My Pear-Shaped Life: The most gripping and heartfelt page-turner of 2020!

by Harrington, Carmel

  Greta felt smug again. She had been articulate and reasonable. Not desperate in the least. When would she learn that whenever she felt smug, it usually meant that things were about to go any which way but hers?

  ‘No.’

  ‘That doesn’t make sense!’ Greta was outraged, then shoved her hands behind her back when she saw Noreen looking at them.

  ‘What doesn’t make sense is the fact that less than twenty-four hours into your treatment for drug addiction, you think it’s appropriate to ask me for drugs.’ Noreen was still smiling.

  ‘And what doesn’t make sense to me is that you would expect me to do this without any support. It’s cruel. Inhumane even.’

  Noreen’s smile slipped away at that point. ‘You need to return your brain to its normal function, without the need to take chemicals to make it work. Until you do that, you won’t be able to sleep.’

  ‘But you don’t understand. I cannot sleep without my pills. The only thing that gives me peace is the sleeping tablets. Everything else is messed up.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, the tablets didn’t solve your insomnia. They just made life a whole lot worse.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say worse,’ Greta countered, not liking how this conversation had turned.

  ‘According to my notes, you almost killed yourself. I wouldn’t call that fine. Was that your rock-bottom moment Greta? When you were pulled from the bath?’

  Greta had no answer to that.

  ‘You’ve forgotten how to look for the beauty in your life. It’s there, hidden amid the chaos and mess. Can you let me help you find it again? At least be open to the possibility that rescue is possible. That you can get out of this?’ Noreen asked.

  Greta found herself nodding once. A silent, small gesture that maybe it was time to finally look for help. Noreen glided out of the room, leaving Greta and her shakes behind.

  Chapter 8

  Greta scrambled backwards across the single bed, screaming, as the man moved towards her. If he managed to reach her, there was no doubt in her mind that he would kill her. Her back slammed hard against the cold wall and he disappeared. She reached for the light and switched it on, her heart pounding so fast that she could feel the vibrations in her chest. Her pyjamas were wet through, her body drenched in a cold sweat. She’d had a variation of this same nightmare ever since she was a young child. Ever since the advert. The fear was sometimes paralysing and other times, like just now, she would scramble and claw her way backwards, to escape his gnarly hands, as they reached out to her.

  Her body ached, not just from the emotional onslaught of terror but also from the hours of non-stop puking she’d endured the previous evening and night. Yesterday had been one of the worst days of her life. She suspected much worse was to come.

  There was no way she could go back to sleep. She longed for her iPad or phone, wishing she could while away the hours until morning, scrolling through social media. But without either of them to distract her, that left her with only her thoughts. She was never comfortable with them, which left her in a right pickle. She’d had the same recurring nightmare, on and off, for as long as she could remember.

  Some nights she didn’t remember much about the nightmare, she just awoke knowing that she was terrified. Others, she could remember every moment in precise detail. The unknown hooded man trying to kill her was tall. He wore a long hooded black cloak. Yet, no matter how close he got to her, she never saw his face. It was always blank, as if someone had scrubbed his features away.

  She decided to leave the light on and even though it took her an hour to fall back asleep, she eventually did.

  Later, she managed to sit through Noreen’s group session. This time it was about self-deception. Greta felt every word land uncomfortably in her gut. Did she lie? To herself? To others? She decided that if she did, they were only white lies, so they didn’t matter. Or did they?

  She thought too about when Noreen had asked Greta what she preferred to be called, G or Greta, after the first group therapy session. She had lied and said she didn’t care. Greta hated the name G. She’d said as much to her family ages ago. She asked them to stop calling her Big G. But the very fact that she admitted she didn’t like the name made her brothers cling to it even tighter. That’s how they rolled in the Gale house. And her mother had thrown her eyes to the heavens muttering about notions again. Which was the worst offence any Irish person could commit, as far as her mam was concerned. When Aidan joined the local gym in an attempt to get a six-pack, he’d had notions. When Ciaran came home with chia seeds to sprinkle on top of his porridge each morning because some girl had told him to. Notions of the highest order. And when Greta had got headshots taken for her actress portfolio. She looked brilliant, with a bit of airbrushing and a soft filter. Notions eleven.

  She figured it was easier to shut up and let the Gales continue to call her Big G. Was that self-deception? Greta didn’t think she was very good at rehab. All she did was confuse herself.

  Noreen’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she was pulled back to the group session again. ‘Remember, there is a big difference between giving up and knowing when you have had enough.’

  Should Greta give up her dream to be an actress? She’d now had nearly a quarter of a century of disappointments as she tried over and over to make her star shine once more. Were her moments over?

  Big G

  A has-been in da house.

  Washed-up.

  Literally.

  Greta couldn’t imagine doing anything else but acting. She’d had the bug ever since she was a little girl and wasn’t sure she could give up now. She’d tried all the usual after-school activities as a kid. Soccer, piano, Irish dancing, gymnastics, GAA. But all they did was make her feel inadequate, because she never quite made the grade. Greta remembered her teacher once saying to her parents, smiling, ‘She’s just not athletic, is she?’ And although there was no malice in the comment, it hurt the seven-year-old Greta all the same. She felt like she was failing her family, her teacher. Herself. But then her mam sent her to drama club. Greta had shuffled in to class, expecting to fail. But instead she’d found her voice, her heart, her dream, herself. Her coach told her that she had it, whatever it was. That when Greta performed, she believed her. Greta had swelled with pride and she knew that this was what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. Nothing else mattered but acting. It was her everything.

  Once the group session was over, everyone went to the gym for yoga. It was Greta’s first experience and it wasn’t a pleasant one. As she lay on a mat, all she could smell was feet around her. And she was sure Rory farted too, although he did a big job of waving his arms around, feigning innocence. Greta quickly discovered that she didn’t have a flexible bone or muscle in her body. Her body spasmed about five minutes into the downward dog. And when the instructor pushed in her stomach, telling her to find her inner core, she very nearly puked again, all over her gym shoes. She felt Caroline’s eyes on her, taking in everything, and when Greta left the room, Caroline followed her.

  ‘I’m going to be sick,’ Greta said, running into her bathroom. She begged Caroline to leave, embarrassed. But Caroline stayed and helped her to bed when her body had expelled everything left inside. She placed a cold compress on Greta’s forehead and gently told her that she’d get through this. That better days were ahead.

  Since she arrived at rehab, Greta had wished she had died in the bathtub on a few occasions. But never more so than right now. She couldn’t get away from the voice in her head telling her over and over again how weak and useless she was. The voice that constantly relived her shame. She prayed for an end to her misery until finally her body was quiet, and she fell asleep. The hooded man from her dreams stayed in the shadows and somehow she managed to get through the night.

  Halfway through her first week, a card was slipped under Greta’s door. It was an appointment for her first one-on-one with Noreen. She felt like she was being called to the principal’s office, which w
as a nice room as it happened, with a large mahogany desk sitting in front of a large bay window, overlooking the garden. It was pretty out there, with a twenty-foot weeping willow tree in the corner, a bench underneath it. Noreen stood up to welcome her then she motioned Greta to take a seat. It was a soft comfortable armchair, similar to theirs at home. Greta was relieved to see a large blush velvet cushion, which she placed on her lap. If a seat was missing a cushion, then she’d place her handbag on her lap. A well-rehearsed trick to hide her stomach when she sat down. She had accumulated a stockpile of ways to hide her body over the years.

  Selfies, taken at the right angle, only of her head, never her body.

  Sleeves. God forbid her wobbly arms might be on display.

  Oversized jewellery to distract people from her oversized body.

  And she always stood behind someone or something in photographs. Hiding, Greta was very good at.

  ‘Have you been out to the garden yet?’ Noreen asked.

  ‘I’ve gone for a short walk most mornings before group therapy. I’ve been feeling ill so I’ve not managed much more than that.’

  ‘Now that you’re feeling better, you should expand your horizon a little more. Follow the path to the end of the garden. You’ll see a gate. Head out through that, and you’ll end up at our beach, which is only accessible from this house, so it’s totally private.’

  ‘I’ve never really been the outdoorsy type, but I’ll give it a go.’

  ‘I’m interested to hear about what you feel is the event or defining moment that tipped you into addiction. Have you any thoughts on that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Greta said, and she wasn’t being difficult. She really didn’t know. Events and timings were all muddled up in her head.

  ‘In my experience, people don’t start taking pills unless there’s something else going on. We need to work out what that is for you. You said that you hadn’t been sleeping well for nearly a year before you began taking them?’

  ‘My mam says that I’ve never been a good sleeper. My brothers were never a bother for her, but me, I’ve always been difficult. So I think it’s been an issue for me for most of my life. Obviously the past year or so it’s gotten out of hand. It’s always been the same, Big G, being different.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what that must be like. What do you do during those times when you can’t sleep?’

  ‘I watch TV. Catch up on social media. Play games on my iPad. Sometimes I cry.’ Greta meant that as a joke, but it didn’t land like one.

  ‘I want you to be honest here and dig deeper. Is there any event or time that you think could have triggered the insomnia?’

  ‘No. I can’t think of anything.’ She pushed away her hooded man.

  Noreen looked disappointed. She wrote something else into her notebook. Greta had no idea what the woman wanted from her. ‘What do you want me to say? That I had some big childhood trauma, which I can blame my problems on? My parents are nice. I come from an ordinary, sometimes pain-in-my-ass family. None of this is their fault.’

  ‘So the fault is all yours?’

  ‘Yep. Big G takes a bow. She managed to screw this up all on her own.’

  Noreen scribbled something in her notebook at that, then looked up and said, ‘Why do you do that? Call yourself Big G.’

  ‘It’s my nickname.’

  ‘I understood your nickname was simply G. Short for Greta.’

  ‘My brothers call me Big G.’

  More scribbling in Noreen’s notebook. ‘And is that how you see yourself? As big?’

  Greta looked down at her stomach that swelled over her leggings. She’d seen pregnant women who had smaller stomachs than she had. ‘Well yes. Because that’s what I am. You can hardly disagree with that. I’m grossly overweight.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d call you grossly overweight,’ Noreen said. ‘What I am sure of is that you are very hard on yourself.’

  ‘I’m honest, there’s a difference.’

  ‘And how long have you struggled with your weight?’

  ‘Since I was old enough to be aware of my size. So I guess for a long time.’

  ‘And have you tried to do anything about it?’

  ‘I’ve been on every diet that has ever been invented. From cabbage soup to no-carbs, only carbs, vegetarian, you name it. I’ve joined most of the slimming groups at some point over the years. I even joined the gym last year and signed up to a personal trainer.’

  ‘And how did those diets go?’

  Honestly, for a supposedly intelligent woman, Noreen asked the most ridiculous questions. Greta pointed to her large stomach and said, ‘How do you think?’

  ‘You are a harsh critic.’

  Was she? She didn’t know about that. ‘I just say it like it is. Every time I started a diet, I thought, this time it will work, this time I’ll get that bikini body.’

  ‘Who says you don’t already have one of those?’

  ‘I’d be happy if I could just wear a pair of skinny jeans with a T-shirt tucked into the waistband. Rather than my usual frenzy to find a baggy swing T-shirt that can be worn without clinging to my tummy. Surprisingly hard, I might add.’

  ‘So is it just about how you look? You want to lose weight to feel better about your appearance?’

  ‘No. It’s more than that. I want to be healthy too. I’d like to bend over without a stabbing pain in my ribs. And more than that, my size is affecting my profession. There are limited roles for fat women. Thin is in. Size zero is the hero. Fat is not all that.’

  ‘I can only imagine how hard that must be in your job. For most of us, it’s impossible to conform to societal standards of beauty. But when your job is in the public eye, it must be even harder.’ She looked through her notes, then said, ‘When you hear the word “fat”, how does it make you feel?’

  ‘The word fat has haunted me my whole life,’ Greta sighed.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘My brothers, my mam and dad, they are all thin. All of them. But as soon as adolescence hit, I piled on the pounds. And my dad hated that. He’d nag me. “You’re getting chubby G. Don’t eat that G, it’ll make you fat.” Blah, blah, blah. It’s a shaming word.’

  ‘That must feel like a lot of pressure.’

  ‘Not really,’ Greta lied.

  ‘What’s making you so sad right now?’

  Greta shrugged. ‘I hate talking about my weight. It makes me uncomfortable.’

  ‘And do you talk about it often?’

  ‘Unavoidable lately. It’s a subject that comes up quite a bit at home. My dad runs. He’s moved from park runs to half-marathons. And now my brothers and he are talking about training for a full marathon together. I’m waiting for Mam to sign up next. The family who run together stay together …’ Greta trailed off.

  ‘How does it feel living with a family of keep fit enthusiasts.’

  ‘I feel like they are judging me all the time.’ She whispered. ‘I want to be like them. But I don’t know how.’

  ‘You don’t have to be like anyone Greta. You just have to be you.’

  ‘The problem is, Noreen, that I keep making a mess of that.’

  ‘Maybe. But that’s in the past. You’re making changes now.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘The very fact that you are sitting here talking to me about how you feel is a change from the woman I met on your first day, when you tried to get me to give you pills.’

  ‘Sorry about that. My bad.’

  ‘Oh I’ve had all sorts of requests here. But the point is that you are changing, and that’s good. I would like you to think about how you see yourself. I think that between the pressure you feel at home and the pressure you feel at work, you have developed low self-esteem. We need to work on that too. So to start off, no more putting yourself down.’

  ‘I don’t think I do that,’ Greta said.

  ‘Every label you put on yourself is a negative one.’ Noreen reached over and touched Greta’s hand. ‘Th
ese labels do not determine who you are. You get to decide who you are; nobody else should have that power. And it’s only when you work out who you are, that you will be able to find a way to move on.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Greta said.

  ‘It’s quite simple. You need to find out who Greta Gale is.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m brave enough to do that. It’s easier to be Big G.’

  ‘I don’t think Big G is the person you are supposed to be. Maybe it’s time to find out who that is.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m supposed to be this person either.’ Tears stung her eyes, and she wanted to run out the door, all the way home to Dublin. She’d throw her arms around her family and tell them how sorry she was for everything she’d put them through.

  ‘I’ve been Big G my whole life. I don’t know how to be anyone else.’

  ‘Yes, you do. Try being Greta. The days of Big G are over.’

  Chapter 9

  ‘You’re looking less like a walking dead extra today, G,’ Sam said when Greta walked into the TV room.

  ‘Always the charmer.’

  ‘It’s a gift, I won’t lie.’

  ‘Er, Sam … em … I’m trying something for a while with my name. Can you call me Greta?’

  ‘Sure. Homework from Noreen?’

  ‘Yeah! My head is spinning from all the questions I have to find answers to. She wants me to find myself. I don’t know where to start.’

  Sam laughed, ‘This “getting clean” shit is hard! But seriously … Greta … you do look better.’

  ‘I feel better. I slept for five hours in a row last night. Without a single pill inside of me.’

  ‘And how did you feel when you woke up?’

  ‘Surprised!’ Greta joked, and they both smiled at that.

  ‘For a while there, I wasn’t sure I was going to make it. And truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to or not.’ She pushed aside the image of the hooded man. He had come back again last night. She had woken up, gasping for air, crying for help. Greta had kept these nightmares a secret for so long. She found it impossible to open up about them. But perhaps it was time to mention them to Noreen at their next session.