“I just want Little to come and live with you”
“What would that be like? If she came here to live with me?”
I think I said something like, Little would get to annoy you instead of me all the time.
Which is true. But also…
It would be warm. Colourful, too. T’s therapy room is everything I know of her -beautiful and vibrant and fascinating. But living with her would be less fascinating. It would bring knowledge and understanding because all of the questions L has about everything in that room would be answered. Living with her, all of the questions L has ever had about her would be answered. None of the eight billion questions L has for T would go unanswered because I censor them as an adult.
It would mostly be quiet. Just L and T. No external noises, no bumps, no floorboard creaks, no sneezes from the next room. The quiet would be cosy and would make L feel safe. Cocooned. When there is noise, it would be only be noise that L associates with safety. T’s heartbeat. The exact way she says my name (unique to how anyone else says it). The rhythm of her walk as she walks the dog. The way she reads.
There would be stories. Stories with pictures, stories with rabbits and foxes and bears. Stories which would T would read to Little, stories L would read and then talk to T about, and different stories we’d read sat alongside each other, separate but together. Knees touching, same sofa.
There would be play. Fun play, like making Rabbit dance. Dark play, when the only way to tell the truth is through plastic and paper.
We would be surrounded by light. Sunshine, yes, but even in the dark there would be light. Moonlight. Starlight. There would never be a moment of fear in the dark because being with T is like being sat with the most reliable, believable and beautiful light. Bedtimes and dark times would never be scary.
There would be certainty. No doubting, no fear of overstepping boundaries or getting it wrong when L is trying so desperately hard to get it right. No worrying about if a cuddle is too much, if we’re talking too much, if we’re needing too much. If L is too much. No worrying about weddings, no worrying about endings, no worrying about what’s real and what’s the job. L would have certainty and permanence and consistency. The relaxation in that would be immense.
There would be no endings. No end of a hug, no end of a phone call, no end of a session. No fear of the clock counting down. No fear of the conveyor belt bringing the next client round. No desperate, screaming need to beg to be allowed to stay. No time spent listening to the cut off tone of the phone. I suppose there would have to be endings, but they would hold a total certainty (that L finds very hard to keep hold of) that shortly after would be another beginning and in the gap, L would know that nothing was unsaid and everything was okay. Even in the worst of all endings, L would be included, because she would be present. She would still exist afterwards. She would still be certain that she belonged.
Most of all, L wouldn’t have to cope with the agonies she finds in my life. She wouldn’t have to face all the fears and difficulties that seem inevitable in my adult life. What is exciting to me is intolerable to her. I find it impossible to give her space to breathe when I know she’s easier to manage when suffocated because I don’t have time for the dramas she brings. She could stay curled up with T and be loved in that world. She’d be happiest there.
The last few weeks have been brilliant and difficult. I’ve had a lovely holiday, done lots of wedding planning, seen friends and enjoyed work. Life is fun and fulfilling and packed with love. I’ve also harmed, considered antidepressants and spent literally hours in a fog of ‘not quite here’. T has suggested I blog about it but I have struggled because what is there to say? Nothing specific is bad – in fact it is the total opposite. Everything is good! Yet still this depressed feeling has stuck around and has then been compounded by me feeling like life is too good to be feeling this way. I know that I am definitely remembering this with rose tinted specs but at least when life was crap, feeling crap was expected. It felt validated. Right now I just feel like some sort of pathetic loser who can’t enjoy the full power of the happiness right in front of her.
Yesterday my fiancé and I went for a very long beach walk and finally talked about the black cloud that’s been hanging around. He said he finds it difficult because he doesn’t know how to help. I said I find it difficult because there isn’t actually anything wrong except how much I hate myself for feeling like this when there isn’t anything wrong. So we agreed to just wait it out. Oh – and buy a sunlight lamp. This time of year always feels rubbish, so it might help.
Last night I cried properly for the first time since this feeling started. My poor fiancé lost hours of sleep to me bawling my eyes out and begging him not to leave me because I’m such an awful, horrible person. He gave me a bemused look and cuddled me to an unsettled sleep. Today I feel maybe a little brighter but still pretty lost. I have no answers and nobody else seems to either.
This too shall pass?