Cleverly Steve steps in, realising that Claire has temporarily benched herself by losing a fight with emotion. An occupational hazard I guess. Actors risk corpsing at inappropriate moments, counsellors risk the opposite: spontaneous crying they cannot stop. “So sorry,” she says. “It’s more than alright, Claire,” I say, assuming a newly found authority to use her name. I guess new policemen and detectives routinely throw up when they see their first gruesome murder. It takes repeated exposure over time to build up an emotionally indifferent response. Not unlike the graded exposure that I’m going through, albeit without the grisly murder scenes.
Claire and Steve smile. It’s a nice, warm smile. Then Steve unzips a metaphorical tracksuit and comes off the sub’s bench onto the field of play. While Claire is momentarily incapacitated on the sidelines working her way through a box of Kleenex’s finest man-size try-ply, he proceeds to play a blinder. Carefully constructing through unimpeachable logic that I deserve all the plaudits for my actions, his questions smartly ensure I do not distribute false credit to erroneous factors such as magical thinking scenarios.
After five minutes, and sixteen tissues, Claire announces herself back in the game. Unaware what her opening question will be, I know with unshakeable certainty that it will be an open not closed question. Lovely as she is, Claire routinely answers any question you ask her with another. They embolden my confidence with height anxiety, skilfully asking questions that prompt me into an increasing realisation that I can now handle altitude. Dangers are imagined, not real.
Claire is keen to do more psychological archaeology, and digs a test trench over my formative years to see if she can unearth anything valuable. When I report my terrible falls downstairs aged three and four, she looks like someone whose metal detector’s bleep has just uncovered a haul of priceless coins.
“There isn’t much to recall, other than I fell hopelessly head over heels. Not in love, but literally head over heels down the stairs. Looking back, it was amazing I was not seriously injured,” I reveal. “I was evidently bouncy and resilient, like a cartoon character. I’m ashamed of myself for not being sensitive to my parents’ feelings as it must have been heart-stopping terror for them too.”
“How much can you remember the physical pain?” Steve asks.
“I can’t, but it terrified me for years. Better make that decades. OK, let’s upgrade that to until this time last week,” I reply.
“Hmm. What are you frightened of most?” Steve enquires.
“Doing it again I suppose,” I answer.
“How likely is that?” he wonders. (The subtext being: “You’re a healthy strong adult now.”)
That was a good move on their part. It might have been a checkmate move, but there is one square I where can still move my king of anxieties to escape. The terror of the incident is too easily recalled. “Well, I distinctly remember falling all the way down the stairs, like a human slinky,” I announce, “and just being terrified of that ever happening again.”
“When did that happen? And if it was a very long time ago, why should that still be threat now to the adult you?” enquires Claire.
“OK, I was about three or possibly four years old. But it happened twice,” I clarify.
She throws me a “my last point still stands”. She’s good at this non-verbal communication Counsellors are demonstrably attuned to speaking without verbal dialogue.
They ask me establishing questions, designed for me to conclude that my abject restrictive terror of heights is unlikely to be a genuine warning signalled by my amygdala.
Claire asks me how likely it is that I will die falling down the stairs, now I have proved my capability to negotiate bus stairs safely. I interpret her logic and agree it is unlikely.
However, according to actuarial mortality tables, two people died in the UK in 2008 in tea-cosy related incidents and more people were killed by confrontations with drink vending machines.
In reality an average of 644 people die each year in the UK from falling downstairs. You may check that the front door is securely locked, or several times if you have OCDs like me, in order to necessitate a good night’s snug sleep, but one of the biggest domestic killers is already inside your house: the stairs. Around sixty people a year in Britain die falling from ladders, and over another hundred are killed from accidental falls from high places.
Those much-maligned keepers of a safe Britain, The Health & Safety Executive - stalked prey of Middle England and the right-wing press - reported that 2,522 employees suffered “major injury” after falling from height in 2013. Tragically 25 workers suffered fatal falls from a high altitude in one year alone.
The Health and Safety Laboratory’s Falls on Stairways Literature Review by Anita Scott (2005) remains the definitive monograph on the subject in the UK. (Skip the next few paragraphs if you don’t want to know what happens in the monograph and are awaiting the blockbuster movie version of the book instead.)
The report neatly encapsulates the scenario of falling down stairs with the Templer quote: “To fall down stairs is not only to fall off a cliff, but to fall on rocks below, for the nosings of steps presents a succession of sharp edges.”
The research produced some terrifying findings. Be prepared to be scared, very scared, of that killing machine in your hall and landing.
Scott’s paper on stair safety reports: “Most stair injuries occur in the home. In the UK there are nearly as many deaths each year from accidents in the home as from traffic accidents. Falls account for over half of these accidental deaths, and half of the deaths from falls relate to stairs. There are an estimated further one quarter of a million non-fatal accidents on stairs in the home each year, which are serious enough to cause the victim to visit their GP or hospital accident and emergency department. It has been calculated that this rate of falls is equivalent to a domestic accident on stairs every 2.5 minutes.” Before correctly concluding: “Most stair accidents occur in domestic settings.”
This compounds the theory that as a society we are encouraged to fear the things most that provide the least threat. Parents ferry their offspring to the school gates in 4x4 vehicles to avoid the bogey man abducting them - yet while there are one or two horrendous examples in the news of UK abductions each year, several thousand youngsters are injured - a few fatally - in vehicle-related accidents. It’s the ones we willingly welcome into our homes and driveways to live amongst our families that are the real danger: cars and stairs.
It’s no safer overseas. “In Japan during 1976 almost as many people died from falling on steps on stairs (541) as from fires (865). In Canada in 1985, injuries and fatalities on stairs greatly outnumber (by about one order of magnitude) those from all natural disasters.”
Thankfully, in the UK at least, someone is on the case - the stair case - to improve safety. And muzzle this domestic killer. “The building regulations have controlled stairway design since 1944, however, they are not retrospective. As a result, there are many buildings in existence which do not meet the current required standards. Building regulations control aspects such as handrail and balustrade heights; step widths, goings and risers, and the step materials and lighting requirements for stairs.”
Nowadays legislative Building Regulations decree: “Stairs and landings should be provided with protection against falling over the edge of the treads. Guarding height should be no less than 900mm above the pitch line of the stairs and not less than 1100mm above landings. In addition to guarding, every step with two or more rises should have a continuous handrail to provide guidance and support to those using the stair. Handrails are required to be beside the bottom two steps in a stairway if the stairway is in a public building or is intended for use by disabled people. Handrails should help an individual to regain balance in the event of a fall, and thus reduce the severity of injuries that may result,” Scott confirms.
Scott’s monograp
h utilised videotape research: “Videotape has been used to analyse stair fall.” Presumably some poor out-of-work actor had to spend several days constantly falling downstairs. He must have felt like a detainee in a South African police station (oh, bit of - hopefully outdated- politics). They must have been tempted to gain additional research funding by posting some of the footage to You’ve Been Framed! to win £250.
The trend is improving; it used to be in excess of 10,000 workers a year (2009) who incurred major injuries after falling from height or downstairs, yet alone domestic carnage described above.
On this evidence bathmophobia and acrophobia are undeserving of that “ir” prefix in “irrational”.
Celebrities ranging from 31-year-old Sandy Denny, lead singer with folk rockers Fairport Convention, to boxing commentator Harry Carpenter, died tumbling downstairs. In August 2013 a 46-year-old man died falling down the stairs of a double-decker bus.
And a true horror scene greeted early risers leaving their luxury New York apartments in August 2012 when they discovered the body of 29-year-old socialite Carlisle Brigham, daughter of one of the city’s leading investment bankers. She was described by the Daily Mail as “dressed all in white and lying in a pool of blood on the stairwell”. She had fatally tripped on stairs in high heels. If even the young, rich, famous and beautiful can die falling downstairs, then that proved my fear was legitimate. Plus in today’s culture, a celebrity indulging in any activity surely legitimises it.
I decide not to recount these incidents or thoughts to Steve and Claire. Not that they would consider my thoughts off-subject, but I don’t want to introduce rain clouds to our celebratory parade.
Claire continues to be careful to avoid any “why” questions. I guess the trick - Claire would no doubt prefer the word “skill” - is to prise open the client’s reluctance to speak, without them feeling fired at by a relentless shelling of questions.
“So the worst thing that can possibly happen on stairs occurred, and you weren’t even injured?”
“I take your point, Claire, but I was injured badly.”
“Sorry,” she apologises, “I guess what I meant to ask was even though you were injured a lot you weren’t... Well... you know... not permanently injured or killed, well, sort of... you know what I mean?” she states, rather unconvincingly, by her usual slick standards.
“True,” I agree.
“How much did you display a tendency to avoid stairs at school?” asks Steve.
“A lot,” I admit. “Plus I was infatuated with a girl called Charlotte Jones who only ever travelled on the top deck of the bus.”
“Perhaps the shame and pain came from there, not the physical pain of falling down stairs,” Claire proffers, before remembering she has to phrase every comment as a question. “Can you recall when was the last time you fell down stairs?”
“Yes. Four years old, I guess. I take your point.” I reply.
“How do you remember your primary school times?” she asks, clearly relieved I don’t have another inappropriate nickname anecdote.
“Schooldays can be a petri dish of potent emotions,” I respond.
“That’s true. Was Charlotte’s ability to climb stairs damaging to your developing masculinity?” she asks, difficultly.
“That’s a hard question. We’re getting a bit Freudian now - or is it Jungian? I don’t know enough to call the difference,” I continue, addressing Steve. “She’s not going to suddenly ask me when I first noticed my mother was attractive, is she?” I say to returning smiles from Claire and Steve.
“A lot of Freudian psychology is now discredited,” she beams.
“Oh, so it’s Freudian then. You were after discovering my persona,” I say friendlily.
Actually, persona is Jungian. He adopted the phrase and imported it into psychology. It is the Latin word for “mask”. Pure psychoanalytical counselling can be ineffective at worse and extremely time consuming at best. And always, whatever the outcome, objectionably expensive. So I will not be taking that route. CBT on this evidence appears a much more effective way to go. This is a relief to know. Not just because I don’t want to discover my buried id probably really fancies Claire - or Steve - when my super ego’s not around, but because I was concerned about taking deep sea dives into the murk of my past to discover, examine and search major wrecks in my life.
The only way I can compete with this is to be funny. Their method is better than mine.
“I was completely ginger throughout primary school,” I inform them. Which is absolutely true. I even had a full set of freckles, attracting approximately 40% of every “oi, do you sunbathe under a tea strainer” remarks uttered in 1970s South Lincolnshire.
“Were you teased then?” Claire asks with a concerned sadness.
“Yes,” I acknowledge truthfully.
“Why?” asks Steve incredulously. It’s a kind and instinctive question, rather than a counsellor’s reflective response.
“Probably because I was ginger and ‘out’. By that I mean not living a closeted strawberry blonde lie. Oh, how ‘my people’ have suffered historical prejudice. I’m not a gingerest but... Some of my best friends are ginger’... Two tell-tale lines used by the casual gingerest,” I say.
They both laugh. This encourages me to continue.
“Prepare to be horrified,” I say, “when you learn the names my people have historically suffered. Like at school I was expected to answer to ‘Ginger Minger’, ‘Carrot Top’, ‘Swan Vesta’, ‘Thermometer Head’, ‘Rusty Nuts’, ‘Ginger Puss’, ‘Fries With Ketchup On Top’, ‘Fanta Pubes’, ‘Ronald McDonald’, ‘Hair Lice on Fire’, ‘Muff on Fire’, ‘Orangutan Features’, ‘Freckletits’ and ‘Tampon Head’.”
“That’s awful,” says Claire.
“Yeah, the teachers could be very cruel when doing the register,” I say, nailing the topper.
This actually makes Claire laugh when she didn’t want to. This shows how our relationship has grown through the counselling process - there’s room for personal jokes now, and a bringing-in-games end of term feel. It accentuates their decision to conclude our counselling. We’ve come as far as we can, and we have definitely arrived somewhere better - and higher - than our departure place a few weeks earlier.
Steve can’t speak for laughing, and so it is his turn to be temporarily benched. “After our little comedy interlude,” she continues, then pauses, without finishing the sentence. But she’s basically saying, “And we’re back after the break.” Then she says: “OK, time to put on my serious counsellor face.”
“Your persona?” I suggest.
“Yes. We need you to do some more homework.”
“Oh, Miss... do I have to?” I mock whine.
“Yes you do. If we’re going to maintain your progress and enable you to go up in a balloon.”
“I did a media thing with a blonde Australian model the other day and...”
“Is this going to be a funny anecdote?” cautions Claire.
“Probably, but that’s not my reason for recounting it. OK, I understand why you’re both making those faces, but it isn’t.”
“How helpful to do you think telling us this anecdote will be in helping you reduce your acrophobia and anxieties?” asks Claire neutrally.
“Not sure. I suppose it’s helping me get material,” I answer.
“Are you here to get material or help confront anxieties?” asks Claire. And resists adding the word “check!” at the end of her sentence.
I inform them of what the Australian model said. Claire and Steve approve. They are also careful to praise me throughout for reaching the top deck on the bus.
“That is a very good line to remember. If that helps you, and I can see why it should be helpful, then you should remember it, and play the line back to yourself when you feel anxious,” Claire counsel
s. “You were right to tell us the anecdote,” she adds kindly.
***
Then it finally hits home. If counselling is anxiety management, then the breakthrough moment occurs when I realise that a lot of what our brains think they know is chronically out of date. Like someone still using Windows 1.1 and ignoring every upgrade or advancement in technology since, my brain is still clinging to pattern matching responses it hasn’t altered or upgraded since it was three years old after several nasty falls on the stairs.
Part of the counsellor’s art, underrated and underreported, is the ability to decide when the client need no longer continue with the sessions, and when they are ready to be released back into the wild - free and untagged. Of course, less scrupulous counsellors may decide to keep their client, known in their notes as Mrs. X, Mr. Y or My New Kitchen Extension, on their books indefinitely. But most are, like Claire and Steve, hopefully honest and credible healers. Unusually for counselling, they do insist that I come back to see them socially and report on my flight. I certainly will, as I would welcome seeing them again.
They terminate my sessions, which in itself provides me with a confidence booster shot, as they evidently deem me ready to fly. Though I’m not so sure myself. But they have given me their honest appraisal that I am as close to ready as I am likely to achieve.
In turn, I have to be honest. I don’t feel that I am ready to stand at the cliff edge just yet, half the soles of my shoes on land, half over the abyss. I have not become suddenly comfortable with heights. But I can at least see myself being somewhere high now. Before I would only have chosen avoidance. Even if avoidance was not an offered option, then I would have made it one - like someone in an examination attempting a multiple choice paper and adding their own fifth answer option in pencil “(e) avoidance techniques” to the existing four choices.
Since I am as ready as I am ever likely to be to do a balloon flight, I book myself onto a flight online. In the last few days ahead of my schedule flight, I head north to undergo a pilgrimage to a Sadler site.
The Man With His Head in the Clouds Page 25