I can’t remember the last time I talked so much. It wasn’t completely comfortable; there were intermittent moments of awkwardness when we were both painfully aware of the distance that had crept between us. Yet talking to Mel was easy, almost enjoyable, and I can honestly say that I had a nice afternoon. The walk back home was sticky and long. The afternoon rain had added another blanket of humidity which the evening breeze could barely lift. We talked about uni again as we climbed the hill and I told Mel about Brusilov and the research project with Dr Chaise. I was doing most of the talking as she struggled to keep pace.
‘Fuck, I need to start doing exercise,’ Mel wheezed. I told her about the photography minor and she was rather thrilled; happy that I was doing something I was passionate about. Mel gave me a really long hug before she left even though we were damp from rain and sweat. We’d spent hours talking and I was tired but I didn’t feel the desperate need to get away; to run back into my Blackhole. My parents were in the living room with Henry, watching television and they both smiled as I walked past the doorway.
‘Did you have a nice time?’ my mother asked. She was leaning against Dad’s shoulder on the couch and looked tired. Neither was paying any close attention to what they were watching.
‘Yeah, it was really nice,’ I replied.
‘You were gone a long time.’
‘I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to miss dinner.’
‘No, I’m glad. There’s nothing left over thanks to the boys but I can make you something if you want,’ my mother offered.
‘No, that’s okay, I can do it myself.’
‘Okay, just do eat something. There’s bound to be something in the freezer.’
‘Thank you.’
I walked past the kitchen and straight into the shower. I felt disgustingly sticky and washing off the rain and sweat was my priority before food. I also didn’t think my mother would appreciate wet jeans on her dining chairs. I turned the hot water on full and emerged from the bathroom shiny, red and boiling. Walking back into the kitchen I found Peter sitting at the dining table.
‘Hey,’ he greeted.
‘Hey, how are you?’
‘Yeah good, get up to much today?’ Peter asked.
‘Yeah, I saw Mel this afternoon and just got back. Did you want something to eat?’
‘What are you making?’
‘Cereal,’ I announced.
Peter grinned. ‘Yeah, sure.’
Peter sat in silence as I brought the bowls, cereal and milk down to the table. He piled a mountain of cornflakes into his bowl and drowned them in milk. Shovelling them into his mouth, milk dripped down his chin and he wiped it away with the back of his hand.
‘So, what did you do with Mel?’ Peter asked between chews.
‘We went for coffee and just talked. It was really nice.’
‘That’s good.’ Peter nodded his head.
‘What did you get up to today?’ I asked.
‘Ah, well did some uni stuff, helped Dad out, nothing that interesting.’ He had put down his spoon and I knew he had something important to tell me. My interest had been entertained with the mention of uni.
‘I’m going back to Sydney,’ Peter stated.
I looked up from my bowl and smiled. ‘Good.’
Peter nodded his head and gave me a smile but didn’t say anything. His silence was reassuring; he didn’t need any validation or convincing. He’d made up his mind.
‘Is that what you want?’ I asked after a moment.
Peter nodded his head. ‘Yeah, it is. I want this degree. I mean I’m not completely thrilled about going back over east, but I’ll be home in November.’
‘Any plan for after that?’ I asked and Peter’s grinned widened.
‘No fucking clue.’ Peter didn’t seem terrified without a plan, the opposite in fact. He seemed gloriously happy about it; the fact he had nothing but complete freedom in a world where anything was possible.
We sat for a few moments in silence, chewing our disintegrating cereal.
‘I’m going to miss you, Pete,’ I admitted softly.
‘I’m going to miss you too.’
19
‘You can’t have unrealistic expectations, this will take time.’ Alison’s voice was muffled; like she was speaking with a mouth full of cotton wool, or rather my head was stuffed with it. I was finding it hard to pay attention. I was slouched on Alison’s couch, my chin pressed against my chest and rocking my knees gently from side to side. I felt juvenile in such a position: juvenile and suffocated by self-pity. The Blackhole had emerged with an almost ravenous force this morning, unexpected and out-of-character as I’d thought I was winning. The Blackhole had been fading recently, albeit slowly and with obstinate protest but it was growing weaker; the dead weight in my stomach was becoming lighter. On my best days I no longer gave any thought to getting out of bed, it was something that happened by unconscious desire. Yet today had been a struggle and I was exhausted from fighting the Blackhole all day; it clawed with long jagged fingers at the edge of the pit, trying to drag me back down the familiar slick slope. On days like this it felt as though nothing had changed.
Change however, was something that had been relentless over the past three months. Uni had resumed in August, Peter had flown back to Sydney and the house felt hollow without him. We talked maybe once a month but that was okay, I didn’t need to talk to my brother to know that he cared about me; Peter just did. By some miracle I’d passed my exams. Abnormal psychology was by the razor margin of 2% but I’d seen the passing grade and that was all I needed. The irony was that I still couldn’t beat my internal frustration at achieving such a terrible score; I knew what I was capable of and although it wouldn’t matter to my parents, it mattered to me. I wanted to be someone I could be proud of. In the silent fit of tears my results had induced, I’d promised myself that this semester would be different, that I’d actually try and it had worked. Obviously not to the degree I’d foolishly set; I wasn’t studying at the library every day, but my lowest unit average at the moment was 65%, and that was something I could definitely be proud of.
I hadn’t seen much of Brusilov this semester yet a nod in my direction every time we passed each other in the psychology building reassured me that he still regarded me in high esteem. Instead I’d become quite friendly with Margaret Chaise, or Marty, which she preferred. I’d introduced myself at the start of the semester under Brusilov’s suggestion and she was expecting me. Marty was in her early fifties and a rather squat little woman with bird-like features and short brown hair that was beginning to thin. She was loud, incredibly intelligent and possessed with a wickedly black sense of humour. I’d liked her immediately. The feeling appeared to be mutual as she’d picked me, and two other students, to assist with her research over the summer. Marty had been thrilled to learn I played the violin and after a very protracted battle with the ethics committee, also ensnared me as one of her test subjects. She was going to hook me up to electrodes as I played a few pieces and monitor my brain activity. The thought of seeing my brain obviously intrigued me; I wanted to get a look inside my head. Yet honestly I was worried about playing. I hadn’t touched my violin in two years and the date of the trial commencement loomed in December. I had started practicing in the week I joined the study, but my progress initially had been frustrating and torturous; I was impatient and angry with myself. I’d crossly snapped several strings and succumbed to crying a few times, but my mother had been rather encouraging and that had given me the resolve to continue. I was nowhere near my previous ability but three months of practice had given me my confidence back and I was determined to continue with it. I had reclaimed something from the Blackhole and I was proud of that.
My grades and music weren’t the only things different this semester. Abby and I had become closer; we saw each other almost every day and started to hang out more outside of uni. Despit
e all of my criticisms I can honestly say that I liked Abby and I was glad she was my friend. I’d seen less of Glen. We didn’t have any classes together and I missed hanging out with him; I think he missed me too. Glen was all alone this semester and struggling to make friends within his own course, so Abby and I met up with him every Thursday’s for lunch. Lev and Bryce were the same as always and it was comforting, if not nice to have them there. They were two of the few constant things that I could rely on while so much was changing.
Finally, there was Doug. I hadn’t seen or spoken to him for the ten weeks we’d been at uni. I wasn’t avoiding him, not consciously at least, but he was wrapped up in the chiropractic school and that kept him away from the main campus. Glen’s awkwardness about the Kira situation had evaporated when he realised that neither Abby nor I obviously cared and he was the only one of us who still saw Doug. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in Doug’s life. I still cared far too much about him. I’d thought the longer we were apart the easier it would become, but Glen’s weekly updates on Doug had become worryingly significant. They were inherently boring which was of some consolation and I got the feeling that Doug was unhappy. Apparently between study and work, Doug had no time to hang out and Glen resented him a little for that. This petty resentment had actually made him closer to Abby and I. A part of me hoped that Glen spoke about me to Doug as much as he did Doug to me; I wanted Doug to know that I was doing well and that I was some semblance of happy. That was my little petty power trip. Kira was also part of my power trip. I didn’t share any units with her this semester, but Glen did and I ran into her occasionally because of it. She was sickly sweet and condescending while I was perfectly polite. Abby now couldn’t stand her and even Glen had lost what little façade of civility he had initially put on. Abby’s motivations were just driven out of petty loyalty to me, so I took more satisfaction in Glen’s resentment of her. Glen had sworn us both to secrecy when he’d told us that Kira had messaged Doug nearly every day after they’d slept together. That was not surprising. It also wasn’t surprising, at least to me, to hear that Doug had told her that he wasn’t interested and I hated the fact that it gave me hope. “Hope” was a strange way of describing how I felt. In regards to my feelings, nothing had changed but the longer Doug and I went without seeing each other, the harder I felt it would be to resume our relationship. I wasn’t ready, or perhaps I just didn’t know how to start talking to Doug again and right now it was just easier to ignore him completely.
‘You are allowed to have a bad day.’ Alison’s voice was soft. It melted through my cotton-stuffed brain and I snapped my eyes to hers.
‘It’s hypocritical, I want to be better but I’m just so tried.’ I really didn’t give Alison enough credit. I could barely help or understand myself but Alison did. On some level she really did understand me and if I do ever become a psychologist, I want to be like her.
‘The best way for me to help you is to be honest with me,’ Alison coaxed and sometimes it almost felt like she could read my mind. I surrendered with a deep sigh.
‘I’m just so afraid that one bad day will lead to another and then another. I’m scared that slipping once will just push me right back down there.’ Alison nodded her head understandingly.
‘Before I say anything I need to let you know that what you have accomplished over the past three months has been exceptional. In both my professional and personal capacity I am proud of you, so how about we start from the position that you’re in. You are making remarkable steps, evidenced by your improved mental and physical state. If you need tangible proof look no further than your grades this semester. What I need to emphasise is that any expectation you have of being happy all the time is unrealistic; nobody is like that. Happiness wouldn’t exist without it’s opposite; it is only in experiencing sadness can we appreciate and understand what happiness is. Yes, you are partly responsible for your own happiness, a lot of it lies in your subjective context but encouraging happiness in a terrible situation is not only unhealthy, but also irrational. When you are sad, allow yourself to be sad but understand it is only temporary and you are capable of changing at least part of it. You are not going to fall. You have come too far to ever let yourself down like that again, and what you also need to realise is that there are people, like me, in your life who are there to catch you. What I need to encourage you to do is to talk about your sadness. It is a universal emotion, one that people can empathise with and those close to you will never judge you for it.’ It was moments like this that reminded me of why I studied psychology; if I could help one person the way that Alison was helping me, my life would be what I wanted.
‘More importantly, you don’t need a reason to be unhappy. Sometimes you just wake up wrong,’ Alison added.
Sometimes you just wake up with a Blackhole in your bed.
‘I don’t know why I’m like this today,’ I admitted.
‘Because you’re in recovery. It’s not like a light; you can’t expect to turn on a little switch in your head and banish the darkness. This is something that you will have to consistently work at, but it will become effortless. One day you’ll look back on this period in your life and marvel at how far you’ve come, it will feel like another life entirely.’
‘I just wish that day would hurry up and get here.’
Alison gave a small chuckle. ‘It will, don’t rush it.’ I shoved my bum against the back of the couch and sat upright. ‘It just feels like the things I need to do to get better I can’t; no matter how hard I want to, my brain just won’t let me.’
‘It’s a peculiar condition; psychologists refer to it as the catch-22 of disorders.’
‘I never understood that reference,’ I admitted, slightly ashamed of my ignorance.
‘You haven’t read Catch-22? By Joseph Heller?’
I shook my head. ‘No, I didn’t really read much when I was a kid and now… the last thing I could imagine was picking up a book.’
‘You should read it. I think you’d appreciate it, especially the humour,’ Alison suggested.
‘Okay, I’ll give it a go.’ My voice sounded less enthusiastic than I actually was.
‘Just remember that no matter how difficult a task appears, you are capable. It’s not you that’s stopping you, it’s just the disorder and you are so much more than that.’
I was optimistic leaving Alison’s office. Not about life, just the fact that I felt marginally better after talking to her. Maybe she wasn’t as useless as I’d thought.
If any month was to have a psychological disorder when it came to the weather it would be October. Days where the temperature reached the 30s, but were filled with storms of white lightning and thunder that was muffled under a dirty thick blanket of cloud. Today was one of those days. Town was quiet, the weather obviously keeping tourists off the main street and the homeless in their night-time nests. It felt alien to walk down Market Street without weaving between selfie-mad Asians, slushie-sucking school kids, and sunburnt Europeans. I was still thinking about Catch-22. Whether it was the desire to finally understand the reference, or Alison’s recommendation but I found myself walking to the only bookstore I knew in Fremantle with the intent to find it. It was a long, narrow store with wall-length bookshelves lining the perimeter; in the middle was a haphazardly organised bin which contained all of the popular trash literature. I wasn’t paying attention as I rounded the corner to walk in the door. Had I, I may have considered finding another store because I ran straight into the back of Doug. I felt the tiny pilot light of my heart flicker anxiously and responding, the muscle began to beat faster. I nervously clutched the strap of my bag and swallowed the lead-lump of an apology caught in my throat. He stared at me in mute surprise for half a second before that smile broke over his face and poured gasoline over the light in my heart.
‘Hey. Oh my God, hey. How are you?’ Despite the calmness of his words Doug ran his hand nervous
ly through his hair. It was longer than he usually preferred, he obviously hadn’t cut it in a while and he also needed a shave. This was the first time I’d seen him since we’d had that talk. Catching sight of the back of him as he walked through the library’s print office three weeks ago didn’t count. He looked tired and stressed but his smile could convince any stranger otherwise. I was uncomfortable with the fact I knew him well enough to know differently. We were standing awkwardly in the doorway; I was conscious of our obstruction so I moved aside and he copied my movement.
‘Hey, yeah I’m well thanks. How are you going?’ I asked, my voice remained calm and steady.
‘I’m good, yeah good.’ Doug’s repetition revealed his nerves.
I looked down at the green carpeted floor, somewhat acknowledging the awkwardness of the situation before Doug exhaled.
‘So, what are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Looking for a book.’
‘No…’ Doug grinned and I felt my own mouth copy his as a boiling burst of laughter erupted from my chest. Doug laughed too. The awkwardness began to thaw and Doug put his hands in his pockets.
‘What book?’ he asked.
‘Um, Catch-22, by Joseph…’ I trailed off.
‘Heller. You haven’t read it?’ I shook my head.
‘No, but a friend recommended it and I was walking past.’
Doug looked at me with interest, like he was expecting me to continue. My silence proved any hope he had was misplaced, but he hid his disappointment well.
‘Well if they don’t have a copy then they’re not a proper bookshop,’ Doug stated. He walked across the narrow room to the opposite wall. A sign blue-tacked to the shelf at eye-level indicated this was the “literature” section of the store and the label confused me; weren’t all books literature? Or were some more literary than others? Who decides what’s good literature and what’s not? You? God help me.
I stood next to Doug as he ran his finger along book spines searching for mine.
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