breaks and she crumples in on herself as her shoulders shake. Helen brings her back down to the seat. The anger in the church is palpable.
I had done this to myself – that’s what Sarah had said. I have a feeling, a kind of hazy memory of this, like a dream . . . had I killed myself?
The doorbell was ringing. ‘I’ll get it!’ Rachel called from downstairs and I followed the sound of her feet running from the kitchen to the front door. The smell of roast lamb filled the house.
I was not at my funeral. I was in my bedroom sitting at my desk with a pen in my hand and my trusty notbebook. I was supposed to be writing down the wonderful things I wanted people to say about me at my funeral, as a way of inspiring me to be my best self. It had not worked. I went downstairs to join the others for Sunday lunch.
The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People by Stephen R Covey is the War and Peace of self-help. It had been sitting on my bookshelf for years, unread beyond a few pages and, even though it’s considered a classic, I’ve yet to meet anyone who has read it – but maybe that’s because I am not keeping the company of the world leaders who were all said to be fans of Covey’s wisdom.